I went to a thrift store and tried on some musky clothes because they were on sale. When I tried them on they were way too big and I noticed there were sweat stains too! Yet for some reason I couldnt find the will to take them off...
Musky and stained clothes? In a thrift store? That's odd, I most definitely didn't do that. Someone must have put them there precisely for someone to find them... Quite curious about what hides behind that. A wifebeater and sweatpants, both definitely a few sizes too big for you, what a weird combo.
Oh, putting them on already? I would have done the same, I'm curious as to what will even happen to you.
As soon as you put those clothes on, a sense of relief breezed over you. You felt good in those clothes. They were warmer than they were supposed to, and slightly damp, but to you it only added to the comfort of it all. You knew you were meant to find them.
In the changing room, you stared at your reflections. You had never realised how good you looked. But still, something was not quite perfect. Was it the tiny voice in your head telling you how weird it felt and how you should remove those clothes and never touch them again? No way. You just didn't feel the clothes against your skin enough, your underwear was in the way.
So, you promptly removed everything again, leaving you butt naked in the changing room. But then, the guy standing in the mirror felt... Different. As if he weren't exactly you, but another version of you. Sure, you had the same eyes, and a similar athletic build, but he exuded so much charisma you couldn't help but be in awe. You looked at the stranger in the mirror, into his eyes, and smiled. You knew what you had to do.
As if entranced by your own reflection, you idly put the clothes back on. And it felt good. Your stiffening dick pulsing against the damp fabric of the sweatpants, a dark spot right at the tip — did you make it, or had it been here before, who knows.
The air felt heavier around you. More humid, more... Musky. You brought the top to your face, breathing in deep. God, it smelt so fucking good. But not strong enough. Using your nose like a wild animal, you sniffed around, trying to find anywhere with a stronger scent, anywhere it could come from, and soon enough you found yourself burying your face in your very own pit. Smelling such bliss made you moan out loud, and your entire body tensed suddenly.
The face still buried deep in your own pit, you felt something brushing against your skin. From your pit against your face? From your face against your pit? Both. While a dense forest of wet dark curls sprouted under your arm, you could feel the lower part of your face begin itching; and soon enough, the timid chin hairs you had before quickly found company, as a dense stubble covered your entire lower face, before becoming a well trimmed beard. But wait, didn't you always have that? Why were you only noticing it? Whatever, it made you so hot and horny, a hand wandered into your pants, pawing at your crotch.
And even that felt much bigger than it did — or at least you thought it did — mere moments ago. That was, of course, after finding your own dick through the thick jungle of hair that had sprouted in your crotch. But when you found it, part of you was surprised; there was no way something that thick was your dick, right? Heh, who am I kidding. You were so proud of your hefty sausage, even touching it made it throb with excitement. Its warmth against your calloused hand did not help in the slightest. You felt it thicken and harden, snaking down your pant leg while smearing pre down its path. And gosh, your balls felt so full and heavy, you needed to dump a load somewhere.
"Is everything alright in here-"
A poor unassuming clerk asked, behind the curtain of the changing room. But he must have had noticed your amazing smell, seeing how he stopped in his track. Without a second thought, you opened the curtain just barely, and put a large hand behind his back to pull him in. And while you closed the curtain back, you lifted him up as if it were nothing, and shoved your lips against his. He didn't fight back; heck, he even was the one to initiate the kissing. His tongue timidly thought to enter between your lips, but as soon as you started to get serious, your thick tongue quickly took the dominance and lead the dance.
The entranced assistant's hands were roaming around the massive shelf that was your chest, sensually fondling soft fat and relaxed muscle alike, bringing a deep moan — or a low growl — to resonate in the cramped space. And as his hands roamed lower and lower, they quickly found themselves around your leaking rod, already smeared with pre from all the excitation.
"Turn around."
It wasn't even a question, it was an order you had just barked at him. But the clerk was so horny now that this was enough to make him moan before he quickly complied, offering his soft bubble butt at you. And after aiming your thick bear cock at his hole, you began rubbing it with the tip, lubing it with the huge amount of pre you were producing.
"Please sir, just slide it in already!"
Oh well, no need to tell you twice. With one hand on the wall and another on his hips, you slowly inserted centimetre after centimetre in his hungry hole. It all was going smoothly, until the end where you decided to slam the last few centimetres in, your sweaty balls loudly smacking against his legs, ripping a loud moan out of his throat
You could hear it. The short breaths, the fapping sounds, of the clerk's coworkers standing behind the curtain. So why not bring them some smell as well? Lifting one of your massive arms and exposing your damp jungle of a pit, the changing room exploded with musk, and soft moans could be heard from behind the curtain. You smirked, proud of how godly your masculinity was, but you were not done. You had balls to empty.
Fuck. You were so much of a man now, your seed was enough to make the clerk as much of a man as you. You wanted to check if anything else had happened, but your vision was blurred with lust. Everything was all too much.
Accelerating little bit by little bit, you began going back and forth, in and out. His bubble butt was stretched out to its limits, but seemed to be growing under your pre to accommodate your rod better. Breathing in your own pit, you moaned loudly, as your other free hand began rubbing his ass. Surprised, you looked down; it definitely looked hairier than before.
Back and forth, back and forth. The more you went, the more you felt your chest bounce up and down, so much so that it began bumping in your chin. You couldn't even see your own bear cock, despite it thickening and lengthening as if trying its best to remain in your view. And your hands looked so thick and hairy against the clerk.
You just wanted to cum already. You wanted to cum so bad.
With your dick still deep in him, you spun him around, lifting him with your hips alone, and buried your tongue deep in his mouth, hoping this would be enough to deafen the roar you let out as you began cumming. And kept cumming. And kept cumming even more. You just couldn't stop.
Since you were holding him in place with your bear cock and massive chests, your hands were free to roam his body, and it was even more heavenly than you could have expected. From his sloshing belly full of your potent man seed and its thickening treasure trail, to the massive wide load of a hairy ass behind, without forgetting his big milky pecs and the silky beard brushing against yours, you had definitely made a man. A man whose clothes were struggling to contain.
Once finally empty — for now — you stepped back, letting the clerk fall down, a certain amount of cum pooling out of his ass, your dick still dripping.
You were so proud. You were a real man, and managed to make the shop assistant a real man as well.
Dick first, you opened the curtain and found who you assumed to be coworkers completely exhausting and panting, dick out, and cum stains on their tight shirts. Maybe you had just not noticed them when you enter, but you were so sure they were not such handsome cubs when you entered the shop. With a grin, you shook your ever half hard rod above them, letting your thick milk drip on them and in their mouth. A little gift from you to them, you thought with a grin.
Finally putting your dick back in your shorts, a thought crossed your mind, and you almost rushed to your car.
You needed to work out so bad. And your refilling balls needed emptying again, and you knew some people would be more than happy to help.
My boyfriend has been really insecure in the bedroom recently, even though he's doing a good job. I also know he likes big, hairy, mature men, so any chance you could make me into a gentle daddy dom so I can tell him what a good job he's doing?
Hmhm, that sounds like something I could do alright! Always here to help people feel their love for daddies.
You knew your boyfriend would be having a long day at work, so it was the perfect time to prepare him a nice little lovey-dovey evening, a candle lit dinner with some nice music in the background. Although you didn't really know how to cook beyond the basics, you knew you wanted to go further for him.
Going to the window to get some fresh air, dreaming about how much you loved your boyfriend, you looked up at the night sky. The stars were shining especially bright tonight. And suddenly, a shooting star passed. You didn't know if it was really there or if you imagined it, but a second passing soon after confirmed it. And hey, not believing in magic doesn't prevent one from wishing, eh?
After throwing together a hasardous wish, you decided it was finally time to start preparing dinner. You didn't really know what to cook yet, but maybe you could just figure something out on the spot.
As you opened the fridge, looking for inspiration, your eyes drifted to one of the beers you had in store. You never really liked it — they were mostly here for your boyfriend or for whenever you two invited people over — but tonight, the idea of drinking one felt particularly refreshing. Maybe it finally grew on you, you thought without asking too many questions. You grabbed one and cracked it open, sipping it before getting to work, feeling energised as ever.
However, that newly developed taste for beer would not remain the only new thing for long — not that you would ever realise it, of course. Something else occur as your opened a cabinet and noticed a jar on the top shelf. Now, you weren't exactly short, but you weren't the tallest person around either. But as you tried to reach it, you found yourself struggling less and less to reach it. At some point, you even wondered how you, a 6'5" something giant, ever struggled with such a reach.
But of course, jars were a pain in the butt to open sometimes, and this one was no exception. So what did your now tall body do? Grow muscles, of course! Even for a task as mundane as opening a jar, your entire body went into overdrive. You could feel your muscles getting pumped, just like after a workout. Because you work out regularly, right? Right. Your chest rose with every breath, without falling back as down as it started. Heck, you even bounced them a bit, proud of the results of such dedication. But such flexing didn't go without consequences: with loud rips and tears, you quickly found yourself standing amidst shreds of your former outfit. Well, those clothes were too small for you anyway, it was hopeless to try them on.
Even though you were busy cooking with your stove on, being naked like that might get you cold, as confirmed by the quick breeze brushing past. But don't worry; quickly enough, a wave of warmth rushed over you, every single square centimetre of your skin itching in an oddly pleasurable way. It started small, only a few timid hairs between your massive pecs, but soon enough your entire torso, front and back, ended up covered in soft, silky hair. You could even feel it creep up higher and higher, up to your neck, until it reached your chin. Rubbing it dreamily, you felt your chin soon sprout a short trimmed beard.
Despite your reveries and admiration of your own body, you found yourself done with the cooking already. Good job! Now that you were done with it, your eyes drifted around, and you noticed the beer that you had first started but never even finished. With a smirk, though, that was a job quickly done: the bottle looked small in your large, manly hand, and downing it only took a gulp.
It wasn't much, but you felt a burp start to accumulate within your stomach and throat. And as you let it out, a wave of pleasure so intense that it made you moan a little washed over you. With it, you couldn't notice it, but your coat of body hair lightened in colour, going from your former deep brown to a salt and pepper, your beard quickly following. Even your hairline went along, receding ever so slightly, leaving some room for fresh new wrinkles.
Gosh, you were so hard right now. You couldn't wait for your man to finally get home, you'd be sure to give him more than just a good dinner.
So I’ve been taking a tour of a dairy farm today and the tour guide’s been eyeing me weirdly. Even stranger, I still haven’t seen any cows. They keep promising me I’ll meet them soon… Any idea what’s up with that?
Such a precarious situation. Perhaps the crumpled papers you found can give you some context:
Entry 1
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.
The last thing I remember is the end of the farm tour. The guide... that guy with the small, mean eyes... said I was special. He said I was going to get a "behind-the-scenes" look. Then, I think I blacked out. I woke up in this room and I've been here ever since... Banging on the walls for hours, screaming for someone to let me out, but the workers just walk past. There are two of them standing right outside the door right now, talking like nothings wrong. It's making me sick.
One of them finally brought me a bowl of this thick, white sludge. I didn’t want to drink it, but I’m so thirsty, and my throat feels like it’s full of sawdust. It tasted weird... bland and chalky.
Fuck.
Why am I here? What do they want? Why won't the talk to me? If I can just keep my head clear, maybe I can find a way to break the lock when they come back to feed me.
I have to stay focused. I can’t let them see how scared I actually am.
Entry 2
I didn’t sleep at all last night. Every time I started to drift off, I heard that low, rumbling sound from down the hall... like a hum, or maybe someone grunting. It didn't sound human. I kept pressing my back against the wall, trying to stay as far from the door as possible.
I... I thought I was having a heart attack today. My chest feels... weird. There's this dull, throbbing ache right under my skin. Maybe its from how I was laying? Anxiety? Fuck... it just feels so heavy and sore. My nipples too... they feel sensitive. Whenever my shirt rubs against them, it sends this sharp, stinging sensation through my whole torso. It doesn't hurt, but it's definitely noticeable. It’s probably just irritation from the fabric; I’m probably just making it a bigger deal than it is because I’m so stressed out.
The workers came by again this morning. They didn't say a word, just slid another bowl of that sludge through the slot. I really tried not to drink it, but I’m starving, and my stomach feels like it’s eating itself. It went down so easily, almost like my body was craving it.
I checked the walls again. Still nothing. No windows, no cracks, no way to climb out. I tried to ask one of the workers what's going on, but he ignore me. Doesn't look like they'll be of any help.
Entry 3
My chest feels heavy. Really heavy. It’s not just a dull ache anymore... it’s like the muscle is actually pushing against the skin, stretching it tight. When I looked down this morning, it definitely looked swollen. Puffy and sore. I pressed on it to see and fuck it hurt so much I had to stop. Just this horrible achiness. I haven't touch it since.
I heard them talking today. The workers. They stopped right outside my room, acting like I wasn't even there.
"The new one is coming along fast," one of them said. "Look at the tissue development. He's going to be one of the best producers we've seen all season."
"Producer." That’s what they called me. What does that even mean? I wanted to scream at them, to ask what they were doing to me, but my voice just died in my throat. They didn't even acknowledge that I was listening; they just acted like I was some kind of animal they were grading.
I’m so scared. I keep trying to think clearly, trying to plan a way out, but my mind feels… fuzzy. Like I’m moving through water. I just want to go home. Please, I just want to wake up in my own bed.
Entry 4
They came in today. Three of them. I tried to back away, to scramble into the corner, but there’s nowhere to go in this steel box. They didn’t even argue. They just grabbed my clothes... my shirt, my pants... and tore them off like. I’ve been completely naked since. I’m trying to huddle up, knees to my chest, trying to cover myself with my arms, but my chest is so sensitive now that even the air in this room feels like it's stinging me. Every time I breathe, my nipples ache, like they're being pulled or pinched.
It’s humiliating. I just want to hide, but they keep staring.
Then, they brought the sludge. They didn't even put it in a bowl this time. One of them just threw it at me. It splashed all over my chest and arms. It’s so thick, so sticky. I was so disgusted at first, but I couldn't help it. I started licking it off my arm, and it… it tasted so good. I couldn't stop. I even licked it off the floor when it dripped down.
When I looked up, they were watching me, and they seemed so satisfied. Like I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I noticed my arms while I was licking the stuff off. There’s hair growing, thick and dark, more than there was a day ago. Why is this happening to me? My head feels so heavy, like I can’t quite think straight, but I keep wanting more of that drink. I hate it, but I’m so hungry.
Entry 5
There's something wrong with my body. I woke up this morning to find my chest wet. I thought maybe I had spilled some of that sludge in my sleep, but then I felt it. A slow, warm trickling down my chest. It was coming from my nipples. They were leaking, a thin, white fluid that was matting into all this new, dark hair that’s sprouted across my chest.
Before I could even wrap my head around it, they came. They just dragged me out of the room. I felt so small, so exposed, as they marched me down the hallway.
They strapped me into a machine. It had these cold, metal cups that suctioned right onto my chest. I tried to fight them, I really did, but my muscles felt sluggish, heavy, and weak. When the machine turned on, a pulse of electricity or suction... I don’t know what it was... shot through me.
It was an overwhelming, jolting kind of pleasure. I arched my back, my breath hitching as the machine squeezed and pulled at me, forcing the white fluid out. I felt helpless, exposed, and utterly humiliated, but I couldn't stop the moan that ripped out of my throat. I heard the workers talking, their voices echoing off the tile walls.
"Look at that output."
"The volume is already exceeding the previous batch. He’s a natural."
"Customers are gonna love his milk."
"See how his pecs are already hardening? He’s going to be a prime producer. Keep the vacuum pressure steady, we don't want to over-tax the tissue this early."
They talked about me like I was a piece of equipment being calibrated. I just hung there, my head lolling back, completely unable to do anything but take the sensation. When they finally detached the cups, I felt lighter, like the heavy pressure that had been building for days had been drained away. I felt… relieved.
But it didn't last. By the time they dragged me back to my room and tossed me inside, I could already feel the throb starting again. The pressure is coming back, deeper and faster than before. I’m scared. I’m so, so scared, but I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt when they forced it out of me. What is happening to my head?
Entry 6
They moved me. I am in the big pen now. I thought it was just me, but... I was pushed into a giant room with the others.
God. God. What are they?
I am hiding in the corner. I don't want them to see me. I want to be small. But I am not small anymore. My chest is huge. It feels tight, stretched, like it’s going to pop. And the others… they are monsters. Men, but they aren't men. They're huge... hairy... They're just standing there, or crawling on the floor, drooling. One of them, he has these massive, sagging pecs, and he’s just… groping them. Pulling at them. Grunting.
I’m horrified. I tried to back away, but another one came over. He looked at me with these empty, glassy eyes. He reached out with thick, calloused fingers and poked at my chest. I screamed, but he just grunted and drooled on my shoulder. It was warm. Disgusting.
I heard the workers on the catwalk above.
"The herd is agitated," one says.
"They’re just getting used to the new producer," the other one laughs. "He looks frightened. Good. The adrenaline spike always makes the first week of production more potent."
"Look at him," they say, laughing. "He’s trying to stay human. It’s cute."
But I am a person. I am...
Why are they touching me? Why is it so hot in here? Why do I want to grunt back at them? My hands are shaking so bad I can hardly hold this pen. I need to get out. I need to get out now before I start acting like them. I don't want to be like them. I don't.
Entry 7
Everything feels so slow. My head... heavy. Like thick mud.
Machine again today. Dragged off. Everything is loud and bright. The workers are talking, talking, talking... words don't make sense. Sounds like noise. Just noise. They want the stuff. They always want the stuff.
The machine was hard. Fast. Pulled so much out. I felt... empty. But the good kind of empty. Back in the pen, it started again. Fast. Leaking down my chest. It’s sticky. Everything is sticky. My chest, my cock... So big...
Another one came over. A big one. He saw me leaking. He didn't look at my face, just my chest. He started pressing. Hard. Hands all over, kneading, squeezing. It hurt a little, but... it felt right. Helped me get more out.
I started helping him, too. Pressing into him. His chest is so big, so full. So hairy. His nipples taste... so good... We just sat there. Grunting.
Why am I doing this? I don't know. The pressure in my chest is better now. Just want to sit. Feel pecs... Just want to be close...
Entry 8
head hurt so bad. to much thort. chest is so big now. hevy. look down and just see pecs. hair everywhere thick and black.
the sweet drink come today. i lick it from floor. want more. allways want more.
the other ones touch me. grabed my meat. squeezeing. i leak and leak. i grunt at them. they grunt back. we just stand close. warm. it feel gud.
workers on wall laugh. make noised. i dont look up. dont care.
chest full again already. aching. hot. just want the hands to squeeze. want it out...
Entry 9
the big ones here now. hands all over... squeeze hard. pullin at my meat. i pull back. gruntin. mouth open. droolin on the floor.
big cock... he pushes inside me. squeeze my pecs. so much pleasure. so much ache. push. squeeze. empty out.
don't want to think. head quiet. just heat. just pressure. just hunger.
big hands. wet skin. thick heavy pecs. need to be squeezed.
need to leak.
more.
more.
more.
....................
Your hands tremble so violently that the paper crinkles, your fingers slick with the same sweet residue that still clings to your lips. You barely register the cramped, steel-walled pen they just tossed you into. Too busy trying to make sense of what you just read. Too distracted by the throbbing, achy pressure of your increasingly heavier pecs, where thick, dark hairs are already beginning to sprout and itch against your sensitive, stretching skin.
You glance back down at the scrawled note in your grip, but you're already having a hard time rereading the words.
A grunt breaks you out of your increasingly slower train of thought, and you look up to see one of them. His massive, hair-matted, leaking pecs blocking your view. His chest heaving with each guttural breath. His glassy eyes lock onto your chest. And as his calloused hand reaches out for your swollen, aching pecs, you don't recoil. You can't.
The room quickly fills with your own mindless, gutteral grunts.
Agent Fisher reports on his roommate's transformative descent into being a father figure straight from a 90's sitcom as he tries to pretend he's not into it.
Dad and Bear Tf's are always some of my favorites to write and this one is no different! Took the flavor but not the style of a certain foundation! Enjoy this daddification from the POV of a desperate agent who has failed his station and by the end suffers the same transformative consequences. -Occam
This is a report from Special Agent Fisher on a previously unidentified anomalous artifact. Delivered to my apartment while I was away on an expedition, a VHS tape labeled Dad’s Den was opened and watched by my friend and roommate who, unaware he should resist, succumbed to its effects and in time was replaced by what can only be described as a stereotypical dad. As if he were straight out of the video tape he couldn’t help but watch.
Given I was on foundation business during the encounter and have already suffered through the loss of my dear friend Clayton, I would request leniency. I submit this thorough report of the VHS tapes effects as evidence and when guaranteed both my personal safety and continued employment I will deliver both the video footage and the anomalous artifact in question.
I understand how this will be perceived but know I only hold the foundation’s best interests at heart. This is simply not my fault and I refuse to be demoted due to a situation out of my hands that I have already suffered beyond measure from. If anything I deserve a promotion for resisting the tape’s allure and effects, though at present I simply want guaranteed and continued safety for Clayton and myself.
Please read the following account of what I have dubbed AA-0646: ‘The Fatherly Film’ before coming to any decisions.
Consummate professional that I am, my installed cameras were able to capture Clayton’s entire encounter with the anomaly. Delivered in a box addressed to my true name, Clayton was none the wiser. Under the impression that I worked for the Parks service, my roommate was entirely unguarded when he decided to just open the box. Perhaps this is a failing of your protocol regarding cohabitants but I digress.
As soon as the package was in his hands there began an audio static in the recording. Isolating it I am able to confirm it was the sound of a laugh track, like you might find on the very same schlocky sitcom that is now in my friend’s hands. At this unfortunate point it is my professional opinion that it is already too late for my poor roommate. Proof of this is the dusty VHS player that appeared under our tv when he tore open the box.
When he moves to the television Clayton inserts the tape into a VHS player we didn’t have moments ago before flopping onto the couch. Then the true effects begin as Clayton is completely lost to the screen. Hardly moving for hours as the tape plays far longer than any cassette could possibly last, Clayton doesn’t blink as dated jokes and shoddy sets beam into his mind with no end.
Previously my roommate could hardly go half an hour without pulling out his phone to aimlessly scroll. When I’d at last convinced him to watch Fellowship of the Ring with me I had to constantly get on his ass for getting distracted by notifications and summarily doomscrolling. I’d be annoyed at him suddenly finding attention span to spare for this drivel were I not distraught by what happens in the following days.
After about six hours of this, Clayton finally starts to doze off. Eyes that were locked on the screen despite their ever-present glaze flutter shut before closing altogether. At the very same time the screen turns off. Overnight little of note occurs. Head lolling back against the couch, the sound of his heavy breathing can barely be caught on my cameras.
Every so often his mouth hanging open twitches into a grin as hands resting on his stomach scratch aimlessly. It feels safe to say this is when true biological changes begin. Never one to grow stubble by the time daylight arrives there is some darker fuzz surrounding his mouth and scattered across his jawline.
When he at last awakens, decidedly earlier than I’ve seen the perpetual night owl ever rise on his own, his arms twitch and rise as his mouth opens to audibly yawn. The quiet cracking sounds of his arms stretching as some heft is revealed on his waistline is covered by the shockingly loud sound of him yawning.
At this point I had hoped he was free from the tape as when he stands there’s a clear look of confusion on his face. Clayton clearly recognized something wrong was happening. If only I was there. Wandering into the kitchen, Clayton appears to grab a pizza from the fridge and return to the living room. There he removes his shirt and tosses it onto the floor before doing some very noisy stretching.
Body bared it’s suddenly obvious that even without actively watching the tape that he has continued to change. Clayton was always complaining about his inability to grow any body hair, whining that it makes him feel like less of a man. Clearly this desire is being preyed upon as a treasure trail suddenly begins to crawl up his already slightly heavier stomach.
Even more apparent is the generous spread that has begun to prickle across his thin chest as it too starts to grow, having been freed from the shirt he slept in. Returning to the couch and sinking back into the same position he slept in, the new weight on his upper body settles in a manner I personally would describe as more attractive heavier.
Thoughtlessly he reaches for the remote and puts his new favorite show back on. Entranced once more, now that his whole chest is out it’s clear that Clayton is visibly growing. Frequently his fingers scratch his chest as each twitchy grin from what he’s watching shoots a few new strands of hair to scatter across his developing pecs.
So too does a small but wide treasure trail begin inching upwards, onto his belly as the distracted man just eats and laughs at jokes he must have heard half a dozen times by now. A few times he raises an arm behind his head to reveal the most drastic hair growth thus far.
The action takes a tad more effort than I’d expect, surely due to the new mass on his bulking arms, or perhaps he’s already growing less flexible. At any rate, there is an unmistakable bush of hair hiding under his arms. Slightly shiny on the film, the strands look to almost be as long as those on his head. It’s quite, well, distracting.
While I remain physically and mentally unaffected from my briefest of encounters with Clayton, something about his scent has left my mind foggy if I focus too much on his pheromones, if that is the correct word. It was quite overwhelming, I- let’s just say it’s fortunate that such an esteemed employee encountered this brutish bear of a dad, this anomaly that is. Keep this in mind as you continue to read, I’m a perfect employee. You can’t just replace me.
Moving on, on day two his changes accelerate. Though it took all night for his first few patches of body hair to bloom, now that he’s mindlessly watching Dad’s Den again they are flourishing. In one episode his chest is wholly overtaken by thick chest hair. By the next it connects with his paltry treasure trail before that too expands to cover his still bulking stomach.
And as he continues changing he laughs all the more. Wide smile on his face as his lips are tickled with stubble, Clayton rubs his stomach as each guffaw is louder than the last. Ruffling the dense coverage on his stomach, his hands can’t help but reach under his waistline for a scratch or two.
Doing so a distinctly different glazed look overtakes his eyes. Still smiling blankly, Clayton’s head lolls back as he kicks off his pants to expose legs that have grown their own garden of fur as they’ve been hidden from sight. When at last the jeans fall to the floor his feet bounce back a few sizes larger as the coat atop them is just as thick as that on his calves and thighs.
Hand still seemingly magnetized to his tangled bush and apparently needy cock, the expression on his face shifts to one of desperation. Leaning back so far I can barely make out him biting his lips as some spit trickles into his beard. Core twitching as the bulge in his pants grows heavier, and heavier I-
Apologies. Again.
After Clayton tuckers himself out, he falls asleep in exactly the same position he has still yet to move from. One sullied hand stuffed in his pants, the other behind his head allowing his sweaty pit to aerate our living room. It’s unclear what precisely launches the next wave of changes but it is at this point that our home begins to change.
Something of a neat-freak before he began watching, it’s increasingly clear his cleanliness will not survive the change. Morphing into a man almost proud of his filth, the pizza box falls to the floor next to a hamper of clothes that have clearly already been worn more than once. His cozy antique love seat gives way to a gaudy la-z boy recliner as our once quaint living room shifts irreparably into a dad cave.
That night, in between snores that rise to a degree loud enough to almost shake my camera, Clayton also begins murmuring in his sleep. It quickly becomes clear to me that he’s telling jokes. Repeating lines from the show. I don’t make an effort to listen to them of course, they’re always almost annoyingly bad. Here’s a recording of him for an example:
Ah well that’s a pretty good one no? Suppose I could include a few more. If you’re interested? Men-toes. Heh. I uhm- Back to it, of course.
In sleep he continues laughing at each and every one of these jokes he dreams up or retrieves from Dad’s Den. And with each reverberation of struggled snores and raucous guffaws he bloats all the larger, and ages all the sightlier. By midnight his coat has grown enough to cover him like a proper pelt.
The sweaty bush in his pits connects with the blanket of even coverage painted from his neckline to his pubes. Perpetual stubble that now decorates his face is slightly speckled white as it reaches upward to connect with messy hair that is beginning to thin. Meaty muscle continues to pack on just as fast as the mouth-watering heft growing on his gut.
The next day he awakes before sunrise. Launching into a massive stretch and not yawning so much as yelling, his back cracks wider as he moans at the feeling of relief. Scratching his heavier ass to reveal a few lengthy curls decorating his backside, Clayton meanders into the kitchen. His footsteps fall like flippers as our apartment’s new wood panelling creaks under his weight.
Jokes about rising and grinding and what a brew-tiful morning it is resound in the kitchen accompanied by giggling crackling deeper. Until now his voice had maintained at least a familiar tone but with each pun to nobody it’s like his voicebox is aging as his resting tone sinks deeper and deeper. And credit where it’s due I do find myself enjoying his puns more and more.
When the morning sun does stream into the den, Clayton returns with a black cup of coffee. I’d be surprised he’s able to stomach it given his preference for incredibly sweet lattes, but the grand reveal of his new fatherly form is far too stunning to describe anything else. Uhm, scientifically speaking.
Resting his massive feet on our coffee table, Clayton leans back and starts downing his dark roast as the television just starts up without him even needing to lift a finger. Now mouthing along to the dad’s dialogue as if he were voicing it himself it’s clear my roommate is more Dad than his old self.
Crow’s feet etch into his eyes as smile lines trail down his cheeks, hidden his thick stubble. It’s difficult for me to tear my eyes away from his masculine form. I didn’t even notice at first that the dad- that Clayton had changed into a jock, but as his much larger dick twitches under the tight fabric. As his toes curl and the arches of his feet crack wider. As his bulky biceps bulge larger with each raise of the steaming dark cup, streaking into his beard before he wipes it with his rough hand fuck shit
Clearly there are some hazards involved with watching this process but I can guarantee that there is nothing memetic or mind-altering besides watching the tape itself. Which I have taken care to completely block from my recordings. You’re welcome again.
Back to it the changes in our apartment have similarly accelerated, where we once had posters and framed art there now exist bizarre family portraits. Clayton with some college aged offspring though from the best I can tell there isn’t a single one with a wife. Perhaps related to the plot of the show? Perhaps because my roommate’s gay. Not to sound like a broken record but if you want any further of my hypotheses you know what to do.
Skipping ahead, I’d figured that his changes would have slowed since to my eye his dilfy form had reached its apex, but I was quickly proven wrong. Today as his hairline continues to thin and his body hair continues to thicken, his body starts to truly bulk. I’d heard of dad strength but it’s almost ridiculous watching him grow heavier and stronger.
Eyes almost rolling back into his head Clayton’s stomach finally grows into a proper dad bod as heavy pecs hang atop it, bloating themselves into the perfect canvas for his thick curls. Beside the growing barrel of a torso rest arms increasingly patterned with throbbing veins and twitching with strength.
His forearms are covered with the type of hair you’d balk at in person. I could hardly believe it when I did see them in person, they’re like a second layer of skin lifted almost an inch off the arms, so thick at points you can barely see the veiny, muscled guns beneath. To say nothing of the very same curls trailing up his massive biceps. How they twitch with the slightest movement of his sausage fingers. How they grow larger as he continues watching the show. As he continues watching. As-
Ugh god this report is giving me such a headache.
Over the following day it seems the anomaly starts skipping and fading away on the, much larger, TV. Clayton doesn’t seem to react though, he continues just mouthing the lines to himself as he goes about the house. Grunting with every movement like a man decades older than he should be, my new fatherly roommate ambles about with a toolbox I swear he’s never lugged out before as he goes about any chores that don’t involve tidying up.
Slight baldspot on his increasingly speckled head and thick hair crawling up his ass from tacky cargo shorts, it’s at some point this day which I’d say the artifact has finished its dirty work. As Clayton interacts with confusion to whatever aspects of his old self remain they rapidly adjust to fit his new life.
Everything in his wardrobe lengthens more than a few sizes before morphing and restylizing to lose even the slightest amount of fashionability. The man oozes practicality as much as he does raw masculine sex appeal. Soon there’s not a trace of our old home, even my bedroom seems to have been corrupted into that of a son who’s gone off to college.
I’ve yet to do an investigation as to the nature of his apparent new family but should I be allowed to once more use the agency’s resources. And, to prove I’m acting in good faith, there is one remaining object from his past, a photo of the two of us together which is now an image of myself and him in his current form. It was this I found him looking at when I at last returned from my mission.
He set it down softly when I entered and leaned against the wall. Obviously I instantly knew something terrible had happened. I tried to convince him to drop everything and come to the lab but he wouldn’t listen. I- he just kept saying these stupid, stupid jokes. Obviously I know now what happened but even then I felt like I was talking with a character rather than a person. Rather than my roommate.
But I couldn’t really look away. The way his weight shifted as he moved, the musk that filled the whole place- I know I said watching his transformation wasn’t mind affecting but being in his presence very well could be. Even now I find myself craving that scent. God he was so fucking-
I digress. As soon as I found myself starting to enjoy the shitty jokes he kept firing off, I shook out of it and realized Clayton’s expression shifted from when I first entered. At first he looked blankly at myself before his eyes softened as if he seemed to recognize me. Not as his friend or roommate though, no. Instead he said his kiddos had been telling him about a coach that was moving in next door.
I’d be lying if I said this didn’t suddenly give me dry mouth and butterflies in my stomach. But I acted quickly and according to protocol. I immediately left and retrieved my security footage remotely after sealing our apartment for Clayton’s safety and the safety of anyone who might accidentally stumble into our place.
Returning later with the proper physical and psychological protection, I retrieved the anomalous artefact in question and Clayton. At present myself, the artifact, and Clayton are in my safehouse unknown to the agency where we will remain until I am guaranteed continued employment. After retrieval the only further effect was changing my prius into a station wagon. Which doesn’t bother me for some reason or another.
Apologies again for the underhanded tactics but I know at least one supervisor who attained his position acting similarly during that banana protein shake disaster. Time is of the essence so the quicker you approve my demands the quicker we can get this contained.
Yours. Agent Fisher
AGENT FISHER: DEMOTED
One day after receiving Agent Subject Fisher’s missal he was found, reprimanded, and retrieved for further testing. AA-0646 victim “Clayton”, furthermore named AA-0646-A, was taken in for questioning and, as Fisher described, his previous identity and mind have been subsumed by this new dad persona.
Agent: Do you recall your life before you were a father?
Clayton: Awh gee there it’s just been so long y’know? I’m not one for dwelling on the past. My kiddos always used to whine and winge like you wouldn’t believe! Ohh but before I settled down I did think about being a historian, matter of fact!
Agent: Really? Well-
Clayton: Course, there’s no future in that! Hah hah hah! Heh.
Agent: Mmhm I see.
When Fisher came up in questioning, AA-0646-A went glassy in the eyes and produced a second variant of AA-0646 from his robe, distinct from the original; this version is decorated with a garish title sticker labelling “Coach Next Door”. Lou over in processing is confident the tape is porn but as the Agency demands, we must discover everything about this Anomalous Artifact, and there is no better test lab rat than our newest Subject Fisher.
While AA-0646-A allegedly changed over the course of a few days, Fisher’s changes were far hastier. Perhaps exacerbated through his frequent and ill advised contact and borderline obsession with AA-0646-A.
As Fisher suggested Agents have neglected to observe what the program actually consists of, but given the subject’s excitement it seems to be somewhere between outright porn and a classic sitcom. After the first viewing, the subject has begun to exhibit increased muscle mass and hair growth.
When momentarily prevented from viewing AA-0646, the subject began to grow frantic before being assuaged by the suggestion of physical exercise. Following this subject’s mass began to increase with even more haste. Subject continued to exercise even after AA-0646 was returned, more so when it began to play once more.
On the second loop the subject grew in height and body hair began to accelerate to a degree agents describe as ‘above average’. While his upper body develops pecs and biceps, his jaw sharpens as it too is overtaken with stubble that befits his new self.
Agents tell me the subject at this point appears to be an ‘otter’. I neglect to follow up. From the images delivered however it is clear the subject is no longer the Fisher we knew and tolerated. Almost nude in the test room, subject’s malfitting underpants are stained and filled with a notable bulge.
Finally, on watch three, much like on subject AA-0646-A’s Day three, the transformation accelerates to totally excise whatever remains of the subject within. Muscle mass still rising, it is soon displaced by fat that befits an ex-jock, clearly the coach next door in question.
Body hair has accelerated from ‘above-average’ to ‘extreme’ and the messy stubble on his face has begun to be speckled with a few white hairs. Subject’s surely thinning hairline is covered by a cheap sweat-stained baseball cap allegedly not given to him by Agents, nor were the jock strap, whistle, or tube socks.
Given AA-646’s ability to generate matter and shape reality Doctor Marquez suggests subjects AA-646-A and AA-646-B, that is ‘Fisher’, be quarantined and their respective instances of AA-646, sealed away from them. The idea is broached with A and B and surprisingly they are amenable, as long as they are quarantined with access together.
This request is deemed acceptable and the Agency will see fit to keep the affected subjects under constant supervision. Though, given the agent’s best guesses as to what is to occur between the pair it remains unclear what intelligence will be gathered. Still, knowledge above all else. We shall see to it that someone decidedly lustless shall oversee the continued research on instances of AA-646.
While Special Agent Fisher’s prior demands may be neglected, at the very least he and Clayton, that is 646-A and 646-B, shall have their needs met by the agency and each other.
Recommended follow up: Agents are to remind cohabitants letter of the federal law to not open mail addressed to others. Agents are to exercise caution around VHS and other vintage recordings. Furthermore any Agents with daddy issues or kinks are to avoid Block 600A until further notice.
"How much longer is this gonna take?" Ethan shifted, pretending to look interested. He had an exam coming up and a hundred places he’d rather be, but the man across from him only grew more animated by the second.
"So we came up with our slogan, 'Be PrEPared.'" The man practically beamed. "The boys in marketing really outdid themselves, don't you think?"
"Yeah..." Ethan caught his mind wandering and forced a smile. "I'm happy to be involved. I think population health is undervalued."
"Preach, babe." The man snapped his fingers.
Ethan grinned internally. The guy was eating out of his hand, and Ethan knew it wasn't just his answers. From the tone to blatantly checking him out, this guy fit every gay stereotype Ethan knew. What could he say? The gays loved him.
"But enough about me," the man laughed, leaning forward. "Tell me about you, hun. Why join our campaign?"
Ethan’s smile widened. He could tell the truth: he didn't give a shit about population health. He wanted a cushy specialty, and residency directors liked well-rounded resumes.
"Well, I think this is a great opportunity to support..." Ethan trailed off as the man raised a skeptical eyebrow. "...support marginalized groups. Happy to help de-stigmatize this stuff."
The man stared, then broke into a grin. "Oh my God, you're adorable."
Ethan let out an awkward chuckle. "That's a first." When the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory, he leaned in. "Look, I'd be good at this. Promise you won't regret bringing me on board."
The man tapped a finger against his chin. "Hmmm..." Really? Had this guy even looked at his résumé? This wasn't exactly a difficult decision, "Who would you prescribe PrEP to?" He finally asked.
"Uh…" Ethan wasn't expecting that. "Guys who sleep around, I guess." He paused, catching himself. "You know what I mean. Gay guys. Men who have sex with men."
"And would you use PrEP?"
"Uh, no." The answer shot out too quickly. The man’s eyebrow climbed, "I mean, I'm not the target demographic," Ethan corrected with a nervous laugh. "Nothing against it, but I'm not looking for sex with other men."
The man studied him for a beat, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, Ethan, I think we're gonna get along just fine."
"So that's a yes?"
"Oh, babe. That's absolutely a yes."
The tension left Ethan's shoulders. Perfect. One more line for the application. "Awesome. I appreciate the opportunity."
"We're excited to have you." The man reached beneath his desk and pulled out a small BePRePared tote bag. "Take this, hun."
"What's in it?"
"Everything you'll need for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
The man's grin somehow widened. "Don't you worry. We'll be in touch."
-----------------
"That took longer than I thought." Ethan returned to his apartment, tossed the BePRePared tote bag onto the couch, and sat at his desk to study, "Fuck, I'm behind."
He stared at his digital flashcards, trying to prepare his best for his upcoming exam. But the text blurred. He blinked and stared at the card.
"What the hell?" He knew the answer to this, or at least he did yesterday. A suffocating brain fog rolled over him, as a dull ache started behind his eyes. His mind went completely blank, "Am I getting sick?"
Shoving himself away from the desk, he ran his hands through his hair. His neat trim felt dense, curling thickly between his fingers. He paused and ran his hand through his hair again, slower this time.
"How...?" Suddenly, the room tilted and sweat broke out across Ethan’s forehead, his joints throbbed, "Shit..." He couldn't afford to get sick, not when he had his first gig with BePrEPared tomorrow. The thought made him stop, "What am I thinking? Must be the fever... fucking with my head... Need water..."
He stumbled toward the kitchen and reached for a glass, barely noticing the fabric of his sleeve straining against his growing bicep. He quickly chugged his water, and froze when he wiped his chin. There was thick, rough stubble there. As if he hadn't shaved in a week.
"Fevers can... cause... hallucinations." He reasoned, although his thoughts were coming slower now, "Need... sleep..."
The room spun and his temperature spiked as he stumbled over towards the couch. He weakly pulled his scrub top off and threw it aside, his palms brushing through the thick, dark mat of body hair sprouting across his chest. But he barely recognized any of this, as his vision blurred and body grew weaker. He grabbed the tote bag on the couch and dropped it to the ground, the contents spilling out.
"What the fuck is this?" Ethan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, settling deeper. He felt a surge of irritation. This was a joke. They couldn't be serious. He was a medical student, for God's sake, not a...
Yet, as he stared at the blue speedo, his mind drifted to thinking about the happy, muscular campaign ambassadors he remembered seeing on the website. No exams. No residency stress. Just having fun and being noticed.
"Must be nice..." He fell onto the couch, and wiped sweat away from his forehead, "Fuck..." He smiled weakly, "I bet I’d look good in that Speedo." he thought.
He blinked, horrified by his own thought. Where had that come from? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the movement only triggered a vicious wave of nausea.
"This isn't… a normal virus," he muttered. The words felt clumsy on his tongue, "Something's... wrong... with me..."
Ethan's hands drifted across his torso, tangling in the growing, dense dark body hair that was spreading now across his stomach. Beneath the coarse mat, his pectorals had swollen into heavy, solid shelves of muscle, hard and burning to the touch. He squeezed his own chest, a delirious, breathless laugh escaping him as his thumb traced over a newly sensitive, hyper-reactive nipple. He pinched it, and a sharp, slutty jolt of pure pleasure shot straight to his groin.
"Fuck," Ethan groaned, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..."
The room was spinning now and he was starting to see things that he knew shouldn't be there. He saw Joshua, sitting and smirking in the corner of the room.
"You're... not here." He slurred, "Leave me... alone..."
He closed his eyes tightly, and the hallucination of Joshua blurred and shifted. He was suddenly surrounded by nameless men crowding over the couch. He could feel them. Their heavy, rugged palms gripping his broadened shoulders, rough fingers digging greedily into his newly full, heavy ass, squeezing his thickening muscles. With a grunt, he flipped onto his stomach, and arched his ass.
"Ah... fuck..." Ethan groaned, drool leaking from his mouth. He whimpered as he felt something press against his exposed hole, "Pl...Please..."
His hand slithered past the tight elastic of his boxers, wrapping around a cock that was longer, thicker, and harder than it had ever been. He began to pump it in a frantic, heavy rhythm, his muscular thighs flexing with every stroke. He didn't care about the exam. He didn't care about residency. He just wanted to be a dumb, hot object. He wanted to be used.
“Would you use PrEP, babe?” Joshua’s voice echoed in his head.
"Wh-why... would... I?" Ethan moaned, "I'm... not... Oh... fuck..." He gagged suddenly as he felt the heavy pressure of a thick cock pushing deep into his throat, stretching his jaw and cutting off his breath, while another massive, rigid shaft slammed brutally up his ass, "Th... this isn't... real..." He thought, even as his jaw ached.
Every thrust of the thick, veiny shaft plugging his throat made his eyes water as he gagged. Simultaneously, he felt his ass being stretched wider as the skin-on-skin pounding drove his lower body forward, burying his face deeper into the cushions with each wet, heavy slap.
“What’s the doctor word for... not breathing?” he tried to ask himself, “Can't... think of it. Mind... fuzzy. So heavy.”
The ambient hum of his laptop fan and the quiet of the night vanished, completely replaced by a deep, thumping electronic base that vibrated directly through the cushions beneath his chest. His brain couldn't quite process the switch. Even the clinical definitions of auditory hallucinations felt too distant, too complicated to grasp.
“Music?” Ethan thought, his cognitive processing slowing to a crawl. “Music... nice... feels good...”
Even the scent of the room was suddenly different. A thick, heavy cloud of cologne, raw male sweat, and latex filled his lungs with every desperate, choking gasp.
“Smells... good,” the simple thought drifted lazily through his mind, “Warm. Thick. Smells like... men. Sex."
He let out a choked gasp as the cock went deeper down his throat. Panicking with what little logical faculty he had left, Ethan whipped his hands upward, fully intending to push away whatever hallucination was blocking his airway and clamping his jaw open.
“Get it out... need to study... am a doctor...”
But instead of empty air, his palms connected firmly with hot, sweaty flesh. The solid, moving hips of a man rhythmically thrusting down his throat.
“No... Wha...? Not a dream? Real. Big. So big. In my mouth. Up my ass.”
He reached out desperately, trying to find leverage, but instead his thicker palms and fingers clamped directly around two pulsing, rigid cocks. His broadened shoulders flexed automatically as his palms wrapped tight, his fingers squeezing the thick shafts as he began to stroke them in a frantic, heavy rhythm. His body knew exactly what to do, even if his brain could no longer define it.
“Stroke them... make them feel good,” his dumbed-down thoughts hummed, completely content to abandon his studies. “Good boy. Do what they want. Just a hot object.”
The thumping music grew louder, accompanied by the rapid, rhythmic click-whir of a professional camera shutter and deep, masculine groans of approval close to his ears.
"Look at him take it," a deep, gravelly voice chuckled right above him. "The new guy's an absolute natural."
Flash. Flash.
An intense, blinding glare of white-hot light penetrated right through his closed eyelids. The searing heat radiating against his skin wasn't a fever spike anymore; it was the burning warmth of professional studio lighting hanging directly overhead.
Ethan’s eyes snapped open.
He wasn't in his apartment. No, he was pinned face-down on a leather sofa in the center of a roaring photography studio. He could see his reflection in a mirror. Bulkier, hairier... sexier... sporting a toy stethoscope over his hair-covered chest and a tiny blue Speedo that was completely soaked through.
"Oh my gawd..." He thought, eyes watering.
A tall, rugged model stood over him, holding Ethan's face up by a tight fist in his thick, curly hair as he slid deep into Ethan’s throat. Behind him, a massive, tatted model was burying himself ruthlessly into Ethan’s expanded, aching glutes, slamming his hips forward with a heavy, wet slap. To his left and right, two more models leaned over the couch, grinning down at him as Ethan’s large, rough hands rapidly pumped them.
"Fuck... where'd you find this guy?"
Ethan's eyes were wide now, but the panic he expected to feel never came. His mind was too beautifully empty, too saturated with testosterone and pleasure. Board scores, residency applications, the endless stress of his old life...
“I’m the PrEP boy,” his thoughts drifted, “Dumb... hot... please... use me.”
"Keep going, hun, you're doing amazing," Joshua called out over the music, gesturing to the lens. "So, let's hear it for the campaign! Would you use PrEP?"
The thick cock down his throat pulled out with a wet pop, a line of drool running down his heavy, stubbled chin. He looked straight into the camera lens, his mind completely wiped of medical terminology. None of that mattered anymore. He was a BePRePared model. He was beautiful, he was being used, and he loved it.
"Y-Yes..." Ethan gasped out, his voice a deep, thoroughly broken baritone. His hips gave a desperate, simple twitch against the man behind him. "Yes... God, yes..."
The photographer grinned, clicking the shutter rapidly. "Perfect! That's the money shot!"
With a final, shattering surge of friction, the man behind him buried himself to the hilt, releasing deep inside him. Simultaneously, the model in front of him painted Ethan's face and thick, hairy chest, while the two men in his hands blew their loads over his fingers. And Ethan's own massive, leaking cock throbbed and fired a heavy stream into his tight, blue speedo.
"So good..." He moaned, falling back onto the couch and looking up at the other models with a dumb, happy grin, "More…?" he slurred, a thick bead of drool tracking down his chin and mixing with the man's seed. "More… please… use me more…"
"Don't you worry." Joshua patted him on the shoulder, while the other models chuckled, "You're our star now, Ethan. We've got plenty of work lined up for you." He nodded over at the photographer.
"Next shoot is in twenty minutes, boys," the photographer called out, adjusting his lens with a grin. "Clean him up just enough to do it all over again."
Paul steps over the line tearing into his boss' daughter for her terrible first draft. Unable to engage with Juan Carlos, the unrealistic horny Latino stud of a protagonist, Paul's going to really find out what it's like to live as a character with nothing but sex on the mind.
For all his valid criticisms at least Paul will now get to chill out and enjoy himself! Similarly, hope you enjoy this one! -Occam
“Juan Carlos walked his hot sexy ass in to the bar and when he did every little horny twink had his eyes on him. ‘Ayyy papi you’re so sexy!’ One of them said, hornily.” Paul sighed heavily as he dropped the manuscript littered with red ink back onto his desk. “Okay, Stacy. I hope you understand that I’m not going to be moving forward with you on this one.”
Paul had been so excited for this novel. It was supposed to be his first ‘fun’ project in at least a calendar year. His boss has been relentlessly on his ass about pleasing their publishing house’s biggest client, a major cookbook studio, and this was supposed to be his big reward.
‘It’ll be the next gay YA best seller!’ ‘Yer gonna love it!’ ‘Won’t even need to polish this diamond!’ Really he should’ve read between the lines and realized that his boss was talking about the CEO’s daughter Stacy’s latest attempt to force her way into the creative world.
Speaking of the devil, she sits opposite him, mouth hanging open halfway to her faux fur coat. Apparently surprised to not have another door opened by her daddy the CEO, Stacy’s eyes begin to well up as the editor attempts to do his job. “Like, do you mean we’re not moving forward because it’s already go to go? Like, it’s ready to print?”
“No Ms. McClure, I do not mean that. I don’t believe we will be moving forward with anything unless you decide to completely start this project from scratch.”
Mascara designed to trail down her cheeks with tears does just that as she lets fly her waterworks, “But daddy said you’d freaking make this the next big thing Paul! He said you could make it the next Heated Rivalry!”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Paul struggles to maintain the level of professionalism that has always done so well by him. “Look, Stacy, I’m sorry if my words are harsh but, well the project is unpolished and a little juvenile. I mean even the title, Juan Carlos: Latin Lovermano? Work with me Stacy, how am I supposed to give a note on that besides toss it and try again?”
Looking up at the ceiling to slow her sobs, surely to save some tears for the next poor fool she’ll weaponize crying at, Stacy tries to salvage anything. Sniffling, “So you just don’t like the title then.”
“Among many, many other things, no.”
“Daddy said people love puns? It’s camping or something, you must not get it…”
Paul wasn’t past the point of diplomacy, but eager to move on with his day he opts to just go scorched earth. Lining up the biggest issue he has with the book in his sights, the protagonist, he prepares to shoot. Stereotypical, vaguely racist, and lacking any motivation beyond whatever smutty thing Stacy sees fit to move the ‘plot’ forward, Juan Carlos was not a man you care to follow unless you’re actively masturbating.
“I just think Juan Carlos leaves a lot to be desired, Ms. McClure.”
Pouting, she relents, “What do you even know! I swear all my gay friends are just like him! Literally spend five minutes talking to a sexy Latino hunk and tell me again how I don’t know how to write!”
Narrowing his eyes, at this he’s had enough. Obviously she doesn’t respect him enough to know a thing about him, daddy’s daughter be damned he’s not going to take that. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that I am both gay and my gra- abuela is columbian.”
“So what, you’re an eighth? And like so- do you want a trophy? You’re not the sexy kinda beefcake my audience wants to read about.”
“Stacy, first off you can’t say that. Second your math- Never mind that. You don't even have an audience.”
This strikes a chord. “Fuck you! Jesus! You don’t know how hard I worked to write this. It’s the culmination of my life’s work.”
“Well, I’d suggest in the next life to try to maybe spend a little more of that time learning how to write if you want to do anything other than waste my time.” Paul’s face freezes in a grimace of pain as the words fly out even sharper than he had intended.
So used to dealing with harsh layout designers and demanding photographers, the kid gloves simply fell off as his patience waned. Keeping his eyes shut for a beat, he takes a deep breath in the silence before opening them to find Stacy’s face a mask of rage.
Tears have evaporated entirely as her eyes seem to almost burn with a palpable anger. “Y’know Paul? Funny you don’t think JC is realistic enough. Because the way I see it, you’re just like him.”
Rolling his eyes at this he can’t help but dig his grave deeper, “Really now? I don’t quite see it, given I’m your father’s best employee and Juan Carlos’ sole trait is thinking with his dick; Wishful thinking perhaps as that would indeed make me the ideal for this slop you’re calling a book.”
Paul feels something snap in the room as the fire leaves her eyes to be replaced with a simpler disdain. He assumes their meeting is over and prepares to apologize when Stacy grabs the edit marked manuscript and just tears it in two. Shocked at the act of strength, Paul stares stunned as she gets the last word.
“You win, bitch. This was supposed to be fun. Hope you enjoy your last few days working here JC. I am so going to your boss.”
Annoyed, Paul immediately starts an email to HR to preemptively complain about his meeting and Stacy’s complete lack of professionalism. Laying the facts of the confrontation on the table, he ensures they know she was homophobic and racist only so they don’t can him when she tries to work her nepo-magic.
Still slightly reeling from just how poorly that meeting went, Paul tries to keep busy for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for the editor, his to-do list is quite sparse given he was supposed to be going through Stacy’s book through the end of the week.
Skipping ahead, McClure Sr’s next task for him was to do research on this influencer they’re optioning for a cookbook. Apparently he’s supposed to bring ‘alpha bros’ into their market. Paul doesn’t believe in the idea so to him this is more an opportunity to find receipts that prove Bryce Bentley is not a good fit for their brand.
Immediately searching ‘Bryce Bentley Apology Video’ the expert is soon privy to the content creator’s litany of scandals. Quickly jotting down the what, when, and where of a few tasteless jokes done by a man who shall certainly not get a book deal, Paul prepares to send his short take in an email before he glances back at Bentley’s instagram.
The man is pretty hot. No, he’s being unfair. The man is an absolute stud. How do you even get a body like that? Minimizing his email, Paul sets to just scrolling through Bryce’s feed. It’s important that he gets a full picture of the man after all, see what all the hype is about.
Quickly do his eyes glaze over as he carefully inspects every shirtless and sweaty image of this man in the gym and at the beach. Tuning out his douchey chatter and paying extra close attention to his gay baiting, despite his usual composure, Paul’s hand sneaks under his table towards his pants.
Unable to stop staring at the fratty, surely illiterate bro’s biceps, Paul’s mouth falls ajar as he begins to feel a little sweaty himself. When his hand finds purchase on a package throbbing just a hair larger, there’s suddenly a sharp itch burning under his arms.
No idea what at all could be causing this, the editor quickly yanks up his shirt’s sleeve to find a markedly hairier pit. Visibly wet with sweat he must’ve worked up during his spat, Paul can’t quite believe just how much thicker his usually manscaped pits have become. And yet, despite telling himself how gross the unmanicured patch is, he can’t tear his eyes away.
His nose twitches as his neck reflexively leans closer to the bramble of curls that seemingly grows thicker under his attention. His neck begins to crane down as his free hand abandons any decency to snake into his pants. Scratching through a similarly less tamed grove of pubes, in no time the employee of the quarter is fondling himself at his desk. “Whuh- what am I doing?”
Moaning to himself as his eyelids feel heavier, that he’s behind a desk is perhaps his only saving grace as his department head decides to stop by and check on him after his meeting with Stacy. Kindness in his eyes, Davis assumes his favorite underling’s visibly frazzled state must be due to that trainwreck of a meeting. Looking past the panting and messy hair, the strange rolled up sleeve and- is he sniffing his hand?
Clearly Paul just needs a day.
“Hiya there kid. Seems Stacy got ya all worked up huh?”
Bolting to attention, Paul’s hand slams into the desk as he tries to appear like he wasn’t seconds away from masturbating at work. Chest heaving from the anxiety of nearly being caught with said hand in his pants, Paul’s mind is scattered as he only just now realizes that he had his hand in his pants at work like some horny troglodyte. Smelling his sweaty fingers his eye twitches and he quickly and calmly clasps hands on his desk to feign normalcy as his semi still strains his pants.
“Yes sir Mr. Davis,” one of Bentley’s thirst traps still loops on Paul’s monitor. Not quite showing print as much as every vein on his cock while doing pull ups, Paul can barely stop his eyes flitting over as he explains himself. “She did more or less tell me to hit the dicks- My god. Di- Bricks. Bricks. So sorry sir.”
“Don’t you worry about it Paulie. Why don’t you finish up what you’re doing and head out for the day.”
“Thank you so much Davis sir. I swear I’ll be back and better than ever tomorrow!” Stress melting off him, when Paul reclines in his chair it allows his monitor to reflect in the window behind him. Davis can’t help but see the softcore porn and does a doubletake before wishing Paul well and rushing back to his own desk. Kid just needs a break, shoot as far as he knows that smut was straight out of that hellion Stacy’s book. What is McClure going to do with her?
Free to leave, Paul rushes to do so as swiftly as he can. When his attention is immediately sucked back to the faceless sweaty torso and sweat stained gym shorts on his monitor, Paul grits his teeth and forces the machine to shut off. Gathering his things and standing, despite knowing how his soft cock should have more than enough space in his pants, he feels his package strain.
Having gone through great lengths to appear professional, Paul is shocked when he can see his own visible dick print. Under his gaze it twitches slightly larger as the idea of having a thicker dick excites him. And yet, this is far from the only change as he grabs his coat and rushes out the door.
Desperate to get home as fast as possible, he refuses to acknowledge how every item on him is slightly too tight. Never one for exercise beyond making sure he can do twenty push ups every once in a while, Paul’s stunned when his chest tugs against his increasingly sweaty top.
The sleeves of his shirt begin to pull, then hug, then strain against his arms as they rapidly put on weight. Rushing down the sidewalk, the editor assumes he’s simply been too negligent on his diet recently. Maybe he ruined his clothes in the wash? He’s just put on weight and not noticed. That makes sense. But he cannot hold onto this delusion as he looks to see muscle visibly twitching as he swings his arms.
And then it begins affecting his mind.
Shiiiitt Papi, my arms are looking killerrr
His arm tries to raise itself into a flex, Paul’s blood goes cold. Blinking quickly as this stops him dead in his tracks, the editor is accidentally bumped into by a mousy man on the phone carrying a tray of coffees. Turning to apologize, Paul promptly freezes again when he locks eyes with the embarrassed gofer still on the phone. Every muscle in his body tenses and throbs as he feels a dull static fill his mind.
He can do nothing but feel as he watches the twink walk past him with a nod. Blood rushing in his ears, Paul stares at the man’s tight ass swaying as he hurries back to work. Fuckkk I need that ass. Now. Locked onto the bouncing butt as it makes haste, Paul stumbles forward. He feels his body try to pursue him. Get his number, get him.
Unable or unwilling to fight the desire, the need, Paul is only stopped from his chase as when he takes his first wholehearted step forward his pants tear. Looking down at his tight dress pants, he’s honestly surprised this is the first rip as they almost appear painted on. In the deep recesses of his mind some muted voice shouts that they should not be so built.
When more and greater tears lance down his thighs and grow longer with every step, he shakes out of his horny stupor. Almost drooling from the slightly tanner skin exposed from the gashes trailing up towards his pendulous cock that sways even more than that bitch’s hot ass, Paul steels himself and realizes he needs to just get home. This takes more effort than it ever should. Distracted by every man with a pulse he passes, some bestial Id within him keeps trying to rise and take over.
Shit that fucker’s fine. We have the time for a quickie. Que paso? Can’t we have some fun? That bar on sixth is open already…
Each time he bats it down, shakes it off, the next time it returns slightly louder. Needier. More dominant. Needing to physically shake his head and murmur “No.” to maintain control, under the beating late afternoon sun, his tan seems to be quite a bit darker. Obviously his rational mind will say it’s just from walking to work more often than driving these days, he’s just been out more.
But as the sunkissed skin stretches under the sleeves of his shirt, as his seemingly tea stained thighs are revealed to be even tanner through the tears in his pants, Paul knows this cannot be the case. Why am I wearing these shitty pants anyway? Fuckin hiding my peak muslos… Muslos? What does that even mean?
Long neglected Spanish begins to trickle into his mind as he arrives home and slams the door shut behind him. Usually so courteous and quiet a neighbor, with the chaos of the day weighing on him, the path of least resistance is simply too great.
Tearing his pants and boxers the rest of the way off, Paul stumbles into the bathroom looking to hop in the shower or throw on some much needed deodorant. Sniffing himself as he arrives, his plans are halted by the one two punch of his heady musk and seeing his shockingly muscular reflection.
Mierda… No one will be able to resist me.
Hungry eyes take in his bicep as he raises it into a flex. Turning to bounce his ass, he feels itchy stubble prickle onto his face like it never has as a cocky smirk forces its way onto his face. The shirt that has been suctioned to him since he stepped out of the office begins to give way to his burgeoning new bulk as he can’t help but imagine everything he can do with his growing new body.
Faces flicker through his imagination of all the new eye candy he’ll be able to bed. Pre begins to pool at his feet as drool trickles down his stubbly new jaw as his thoughts are more and more displaced by the new rising voice.
Maybe I should start clubbing again? He needs to show this off. No, he needs to figure out what’s going on. To figure out his best angles. Fuck like he’s got any bad ones. His smirk grows darker as his heavier hand reaches down to fondle his excitable dripping dick. Leaning against the wall on his brawny new forearm, he starts fully masturbating.
Huffing his b.o. as he grunts and snarls. Paul imagines topping for the first time in his life. He sees a snatched waist and bubble butt bouncing on his prodigious uncut cock. One he can scarcely recognize. One he can scarcely imagine as he swears he can feel that little coffee runner’s tight ass hugging his cock as his hips rut into his meaty hand.
Fuck take it bitch. Take Juan Carlos’ fucking horse cock. Tell all your- Tell your- Wh- What? Juan? Juan Carlos?
Not slowing his thrust for a second, the name Juan Carlos hits him like a train. Staring at his darker arms as veins trail their whole length, as darker hair prickles across his forearms, he realizes what is happening. Too little too late as he feels his heavier balls pull and his mind goes even hazier.
Stumbling back to the sink, Paul’s cock bounces in the air as he tries to slow, to stop the storm of cum about to fly into the bathroom. Catching his reflection, he sees his focussed horny expression instead shift to a cocky gleaming smirk. Juan Carlos is sex. He is sex.
And then he loses control “FFF- Mierda!” His spotless bathroom is painted with a load larger than he’s ever seen before. Rocketing across the room, he shoots string after string across the mirror, into the sink, onto his toothbrush. And then his shaky knees give way as he falls to the cold tile.
Exhausted, barely able to lift his heavy new arm, he pushes himself against the bath before losing consciousness. He feels the last few spurts of his load dripping through the thick new curls on his thigh. No es- this isn’t possible…
When he awakes he cannot recall what his steamy dreams are about, but he knows the cum stains in his pubes and pooling on his thicker new abs cannot be from his session last night alone. In an action that would be previously unthinkable to the orderly man, he scratches his face with his similarly cum-splattered hand to find his facial hair has grown thicker.
Pulling himself up to standing, Juan is slightly woozy as he makes his first moves in a body far larger than he’s ever had to manage. Apathetic to the wretched state of his bathroom, he pulls back on his dirty boxers and exits to his living room.
Clean as he left it, when Juan steps in it begins to adjust to the life he is soon to live. Stomping his heavier feet with no care for the unlucky souls used to the far more cordial upstairs neighbor, Juan yanks open the fridge and yawns as the glass bottles in the door clatter against each other.
Scratching his ass and smirking as he feels his fingers claw into the fat and muscle therein, Juan is surprised to find neatly organized prepped meals. When he does a double take, the growing sex-fiend finds it far more to his temperament. Leftovers abound, shoved in between containers of eggs left open and protein rich meals he can just throw in the oven and forget.
Grabbing a full blender pitcher he just threw in the fridge to drink from today, Juan almost starts chugging it before he decides to toss a couple more eggs in. Gotta hit his goals. Gotta look like the fuckin king he is. Juan makes no effort to quiet the voice as it returns to his head, rumbling with the same morning weariness that plague his own morning thoughts. Though at this point there is little at all separating the two.
The few remaining differences between who he once was and Juan fade even further as he starts chugging straight from the blender like an animal. Gulping down almost half a gallon of protein slurry, the horny editor feels some of the silty sludge miss his mouth and stream down his salt-stained cheeks.
Wiping it off with his meaty bicep, he proceeds to just lick the mix off his arm. This brings his face so close to his exposed and still dripping pit, Juan smirks as he gets a whiff of his new morning musk. Surprised at how intense it is, some inkling of the neat-freak hiding within him returns. “Shit have I gone weeks without fuckinnn deodorant or what?”
He can hardly believe it when the voice rumbling out of his chest sounds just like that voice in his head. Some weak part of him knows that’s not him, that's not who he should be, he shakes his head. He’s not Juan Carlos. He- He’s? He can’t remember his name. When the realization hits him he gasps only to feel pressure rising within him.
Feeling his stomach bloat slightly from the heavy shake, the man tries to recall his name and stop himself from a humiliating burp at once. Mind divided, both attempts swiftly fail as he unleashes a burp longer and louder than he’d believed possible. Worse than the straight assholes he’d always wanted to put in their place.
Buuuuurrpp- “Shittt if only they’d see me now. Huhuh. Shit they’d probably find themselves on my dick too. Nadie… uhhh no one can, uh? whatever…”
Tired of thinking about anything that’ll rile him up, Juan forgets about forgetting his name and instead channels all his energy into getting a morning pump. It’s just the path of least resistance. Piles of manuscripts and a bookshelf full of classics he had dreamed of one day adding to clatter to the floor as wood shines to a metal and heavy tomes become heavier weights.
Guffawing as he sees the impossible and only thinks about what a sweet home gym setup he’s got, Juan saunters over to the bench and starts pumping free weights. Looking down at his chubbing dick twitching in overfull briefs as he gets a pump in, he grunts as he imagines how ripe his aura will be in here when he’s done with his morning workout.
Throwing reggaeton on to blast away his morning delirium and keep his mind thinking about anything other than his needy dick, Juan Carlos pounds iron well into the late morning. When ten rolls around his phone starts blowing up as his boss wonders why he’s late for work without letting them know.
“Que..? Oh shittt-” For some reason the idea of being late fills him with overwhelming dread. Furrowing his heavy brows he doesn’t really understand, it’s just a job or whatever? Surely they need JC more than Juan needs them. Still, he groans and prepares to run in, that is, until he sees his reflection. More than anything he needs to relish in his pump.
Flexing in his cum and spit stained bathroom mirror, Juan Carlos delights in the sweat tricking down his veiny arms. Drooling at his package and ass bouncing in his stained briefs, JC starts groping his dick before another call from work comes in and he relents to just handle his bestial need later. “Pinche- boss man don’t know what’s coming…”
None of his clothes seem to fit right. Instinctually he reaches for a neat button up before crumbling it into a ball and throwing it to the floor. Why’d he even buy such boring threads? Shit he needs to wear something flattering, something sexy.
Searching high and low for some skin-tight streetwear and a baggy jacket to hide his pump, Juan eventually finds something adequate. Even as he throws it on though, when he sees his reflection the clothes grow that much tighter as he turns himself on. Meaty arms strain against sleeves that should be baggy, cock so visible he might as well not be wearing pants at all, and a cocky smirk surrounded by stubble he obviously doesn’t care enough to shave.
Despite the small shred of himself shouting to rush to work, he takes his time sauntering down the street. Prowling and scanning every person in case they’re looking to fuck, it’s a miracle he doesn’t bump into a single twink en route. Instead he just allows the sun to bake him, evening out his dark tan and cooking up some even danker musk in the hoodie.
Hidden beneath his sauna of a hoodie, disparate patches of his skin darken as his skin begins to stain with tattoos. Many of which are promptly hidden as the previously inactive follicles covering his torso suddenly go into overdrive. Lured out by the atmosphere of sweat blooming beneath his heavy jacket, fertilized by his salty stench JC feels his scratchy fur coat thicken out of sight.
Perfectly highlighting his rows of abs and connecting his cum-covered pubes with his sweat-dripping pits, JC feels up his hairy chest and struggles to ignore the rising boner at the idea of all the horny bitches that’ll be all over him at the club. Twinks, jocks, and bears oh meirda he can hardly think for salivating about all the needy men that crave his cock as much as he craves giving it to them.
Reaching his arm up his shirt, exposing his hairy abs dripping with sweat, Juan Carlos is stopped at the entrance to his workplace by security. “Ayy what’s the problem guey?” His words are dripping with a thick Mexican accent that sounds natural and correct to his ears, just like it always has.
Frowning, the guard requests to see some identification. Annoyed, JC doesn’t let it show as he instead plays up his sex appeal. Reaching into his back pocket, standing at an angle that allows the guard to see his thick ass, Juan Carlos produces a loose driver’s license and takes a look at it himself.
Seeing the same sexy self as always, Juan sees some gringo ass name for a second before it’s replaced with his own. Juan Carlos Hernandez. Careful to ensure their hands connect as he hands over the ID, JC waits to be waved through to get to a job he doesn’t quite remember. Gotta be a model or something? Equis…
The guard returns the license with a grunt and nods him through. Juan Carlos shoots him a wink and makes sure he struts slowly so the guard can watch him go. He knows where he is if he wants a particularly brusque lay later. For now he just needs to figure out where he’s going.
Feeling his stubble fill out into a beard to match that on his license, he scratches its final touches as he sneaks into his office. JC’s mouth hangs open as he sits at his desk and tries to remember what he’s supposed to be doing. Failing to remember his log in, he struggles to understand how to log on as a guest.
Oft distracted by his reflection in the dark monitor, when he at last brute forces his way into the computer his lust takes over once more as he decides he’s been so diligent as to earn a treat. Doesn’t he deserve a little break? Given an inch his needy cock takes a mile as it instantly begins working its way to the hem of his tight shorts.
Quickly opening a browser, JC is shocked to see the computer blocks him from watching porn at work. “¿Qué carajo es esto?” Clicking his tongue, he resolves to just content himself on his own reflection. Cupping his thick pecs and removing the heavy jacket to bathe his office with his heavy musk, JC immediately begins working his cock over his shorts only to be interrupted by a pair of visitors.
Shocked beyond belief, his boss Davis stands stunned. As if he were expecting someone else, confronted with the beast of a man that is Juan Carlos, he can only gasp as the man actively masturbating shoots him a nod and a wink. Though when the horny stud sees who’s with him he gives his meat a break, remiss as he is to.
“Heyyyy chica, you ready to hit the clubs?”
Though knowing she set this into motion, Stacy is similarly surprised by the hunk before her. As if he walked straight off the page, it’s Juan Carlos himself. Though, it clearly worked too well. As she takes him in she completely forgets that she had ever written him into existence. Juan’s her GBF IRL? He always ahs been. The one who’ll fuck anything that moves. The chicano hunk that drags her to after afters and dingy gay clubs she wouldn't dream of finding herself in.
“It’s literally 11 AM babe. And you know Dave said if he catches you slacking again you’re done!”
“Ahh que sera sera you know chica~ Sides, I think Dave has bigger fish to fry than getting rid of Juan Carlos.”
When Juan Carlos rubs his hand through his hairy abs to get Dave’s attention, the boss just sighs and pinches his temples. Workload having almost doubled as his best employee has been unknowingly converted into a man who lives, breathes, and stinks sex, he does indeed have bigger concerns. “Look, Hernandez. Just try and keep it in your pants- Or at least lock the door, I mean Jesus Christ this is a workplace…”
Unable to question why their esteemed publishing house seems to have an employee whose sole purpose seems to be manwhore, for some reason he can’t focus on the idea long enough to dispute it. He’s sure this is somehow Stacy’s fault.
“Anything else, boss man? Quires un- Ah, you want a one on one later?”
Davis clears his throat, “No that uhm, won’t be necessary Juan Carlos.” Blushing he pawns this situation onto his boss’ daughter, “Stacy, if you wouldn’t mind helping Mr. Hernandez get started, I’ve got to handle some upstart influencer who’s threatening to sue us.”
“You got it Davey~”
Thoughtlessly slamming the door behind him, Stacy’s beside herself with excitement. “Juan Carlosss~ So what’s the move tonight, babe?”
Scratching his beard with his trademark smirk, Juan Carlos spins an office chair that can barely handle his weight as he recalls the litany of men he’s lusted after and tempted since he last busted a nut. “You know, I can get what I want anywhere. Why don’t you pick chica?”
Flopping onto his desk, Stacy starts shooting texts to her rolodex of fellow rich chicks and their horny twinks to figure out their nightly plans. Seeing reflection in the wide monitor as it goes to sleep, Juan Carlos flexes at himself and feels his easy dick start to rise. “Ay Chica, I’m gonna go cruise. Esta bien?”
“You got it bestie! See ya tonight!”
There are certainly worse things than having an heiress as a fag hag. Sauntering past Drew’s office on the way to get his dick wet, Juan Carlos can’t imagine life another way. Can’t imagine much at all really. It’s as if he were created for no purpose but to fuck and be gawked at. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The sound of Erik's motorcycle echoed across the vast fields of the nearby farm as he drove past the open fence gate. He swung his bike to the side, grinding it to a halt and sending a cloud of dirt into the air. His boots clicked along the stone pathway as he approached the farmhouse. A sense of nostalgia had overcome him as he stepped across the creaky wooden porch, he had filmed in an old farmhouse like this before, it really brought him back.
The thought quickly left Erik's mind when he approached the front door, he was here on a mission. He turned the knob and let himself into the stranger's house. Breaking and entering would normally be more nerve wracking, but Erik had scouted this place for a while now. No one was home, the father always left on the weekends, spending his time in hotel rooms with a rotating door of women. The son, well the son was the reason Erik was here in the first place. The young man had been sneaking out to local gay bars while his father was gone, but didn't normally interact with anyone, preferring to watch from the sidelines. Erik had come to change that.
He wandered around the foreign house, eventually stumbling upon the son's room. He scoured every inch of the room, looking for something specific. He emptied drawers and examined every shelf in the room, it was only when checked under the bed did he find what he was looking for. A 2002 Colt Mens Calendar, a few years old by this point but still a classic.
Carl Hardwick, what a legend Erik thought.
He admired the cover for a moment before the sound of footsteps on the front porch distracted him. Erik grinned as he exited the bedroom. He walked back to the living room, close to the front door, and leaned against a door frame while watching the young man take off his boots.
It took a moment for the man to notice Erik watching him, but when he finally noticed, he froze like a statue.
"Don't be scared, son." Erik said in a gruff voice. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
"Who are you?" The young man asked. "What do you want!?" He blurted before Erik could even respond.
"I've come to help you out." Erik grinned.
The man slowly started moving to the door and reached for a shot gun on the wall.
"That won't be necessary, boy." Erik commanded. "Recognize this?" He said holding up the calendar.
"That's not what it looks like." The young man panicked. "It's... It's..."
"It's alright, son." Erik comforted him as he approached the young man. "You're 22 and still hiding from your father, still hiding from who you really are. I can change that."
"Wha-"
The young man couldn't even finish his sentence before Erik grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. The man seemed shocked at first, but quickly relaxed and leaned in for the kiss, wrapping his arms around Erik's waist.
As Erik pulled away, he could already see the changes taking hold of the man. His clean shaven face had grown a thick black mustache right above his lip. Erik grinned as the young man's face aged into his forties, growing a five o'clock shadow over his chiseled face.
The man seemed to notice the changes happening to his body when his plaid button up started to tighten around his growing body. His sleeves strained around his thick biceps as his hands doubled in size, matching his manly look. His chest rose into two meaty pecs and his shoulders broadened to match, creating rippled muscles along his upper back.
He let out a moan in a deep gruff voice as his legs filled out the empty space in his jeans. His ass perked up, causing his crack to show right above the waistline while a large bulge formed in his crotch that quickly snaked into his pant leg.
The man bit his lip as he watched the transformation occur in the mirror. He grinned and licked the sweat off of his bushy mustache. As his buttons started to strain against his hunky body, he unbuttoned each one, revealing the forest of hair covering every inch of his mountainous muscles.
Erik watched his lips quiver as he witnessed his muscles rising like bread right in front of his eyes. He rubbed his man hands through the dense pelt of hair that covered his weathered skin, making the bulge in his pants grow larger by the second.
Now that he was distracted by his own body, the world began to shift around him, just like it had for Erik. His cowboy hat morphed into a leather cap, erasing any memories of being a cowboy from the man's mind. Meanwhile his hairline receded and his five o'clock shadow grew into an untamed beard, complimenting his more mature look.
His jeans disappeared, leaving him in nothing but a small leather jockstrap, just barely big enough to contain his manhood. At the same time, his body continued to grow. His six pack swelled into a small muscle gut and his arms surpassed Erik's in size. Also, now unrestricted by clothing, his ass expanded even further, becoming two meaty globes that clapped when he walked.
Finally, black leather boots formed around his massive feet as the room around him began to change. His once familiar home quickly transformed into a lively bar, where men of all types flocked around him.
"We love you Carl!" A man in the crowd shouted.
Carl, now fully aware of his surroundings, smiled as men stuffed bills into his jockstrap.
He loved the attention, it felt... natural. He was about to give them the performance of a lifetime.
- Current Day -
The roar of the crowd is muffled as Erik walks out of the bar. The morning sun scorches his eyes as he steps out on the hot summer day. He leans against the wall and takes a deep breath of fresh air, something he hasn't gotten since the sun set the night before. He rubs his finger along his neck, feeling the soreness where hickies cover his skin.
Erik couldn't help but smile. What used to be a lonely town with a dying gay scene now had a bustling night club filled with men straight out of a Colt Mens Calendar. All thanks to him.
It's been a great night, but Erik calls it for the day, figuring he should get some sleep before doing it all again the next night.
He stumbles over to the nearby gas station, where he parked his bike the night before. She's a couple years past her prime, but she's still kicking. But just as he's about to drive off, he notices something strange. It's a Colt Mens magazine on the ground. He picks it up, or at least what's left of it. Most of the pages are ripped out, left as shreds blowing away in the wind.
"Pete." Erik says as he runs his finger down the cover page, licking the sweat of his mustache.
"Disgusting, ain't it?"
Erik looks up to see another man filling up his motorcycle.
"It's a real shame those queers are allowed to walk 'round these streets like there ain't nothin' wrong about 'em." The man continues. "Can't even tell most of 'em apart no more. They blend in with real men like us."
"Yeah..." Erik says in a somber tone.
"You be careful now." The man says as he gets on his bike. "Never know when one of them might be face to face with ya."
"Thanks for letting me know." Erik responds as he approaches the man. "I'll let you know something."
"What's that?" The man asks.
Erik gets close up to the man, close enough to feel the man's breath on his skin.
"You're looking at one... Right... Now."
Erik grins before pulling the man in for a kiss. He makes sure to get tongue and all, tasting the cigars and whiskey on his tongue. The man quickly pulls away, giving the most disgusted glare Erik has ever seen.
"You're gonna regret tha-" The man stops dead in his tracks.
"Gonna regret what?" Erik teases him.
The man looks down at himself as his body begins to change. His beer gut starts to melt away until a six pack emerges under the fat. His man tits solidify, becoming tough slabs of meat as his weak arms swell to match his sculpted body.
"What... Are... You..." The man tries to say as his gravelly voice becomes buttery smooth.
His legs grow more defined and his flabby ass perks up, propping himself up further on his bike. And his fat pad disappears, allowing his growing cock to show off its full glory.
The man's face begins to twitch before his facial features start to regain some youth. His wrinkly skin becomes plump and smooth as his wiry body hairs become neat and well trimmed, forming a short beard over his sharp jawline. And dark hairs start to grow all over his balding head, leaving him looking decades younger than he had moments earlier.
Pete watches as his ratty oversized clothes disappear, leaving only a few leather bands around his arms, and a baseball cap with COLT written in bold. He looks back at Erik and nods.
"See ya around Erik."
"Nice catching up, Pete." Erik smiles as Pete rides off on his bike.
"Freeze!" A shaky voice yells from behind Erik.
He turns to see a cop pointing a gun at him.
"What did you do to him!?" The cop yells.
Erik puts his hands up. "Woah, you must be mistaken officer, I was just catching up with an old friend." He chuckles. "That's not illegal, is it?"
"I... I saw you..." The newbie officer stutters.
"You saw me what?" Erik asks as he slowly steps closer to the cop.
"You... Changed him..." The cops eyes widen.
"I made him better." Erik continues to step closer to the officer.
The officer looks deep in thought, so Erik takes his shot. He charges the cop, knocking the gun out of his hand and pinning him to the wall. Erik towers over him as he holds the man's skrawny arms against the wall of the gas station.
"Change me!" The cop says.
"What?" Erik asks, genuinely confused.
"Whatever you did to him, I want you to do it to me."
"Why?"
"Nobody takes me seriously." The cop looks up at Erik. "I want to be strong like you, confident like you."
"It's not that simple. I need someone as a template." Erik admits.
"Make me the man of your dreams. No template."
Erik thinks for a moment. It just might work. While still pinning the man to the wall, Erik leans in for a kiss. He starts to imagine the perfect man in his arms, just the thought makes him hard.
Erik opens his eyes to see the cop has already begun to grow. His uniform tightens around his growing biceps and swelling pecs as the buttons pop off one by one. His uniform falls to the ground in shreds, showing off leather straps around his chest while a thick pelt of hair covers nearly every inch of his body.
Erik smiles as he awaits his perfect man, but his patience wears thin. As the cops face starts to age, Erik throats off his clothes and leans in for another kiss. The bristles of the cops new beard tickle his lips as they lock.
He pins the cop with his face against the wall, and pulls out his dick.
"You're under arrest." He smiles as he forces the cop to the ground.
The cop continues to grow, outgrowing Erik with thick arms, a bloated belly, and a perky ass.
"Don't try to resist." Erik climbs on top of the cop.
The cop gasps as Erik penetrates him, and with every thrust, he grows. His biceps swell and his dick nearly doubles in size, all while he ages into his forties, growing wrinkles on his forehead and grey hairs behind his receding hairline.
He moans in a gruff voice as Erik speeds up, thrusting all his weight on him. Erik grunts louder and louder until he releases his seed into the cop, bloating his muscle gut even more.
Erik rises to his feet, only now realizing the cop is sporting a leather vest and tight leather pants. He helps the cop to his feet, watching as the man now towers over him.
"I think you rearranged my organs." The cop laughs.
"It's nothing compared to what I'm gonna do to you when we get home." Erik grabs him by the hand and drags him to his motorcycle.
"I want you to do unspeakable things to me tonight."
As part of a trade for @occamstf. Also, some of my stories are old, and if you wanted to rewrite them, use similar concepts, do a "remake" etc please reach out! Happy to collab and get your spin on one of my old stories!
Tristan tried to weave in between the sweaty bodies of several shirtless frat bros, doing his best to avoid spilling the beer in his red solo cup. The smell of beer and cheap cologne clung to them, which only made Tristan feel dizzy. Worst yet, the music was loud, so loud that he could barely hear himself think.
"This was a mistake." He thought as he escaped the crowd of people and leaned up against the wall in the corner of the frat house, "At least I gave it a try."
Tristan was never someone who imagined he'd enjoy the party scene, but given that it was nearing the end of his freshman year, he figured he should at least give it a try. At least he knew now that parties were not his thing, and neither was the beer in his still nearly full red solo cup.
"Where'd they go?" He preened his neck to see if he could locate his friends from the dorm, "I shouldn't leave without them."
But after a few minutes of searching, he decided to give up. He'd text them and check in on them in the morning. And with that, he made his way towards the door. But before Tristan could reach the front door, somebody bumped into him, splashing the beer across his hoodie.
"I'm sorry!" Tristans squeaked out, looking down at his beer soaked shirt, "I didn't mean..."
The apology died in his throat. The guy he'd bumped into was huge. Not just tall. Huge. Broad shoulders stretched the sleeves of a gray fraternity shirt. Thick forearms crossed over a chest that looked like it had been carved out of granite. A backwards baseball cap sat low on his head, and even in the dim party lighting Tristan could see the confident grin spreading across his face.
"Dude."
"S-sorry."
"Damn dude." The guy barked out a laugh, "There you go again."
"Wh-what?"
"Apologizing."
"S-sorry?"
The guy burst out laughing, as did the group of jocks behind him. Tristan felt his face turn red and he looked down. But he felt a muscular arm thrown around his shoulders and he was pulled in close to the guy's sweaty, muscular torso. Up close, Tristan could smell sweat, deodorant, and stale beer clinging to the guy's shirt. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but somehow the guy seemed completely unaware of it. Or maybe he simply didn't care.
"Name's Ryan." He said, "You?"
"Tristan."
"Freshman?"
"Y-yeah."
"Figured." Ryan smirked, and Tristan could see something predatory flash through the frat bro's eyes, "You gonna take that off." He nodded towards the beer-soaked hoodie.
"I-I'll change when I get home." Tristan replied quickly.
"No you fuckin' won't." Ryan pulled Tristan towards the stairs, "I ain't letting a freshman walk home soaked in shitty beer. I've got something for you in my room."
"I really don't need..."
"Yeah, you do."
Ryan didn't even slow down. He kept a hand planted firmly on Tristan's shoulder as he guided him up the stairs. Tristan was struck by how easily the larger man moved through the crowded house. People stepped aside without even seeming to realize they were doing it. A few called Ryan's name. Others nodded in greeting. Ryan answered every one of them with the effortless confidence of someone completely at home.
"Seriously," Tristan said as they reached the second floor landing, "you don't have to do this."
"Yeah. I do."
Ryan pushed open a door near the end of the hallway and stepped inside. The room looked exactly how Tristan imagined a fraternity president's room would look.
"You like?"
Sports memorabilia covered the walls. Framed photographs showed Ryan posing with teammates, fraternity brothers, and various championship trophies. A collection of baseball caps hung above a dresser. The room smelled faintly of detergent, deodorant, and the lingering musk of somebody who spent most of his time either at practice or in the gym.
"It's... nice." Tristan replied.
"Good, glad you like it."
"You play football?" Tristan asked, nodding toward one of the trophies.
Ryan laughed, "Played. Graduating in three weeks."
Tristan watched as Ryan yanked his shirt off, revealing his physique. The guy was built. Not in the exaggerated way movie superheroes were built. Ryan looked real. Years of football, lifting, and hard training had left thick muscle packed across his shoulders, chest, and arms. Ryan caught him staring.
"What?"
Tristan immediately looked away, "Nothing."
"Bullshit." Ryan laughed and tossed the fraternity shirt onto the bed, "You were checking out the gains."
"N... No... I..."
"It's okay." Ryan walked up to him, "You like it, don't you?"
"It's not..."
"C'mon bro, stop fuckin' playing." Ryan grinned, "Everyone wants this." His hands suddenly pulled at the hem of Tristan's shirt, "Let's see what we're working with here."
Before Tristan could object, Ryan grabbed the hem of his beer-soaked hoodie and peeled it over his head. The cool air of the room immediately hit Tristan's skin. He instinctively folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of how much smaller he looked standing in front of the jock. Ryan slowly nodded. A smile spread across his face.
"You'll do."
"What are you...?"
But Ryan was suddenly on his knees, looking up at Tristan with a smirk. And before Tristan could react, Ryan was fumbling with his belt.
"I need this, bro." Ryan said.
"Wait... I..." Was this really happening? Tristan could never imagine that a guy as hot as this would ever...
"You want this, don't you?"
"Y-yeah..." Tristan bit his lip.
"There we go, bro."
As Ryan pulled Tristan’s pants down, letting them pool around his ankles, he leaned forward and looked up. His eyes locked onto Tristan’s with an unyielding, dominant confidence. The heat of Ryan's breath hit Tristan's cock just a second before his lips made contact. The moment Ryan took Tristan into his mouth, a strange, electric jolt shot through both of them.
"Oh god..." Tristan moaned. This was his first BJ and god it felt better than he could've possibly imagined. Ryan's tongue worked the head of his hard cock, and he could feel the jock's firm hands grasp his skinny ass.
And as Ryan rhythmically bobbed his head, his hands gripped Tristan’s thighs tightly. And as he gripped harder, Tristan’s thighs, typically lean and soft, felt a sudden, internal surge. The muscle fibers beneath the skin began to swell and density doubled. At the same time, Ryan grunted as his heavy, square jawline that had defined his face for years began to soften, the sharp angles rounding out. His grip on Tristan's thighs wavered as his own fingers lost a fraction of their calloused thickness, shortening and becoming smoother.
"Wait..." Tristan choked out, his hands trembling as he gripped his own newly expanding legs. "Ryan, what... what are you doing to me? What is this?"
Ryan didn't answer. He couldn't. His lips were wrapped firmly around Tristan’s cock, his head bobbing with an intense, deliberate rhythm. But looking down, Tristan saw a frightening yet mesmerizing change overtaking the older man. Ryan’s massive, boulder-like shoulders were visibly losing their breadth. The thick, rigid muscles of the jock's back were softening, compressing inward, collapsing into a much smaller, slighter frame.
A sudden, sharp pressure bloomed in Tristan’s own chest. He arched his back, crying out as his ribcage expanded with a loud, deep pop.
"Ah! Oh god, my chest!"
Tristan watched in absolute awe as his narrow torso erupted outward. Layers of dense, heavy pectoral muscle sheeted across his skin, stretching his pale flesh until it turned a healthy, sun-kissed golden-tan. His collarbones broadened, pushing his shoulders out so wide that he had to brace his feet against the floor just to keep his balance. He felt massive. He felt heavy. And he reached up to give his new pecs a squeeze with his increasingly thicker hands. He grunted at the feeling of the firm flesh beneath his palm and let out another moan as Ryan's pace quickened.
"Ryan... fuck..."
Down below, the hands gripping his thighs had completely changed. They were no longer the rough, calloused hands of a football captain; they were smaller, the fingers shorter and smoother. They were Tristan's hands.
Ryan let out a muffled, desperate grunt against Tristan's length, his eyes squeezed shut. The backward baseball cap sitting on Ryan's head suddenly slipped, sliding down a face that was rapidly losing its sharp, hyper-masculine definition. Ryan's jawline was shrinking, the bone structure shifting and rounding into a softer, much more delicate shape.
"Ryan, stop! Look at me!" Tristan pleaded, but the voice that left his throat completely shocked him. The high-pitched, nervous squeak of a freshman was gone. Instead, a deep, resonant rumble vibrated through his expanded chest... a rich, commanding baritone that belonged entirely to the man on his knees. "My voice... I sound like... you?"
Ryan squeezed Tristan's thicker ass, as if to reassure him. And then, without hesitating, continued to suck him off. Tristan moaned as he felt his cock start to lengthen in Ryan's mouth. Becoming girthier, thicker. All the while, the bulge in Ryan's pants became less impressive.
"S..Stop... wh-what is this?"
He looked down at his arms. His thin, spindly forearms were ballooning, thick veins pulsing beneath the skin as rock-hard muscle packed itself around his bones. Right before his eyes, a faint, dark ink began to bleed upward through his skin, settling into the exact shape of the fraternity tattoo Ryan was sporting earlier.
Ryan finally pulled back, gasping for air, and looked up at Tristan.
Tristan stared down, his breath catching in his throat. He was looking at himself. Ryan’s face had completely transformed into Tristan’s own fresh-faced, wide-eyed freshman features. His messy, soft brown hair fell into his eyes, and his expression was entirely devoid of his previous swagger, replaced by a vulnerable, submissive awe.
"I'm... I'm you," Tristan whispered, his large, heavy hand instinctively reaching up to touch his own face. His fingers brushed against a rugged, broken nose bridge and thick jaw, "And you're... you're me."
The boy on his knees smiled, a soft, tired, yet incredibly satisfied expression crossing his newly acquired, youthful face.
"I'm graduating, bro," Ryan whispered, his voice now carrying Tristan's exact light, breathless tone. He looked up at his own former body with a mixture of relief and envy. "I don't want to leave. I'm not ready for the real world. But now, I don't have to leave." He looked at his now lankier frame, "Might take some work, but I'll rebuild everything I had here."
"No... no, please. I didn't agree to this." Tristan begged, his voice a heavy, vibrating rumble that practically shook his own newly expanded ribs.
But even as the desperate plea left his lips, his new body was completely overwhelming his senses. The physical reality of being Ryan was staggering. Tristan gasped as a sudden wave of heat rolled over him, bringing with it a whole new sensory world. He didn't smell like himself anymore; he could smell the heavy, masculine scent of expensive sport deodorant, deep musk, and the faint, bitter tang of dried sweat from a long workout.
"This is how it is now, bro," Ryan whispered from below. He used Tristan’s small, smooth hands to brush a strand of soft, messy brown hair out of his eyes, looking up with a serene, relaxed smile. "Look around. You liked my muscles, right? You were checking out the gains. You liked my room, the trophies. It’s all yours now. I get to restart as you, and you get to be the big man on campus. It’s a fair trade."
"No, it's not!" Tristan protested, tears of pure panic forming. "I don't want to be the big man on campus! I want to be a student! I want to live my life, go to my own classes, hang out with my roommates... I can't just occupy your life! I'm not you!"
Ryan let out a soft, youthful chuckle, shaking his head. Tristan's old face looked so innocent, so small from up here. "Too late for that, man. Look at yourself. You are me now. In three weeks, you're walking across that stage with a degree. You need to start acting like me so my brothers and teammates don't get suspicious. Walk tall. Stop stuttering. You've got practice tomorrow morning."
"I can't," Tristan whispered, his massive chest heaving as a cold sweat broke out over his broad, tanned shoulders. He felt completely disconnected from the timid freshman he was supposed to be, trapped inside a prison of pure, unyielding muscle. "I don't know how to be you. I don't know how to act like this. I can't do it, Ryan..."
"Let me help you adjust," Ryan whispered softly, his eyes darkening with a quiet, deliberate intent.
Before Tristan could even think to push him away, Ryan leaned back in. The motion was slow, incredibly sensual, and deeply intimate. Tristan’s massive, throbbing cock slid past Ryan’s new, soft lips, and the moment the wet, intense warmth enclosed him, a gasp tore from Tristan's throat.
Ryan didn't rush. He bobbed his head with a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm, swirling his tongue around the hyper-sensitive, engorged head. Tristan’s knees buckled slightly, his massive thighs trembling under the sheer sensory overload. As the warmth of Ryan's mouth worked over his length, Tristan felt his mind begin to fracture. His core memories... the long nights studying in the library, his quiet dorm room, his nervous anxiety around crowds... began to haze over, melting away.
In their place, a torrent of foreign thoughts, impulses, and memories rushed in to fill the void. Tristan choked out a moan, his thick fingers tangling in his own soft brown hair on Ryan's head, but he wasn't trying to pull him away anymore. He was remembering the roar of the stadium crowd. He was remembering the exact weight of a football in his palm. He was remembering the absolute, unshakeable certainty that he owned every single room he walked into.
"Oh god... fuck..." Tristan groaned, but the panic in his voice was rapidly dissolving, replaced by a dark, heavy, confident heat.
His internal monologue was shifting. The anxious, overthinking voice of the freshman was being utterly crushed, flattened beneath a rising tide of raw, unadulterated jock confidence. The world was reorganizing itself in his mind. He looked down at the boy giving him pleasure, and he didn't see his old self anymore. He just saw a freshman. A cute, soft little freshman who belonged on his knees, doing exactly what he was told.
Ryan... the original Ryan- finally pulled back with a wet, heavy sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his small hand. He looked up at his old body with a submissive, wide-eyed awe, completely content to be small, young, and entirely free of the real world.
The man standing above him didn't look confused or scared anymore. He adjusted his stance, his broad, shoulders squaring perfectly as a cocky, predatory smirk spread across his rugged face. He looked around at his sports memorabilia, his trophies, and then down at his freshman, feeling completely, utterly at home.
"Damn, bro," Ryan rumbled, his deep, dominant baritone dripping with an effortless authority as he reached down, his heavy hand firmly gripping the freshman's hair. "You're pretty fucking good at this. Who told you to stop, bro?"
Sinclair was a steadfast reporter committed to spreading the truth. This has gotten him some hot water and his bosses demand he return to grunt work. Four paths before him, which will he begrudgingly choose.
Partially inspired by a couple photos sent to me by MiscTF, this story includes my first inanimate/body part TF! Surely not to be to everyone's tastes but I'm sure there's something to every TF fan's tastes in one of these shorter stories. Hope you enjoy! -Occam
One of four headlines will determine the rest of Sinclair's life:
Pleasant Valley Pistols Find Their Home In State Of The Art Arena: Hockey Player
Fort Pleasant Repurposes Old High School: Soldier
Pan-Asian Community Center Places Capstone: Asian Gym Bro
New Talent Being Developed At Pleasant Valley Paper: Cock
After everything Sinclair’s done to keep this raggedy, well, rag afloat they decide to send him back into the field to do some reporting. Sure, it’s how he started out all those years ago, wandering into the streets, freshly earned degree in hand, to interview for puff pieces in the Pleasant Valley Paper.
Decade and some change of late nights writing and early rises to edit copy, Sinclair just wants to stay at his desk. And his bosses know that. ‘There’s just too much going on in town.’ As if he buys that. It just feels like punishment. Well, no, he knows it’s punishment.
He’s published stories on lemonade stands before and they wanted him not to report on the shady shell companies coming in to buy and redevelop half of town? The fact that one of them bought out the paper a week later is proof that he was onto something. At least, that's what he says to the few coworkers not avoiding him like the plague.
These days that’s mostly his assistant, Marcos, who just walked into his office with the higher up’s new projects for Sinclair. “At least they’re letting you choose, right boss?”
Somehow sighing and scoffing at the same time, Sinclair’s having none of it, “Sure kid. You spend a decade of your life pouring your blood into a typewriter for them to say ‘why dontcha pick between sports reporting a little league game and touring the new sewage treatment plant’ and get back to me.”
Glancing at said typewriter, Marcos holds his tongue from insulting his own boss’ performative proclivities; ones that result in him having to retype each and every article into a word processor. But his boss is right, they’re shafting him. He just needs to stay in the reporter’s good graces long enough to get a rec letter, “I get that Sinclair, but they did kinda tell me this is some last chance stuff. And I know you don’t want to do it, but I think they really found heat this week!”
Grimace plastered on his face, Sinclair awaits his options. Clearing his throat, Marcos does his best to sell them, “For starters, that new arena everyone’s been asking about is finally done and they need someone on the scene to interview the hockey team.”
“Hockey!? Well there are worse sports I suppose. Could be outside, ugh.” He can only imagine the mouth breathing, barely literate goalie he’ll be forced to parley with. “What’s the team?”
“Oh! Uhhh, looks like the Pleasant Valley Pistols.
“Ugh, awfully militaristic isn’t it? Just what small towns need, more gun themed branding …”
“Uhh yeah haha, well you’re not gonna like the next one either boss. Seems they’re converting the old high school into some kinda base? Fort Pleasant they’re calling it.”
Dumbfounded, Sinclair just stares at Marcos. Surely you can’t just do that right? They voted to build the new school, should there not then be a vote on what to do with the old one? Clenching his jaw, while he hates dealing with the military he can smell a story there.
“I can just cross that one off boss-man. Next is more like your old stuff, seems there's a new Pan-Asian community center opening near the park. Little wild since Pleasant Valley’s so well- you know.”
White. Honestly it was the biggest hang up on him moving here from the city. He hadn’t noticed an uptick in Asian locals enough to justify a community center, but hey not like he’s looking out for that stuff. Happy change as far as he’s concerned, and if he can do his part in bolstering that, well Marcos is right. Broken clocks and all that, he’d honestly be happy to.
Nodding Sinclair takes all this in, “Right. I suppose I agree this could have been slightly worse. Could have just canned me. They must not want me gone nearly as much as I thought!”
Marcos thinks about simply not mentioning the final task listed but in the end he can’t help himself, “Well there is one more option, uhm. One that would let you stay in office even.”
Interest piqued, Sinclair motions for his assistant to continue.
And he does, carefully. “Rather than going out they want you to know you can also take the opportunity to uhhhm,” he throws up his guard, “help develop new talent at the paper.”
Sinclair’s blood runs cold as he stares at his long-suffering assistant. Twice now he’s denied Marcos’ request to be promoted citing lack of experience and lack of professionality. Obviously he lied and told his assistant the hangup was elsewhere. “And I take it that you’re the new talent?” He makes no attempt to hide the venom in his voice.
“Look, sir, I wasn't going to mention it. I just figured you might prefer helping you know, the only coworker not ignoring you rather than wandering around a military base or whatever but it’s your call.”
And it is his call. “Of course, Marcos. Apologies for the implication.” Looking at the options, Sinclair makes up his mind with the haste of a man who doesn’t know he’s about to have his life and form wrest from him. “I’m gonna go with…”
The Hockey Team - Should be easy
Fort Pleasant - Something’s fishy over there
The Community Center - Think I could help their cause
Marcos. - Ugh, I do owe you something. I guess.
Pleasant Valley Pistols:
“Go ahead and let the coach know that I’ll be stopping by, Marcos.” Running the numbers, Sinclair decides this should be the simplest and easiest task offered to him. Well, besides mentoring Marcos, but the surly reporter certainly isn’t going to be training his replacement. Of this he is sure.
One routine email and a quick car ride later, Sinclair finds himself outside a robust new ice skating complex. The large construction zone had been slow-going for months and everyone in Pleasant Valley had been placing bets on just what it’s to be. Strange given someone in town must have had some prior warning that there’s an ice rink coming to town.
If not city planners then construction workers, Sinclair can’t help but speculate as he watches a crane lower a large hockey stick over the front entrance. Perhaps there’s meat on this bone yet. Crossing his arms the journalist looks at his scrawled plans to interview a player or two and publish profiles and crumples it.
This is connected to everything else, he bets. The Pistols must be connected to that shady company coming to take over Pleasant Vall-
“Hey there! You must be from the local paper eh?”
Sinclair almost jumps out of his skin as a hand the size of a baseball mit pounds him squarely in between his shoulder blades. Turning with fear in his eyes to find the source of this assault he instead finds a beaming man who clearly just intended to pat him on the back.
Apathetic or clueless to the clear grimace on Sinclair’s face, the bear of a man reaches out his mitt to shake, “Coach Whitlow, you must be Sinclair eh? Your bosses told me you were comin’ and to give you a Warm Pistol’s Welcome!”
Begrudgingly meeting Coach Whitlow’s hand, Sinclair frowns and does a poor attempt to butter up the man with all the power here, “Yes! I’m quite excited to learn of and spread the good word about Pleasant Valley’s new superstars. How’d you land on ‘Pistols’ anyhow?”
Notepad out, he prepares to take notes before instead watching a somehow even blanker look croses Whitlow’s face. Confusion seeps from the corners of his friendliness as he makes what is at best a guess, “Well it’s certainly fun to say right? Pleasant Valley Pistols! Nice and literar-ative like all you booky-boys say.”
“Right.” Eyes on the prize, “Well Coach I’m sure I’ll stop by for an interview before I depart. Would it be alright if I looked around the facilities first? My readers are simply dying to learn about your state of the art facilities!” He didn’t know he had this level of bullshitting still in him.
“Oh, great idea there son! Might as well stop by the weightroom while you’re at it, awfully scrawny for a sports writer. Should call you Shrimpclair, HAH!”
Indignant at being called a sports reporter moreso than the dig at his scrawny form, Sinclair flashes a smile and motions for Whitlow to lead him inside. Which the Coach promptly does, “Now don’t have too much fun poking around there Mr. Reporter, not unless you wanna stick around heh heh!” Turning towards his office while repeating Shrimpclair and giggling to himself, Whitlow leaves Sinclair to explore.
Spoiled for choice, the journalist is shocked at just how pristine this arena is. He was under the impression that this was some kind of below collegiate level team but the sheer size of the place alone that can’t be the case. Shoot he’d swear it’s bigger than some of the NHL arenas he’s seen- Of which he’s seen none. Obviously.
Sneaking around looking for proof of foul play or corporate espionage, it’s not long before he smells something suspiciously alluring in the air. Taking deeper and deeper breaths of the strange scent, Sinclair’s oblivious to his chest rising higher with every one. Exhaling slightly less with every inhale, he quickly finds his baggy shirt starting to awkwardly pull at his skin as he continues walking. As if he were beginning to inflate.
Quickly realizing he’s been following his nose like a dog, the proud reporter shakes off his stupor and scoffs. Scratching at his suddenly itchy jaw, Sinclair does his best to ignore the haze and focus on the sure scoop here. Unfortunately every breath continues to vie for his attention.
There’s gotta be some proof somewhere that this is owned by the same assholes who bought the paper. Gosh smells like new pads doesn’t it? His feet kinda hurt, why’d he wear such small shoes today. Shit for an ice rink it’s kinda warm in here isn’t it.
Prideful about his attention span as he is about anything else, Sinclair can’t believe how much he’s struggling to keep his train of thought on track. He doesn’t hear his fingers scritch in stubble that prickles underneath his chin as he looks at his notepad.
The only thing scrawled, in sloppier handwriting than he’d ever humor, is ‘Pistols = Gud?’
“My God!? I didn’t write that!?” Taking another quick sniff just to breath, the reporter feels a new itch in his pits and ignores the urge to give them a sniff. Shaking his head his dark hair begins to shorten into something sportier, Sinclair’s neck cracks thicker. Below the belt he feels his legs begin to balloon with every struggled sniff.
Feeling his jeans begin to strain against his legs as he notices he can somehow see his pale midriff exposed, Sinclair clutches at his mouth. It’s the smell, it must be. Ignoring the scratch of a stubbly mustache poking at his hand, he does the only thing he can think to stop smelling something. He breathes through his mouth.
Obviously this does not go his way.
Taking a far deeper breath through his mouth than he ever could with his nose, his body expands in every way it can. Arms that only ever strained from typing away at a keyboard suddenly rise like dough as biceps force their way onto his bones. Bulging against the sleeves of his shirt, slightly tanner skin is quickly visible through a number of tears.
Kicking off his shoes as soon as discomfort rises enough to register in his foggy mind, he finds feet so large he can’t even imagine finding shoes to fit them. Above ankles now prickling with thick hair his jeans are strained at the calves as well as his lower body grows even more impressive than his meaty arms and his chest still twitching larger.
Even more pronounced than the physical changes are those wreaking havoc in his mind. Mouth-breather is an insult the reporter had oft leveled at Marcos and anyone else he viewed as less intelligent than himself. And as his higher thoughts begin to dissolve into sand, it’s clear that uh, well nothing’s really clear to him anymore.
Besides hockey, duh. Smirking as the memories him shooting through the rink rush into his mind, he stumbles up to the locker room’s entrance on much larger feet. Taking heavy steps as his jeans tear more with every stumble, Sinclair quickly pushes open the door and enters his favorite place in the world, the Pistol’s locker room.
Taking the deepest breath yet, he feels the air, stagnant with the stink of sweat and industrially cleaned uniforms, fill him from head to toe. Scratching his chest as a manly coat of curls etches across pronounced pecs, his rough hand yanks off the rags and tosses them to the floor.
Looking to the mirror he’s surprised to find his pants have also completely fallen away, leaving him cock out in his locker room. Not that his teammates mind of course huhuh. Seeing his gleaming white smile reflected, his foggy mind tries to recall that he doesn’t have teammates but the thought shifts to confusion at his teammates simply not being here with him. No puck bunnies or twinks either…
Scratching his pubes and pits and barely abating an urge to helicopter his twitching dick, Sinclair figures he’s here for one on one practice or somethin. Hockey ass bouncing with every lumbering step, the Pistol’s new piston falls onto the bench and starts pulling on his pads commando. No time for that shit, not like his pads’ll stink any less after. Sides, Coach’ll be pissed if he’s late again.
Feeling the scratch of hard plastic on his thighs he feels his last sense of self struggle. Looking at meaty hands and feeling his defined abs twitch with every breath he tries to remember being a reporter. His deeper, thoughtless voice does little to help. “I’m not a, not a fuckin’ hockey… I’m a journaler, uh? I write, uhh, stuff. I’m Sink? Sin- uh?”
“Sinner!? That you in there boy? Should be out on the ice by now, I swear!”
Yanking his pants up to his sternum and shoving his sweaty feet into somehow already sweatier skates, any fight fades from his eyes as Coach’s voice reminds him who he really is. Leaning against the cold wall as Whitlow strides into the locker room, he smirks and awaits the reprimand.
“What am I gonna do with you… Shit you been using the new weight room eh Sinner? Settin’ a good example. Give me a flex there boy.”
Like he needed the command. Raising his arms into a double bi he takes a deep breath as the complexity of the world fades. He’s just a hockey star, and soon everyone in Pleasant Valley’s gonna be a fan.
Fort Pleasant:
“There’s something weird afoot over at the old high school right Marcos?”
His assistant shrugs, “I mean for sure, but the bosses want an, uh. Well it’s sorta an ad?” Marcos winces preemptively.
“An advertisement!? For the military?”
“They’re technically private security I thin-”
“They want me to- Well! I’ll tell you what Marcos. I’m going to go report on what I find and if the Pleasant Valley Paper’s not interested I’m taking all my fans and finally going indie! You just stay mum and look busy, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Watching his boss storm away, Marcos sighs knowing he certainly has no ability to stop Sinclair when he’s got his mind on a story. Good kid Marcos is he’s not even going to snitch on the turncoat, not like he wants a private militia kicking around town. Wordlessly wishing Sinclair pulls something off here, the assistant just hopes his overeager boss doesn’t just make his situation worse.
Nearing the base, Sinclair flashes back to his breaking expose of his university’s ROTC when he was in school. He can’t hold back a laugh at the memory, those wannabe schmucks never knew what hit them! This’ll be another walk in the park. Flashing a press pass at the gated entry, Sinclair grins as he’s just waved on through, already planning his brutal take down of the place.
Illegal appropriation of public land and goods. Lax security at best. That glorified doorman’s probably just jacking off in between dapping up his brainless coworkers.
Far off in the remains of a football field, Sinclair can see a few men clad in camouflage doing some exercise drills. Shuddering at the thought of whatever poor sods have been tricked into working for some shoddy soon to be bankrupt private security firm, Sinclair rolls his eyes and hopes they enjoy the paid workouts while they last
Collecting himself and his journalistic materiel, Sinclair sets a small recorder to just tape every moment of the next half hour. The first sound recorded is a muttered ‘Shit!’ as Sinclair immediately drops his notepad. Leaning down to pick it up, his blood runs cold as he hears a gruff voice shout-
“Ateeen-shun!”
His hands freeze just before grabbing the notepad as he feels his bent spine straighten. Eyes locked on the booklet, he feels his body shoot up to standing. Arms forced to his side, thumbs stuck to his shirt's seam as if they were magnetized. Puffing up his thin chest and fighting against raising his chin, Sinclair freezes in this pristine pose for a full second before breaking free.
Gasping, he stares dumbfounded at the man clad in fatigues. Stubbled chin wide and dimpled, tucked shirt straining against a lat wingspan Sinclair wouldn’t think possible, there’s a smirk clear on his face at his words having such an effect on some petty annoyance. The soldier watches as Sinclair collects his notepad and clears his throat.
Before he can get a word out, the burly, brusque man issues another order. “Follow me, recruit.”
“I think you’ll find I’m here for an interview, s- sir.” Sinclair scrunches his nose at the reflexive honorific, swearing himself to not utter one again. “Obviously I’m not one of your muscle-brained, violence hungry, lunkeys. The Pleasant Valley Paper sent me to find out exactly what this operation’s all about.”
Following behind the sergeant, what difference does it make if he’s doing so because he was commanded or because that’s the quickest way to get to the bottom of this mystery. Ensuring that his shirt is tucked in, as anyone would! Sinclair doesn’t notice as the edges of the cotton top seem to be staining a light green.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Sinclair, Sir- Ugh. If you wouldn’t mind, could you stop calling me soldier? I’m not-”
The man quickly turns with his arms crossed and stares down at Sinclair. Silenced by his steely gaze alone, Sinclair feels his lips trying to move as his body freezes into attention once more. This time his back is even straighter, he feels it straining his impeccable tuck as his shoulders seemingly raise higher. Hidden from sight as army green stains creep further up his shirt, his chest that was once but skin and bone begins to subtly widen.
Clenching his jaw until there’s an unmistakable cracking sound, Sinclair grunts as he finds his voice. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge the power this buffoonish jarhead cosplayer has over him, he tries to attack logically. Ignoring how his eye twitches as he even mentally insults the sergeant. “Look, obviously I’m too old to be of use as a soldier, just give me a couple quotes for the paper and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Rubbing his tight high-top, the sergeant smirks as he watches the army green fabric of Sinclair’s shirt continue to rise. At the same time the long sleeves begin retracting to reveal thin, hairless arms still stuck at attention. “Too old eh? Wouldn’t say you’re a day over 23 there soldier.”
Beyond stunned, Sinclair stands there in shock as the words sink in. “Th- nnn-” When he tries to speak the air is knocked out of him as a decade of his life is simply erased from his body. The wrinkles beginning to creep out around his eyes and on his forehead are ironed away as his skin tightens.
The slight paunch hiding under his regulation issued shirt is converted into rows of youthful abs as his hairline ceases retreating before rejuvenating altogether. Catching a reflection of himself in the floors polished to shine, Sinclair can’t recognize the man he’s becoming.
“And before you say it, I do believe you’re more than fit enough. You’ve been hitting the gym since high school, far more than you ever hit the books soldier.”
Breaking out of the trance enough to shake his head, Sinclair feels his arms begin to bulk up in their frozen state. Quickly piling on pounds enough to strain the sleeves of his shirt, he feels them darken with hair as the mop on his head curls into some G.I.’s coif. Thick sideburns creep down his cheeks as far as they’re allowed.
“S- Sergeant.” His voice cracks lower as the know-it-all timbre of the reporter gives way to the vocal fry of a younger man who’s ecstatic not to think for himself, “Ssssir. I swear, you don’t have to this. L- let me get back to the office. I know the perfect recruit for youuuu-”
Sweating from the stress, Sinclair feels his underarms stain sweat as his hairy arms lead to even hairier pits. The trimmed bush that usually hid under them gives way to a wild-straight patch of pit hair designed to collect musk. Trying to worm his way out of these changes only accelerates them as by the time he even attempts to throw Marcos at his sergeant’s feet his memories of being anything but a soldier begin to drain.
Irritated at the man’s pathetic scrambling as he watches Sinclair continue to fill out his uniform, jeans finally corrupting into a heavier camouflaged fabric, he barks orders to his newest recruit. “Go sit until I decide what to do with you maggot. And take that fucking shirt off, you’re sweating like a pig.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Twitching desperately with every ordered movement, Sinclair obeys the command as every reason not to begins to rapidly disappear. Tearing off his shirt he feels dog tags fall back onto his chest, square between his enticing new pecs. His widening nipples harden as he pristinely folds his sweat-stained shirt and stows it under a wooden chair that creaks when he sits down.
Feeling his balls throb, Sinclair’s got a good guess where his thoughts and personality are draining to as he stares ahead. Trying to hold on to wispy memories as they fade, it’s not long before he can only assert what he knows he isn’t. He’s not a soldier. He’s Sinclair, he works for Fort Pleasant. No. He was here to? He’s not a soldier. He’s twenty- No he’s thirty- uh? No, he’s twenty three. Yeah.
The sergeant watches as his soldier at last begins to settle, pupils twitching with resistance slowly fade as he tosses around potential new posts for this handsome little lap dog. Not like they don’t have enough officers to guard every business in town. Why shouldn’t this one be just for him.
“Soldier, what’s your position?”
Sinclair bolts up, his back somehow getting even straighter as his feet lance out to their perfect 45 degree position even when sitting. “I’m your assistant, sir!”
“Very good, at ease.”
The sergeant watches as, for the first time since stepping foot on For Pleasant’s grounds, the new soldier finally relaxes. Performatively sitting back so his sergeant can appreciate every new bulging muscle on his exposed torso. He exists to serve this man above all else.
“Put your arms behind your head, soldier.”
Beautiful. He’ll need to send thanks to the Pleasant Valley Paper. Though the way these things work he wonders if even their most diligent of records have any trace of ever having a ‘Sinclair’ on staff, after all, he’s never been anything more than a soldier.
Hidden in his fatigue pockets, ever so close to a thick cock doing its best to hold back pre that will stain them, a journalist’s tape record finally stops rolling. And oh what a scoop Sinclair found after all, shame the soldier's going to turn that into his superior as soon as he remembers he’s even wearing pants.
Pan-Asian Community Center:
“Screw it, if I’m being muzzled I might as well raise some funds for a community center right?”
Marcos genuinely smiles at his boss’ optimism, “I think that’s a great idea boss!”
“Yeah whatever. Hold down the fort then, I imagine I’ll have something typed up for you by the end of day.”
Sighing as he looks to the pile of other stories he still needs to type up and submit himself, Marcos prepares for a long day of trying to get any of his boss’ work approved as he watches Sinclair depart. “Huhhh… He’s been recommending me for promotion, it’ll all be worth it one day…”
For his part, Sinclair’s sure this is going to be a nice and easy trip. What fledgling foundation would be opposed to free press right? Evidently this one.
Walking past a small gated outdoor gym, Sinclair mutters judgementally to himself as he enters the lobby. “Who wouldn’t want to walk by a sweat factory to watch some foreign cinema…” Putting his attitude away, he forces a tight smile on his face as he approaches the receptionist, a younger woman who’s clearly bored out of her mind.
Dubbed Setsuna by her name tag adorned with a small Japanese flag, she looks up to Sinclair when the center’s front door slams shut. Frowning and rolling her eyes, she begins her spiel, “Konnichiwa and welcome to the Pleasant Valley community center. What can I do for you today.” Though it was ostensibly a question, her tone makes it clear that she is not here to help.
“Yes! Hello, I’m Sinclair from the local paper!” His smile creaks as his patience already wears thin.
“Okay?”
“And I’m here to help with your Community Center?” After she blankly stares he continues, “I mean, we both know that the town is as white as it gets. I guess my bosses figured you could use some help with fundraising?”
“Right. Well you can go ahead and let your bosses know that we’re doing fine on our own. Thanks.”
“Heh. Well, Miss. I think you’re being awfully blasé to the best reporter the Pleasant Valley Paper has.”
“死ね! I’m sure we’re really missing out.”
Sure whatever she just said was an insult, Sinclair goes for an old favorite, “Well! I’d like to speak with your supervisors.”
“Oooh so sorry, they’re busy, yeah. I can go ahead and summon security if you’d like?”
“Why I-”
“Thank youuuu~ Buhbye now.” Waving at Sinclair as he holds his tongue, the receptionist waits for the door behind him to close before getting back to scrolling on her phone. Were she anyone else she might wonder if Sinclair would be back sooner rather than later with a different name and nationality. But she’s certainly not paid enough to care.
Someone who cares even more than he’s paid is stomping away from Pleasant Valley’s latest community center. Steaming like he hasn’t since his last heated argument at work, Sinclair’d usually have worked himself up into weariness. For some reason, today the engine just seems to keep going. Each passing moment just fills him with more irritation and more energy.
Almost seeing red, the reporter looks to the outdoor gyms and spitefully decides to work off some of his newfound rage at this public resource. That’ll show them! Unsure what instinct he’s following, Sinclair is apathetic as he gets on something he thinks is supposed to exercise the shoulders and starts pushing.
Grunting as he quickly sweats up a storm, Sinclair grits his teeth as his arms burn with exertion he hasn’t felt since high school. Immediately finding himself dehydrated as he’s started working out in the sun having had nothing to drink today besides coffee, Sinclair figures his pathetic point made.
That is, until he sees a large water bottle sitting right by his feet. That he’s even humoring drinking from it should be proof enough he’s not in his right mind. Covered with stickers, he knows it can’t be his and yet scrawled on top of it is his name: Sonclair. In no time his sweaty hand brings it to his mouth as he enjoys the ichor of ice cold water.
Standing from the machine, the irate reporter finds the sweaty shirt sticking to his skin incredibly irritating. In further proof of his rapidly teetering state of mind, the journalist who’s so body shy that his chest hasn’t seen the sun since childhood begins to remove his shirt. It clings to his body like a second skin as it tears away to reveal an upper body far more impressive than it should be.
Still entirely untrained, there is raw power pumping through his limbs like it should not be. Sitting back down at what he now mindlessly recognizes as a chest press, he begins pumping at it until failure. With each heaving thrust his arms throb larger as his chest realizes that it can hold muscle as well as fat.
Under the afternoon sun his pallor begins to give way to a tan. Having to continually readjust his position as his arms creak longer and his back expands to completely hide the seat behind him, Sofclair watches as his hands are decidedly darker than his skin tone could be in any light.
Breaking him free from his ire-induced haze, Sofclair takes in what his arms have become. Even as he watches they continue to expand, veins trail down their length, throbbing with each beat of his racing heart. He should feel horror, calloused hands that are not his own feel the warm bronze skin that now make up his bulky forearms.
Looking down to a chest for the first time graced with pecs, he cannot hide the grin twitching onto his face. Darker, wider nipples point askew above a core designed for strength. Flexing his heavy new arms, Soflier takes another deep gulp of his water jug. Feeling it splash onto his face, he smirks even wider as he feels a thin mustache suddenly prickle onto his upper lip.
Discontent with his progress he splashes some of the icy liquid onto his face and feels as his whole face reconfigures itself. His jawline sharpens as his new tan finally creeps up his neck. Hair that has only been styled by barber’s hands thickens into a style that Soflier sees on all his magpinsan- uhh, cousins?
Shaking off whatever that strange fake word was, as Soflier’s eyes darken from their tepid blue into a brown darker than coffee, the journalist influencer scans the gym for his next machine. Scowling down at legs not nearly as impressive as his herculean chest and bis, Soflier stomps over to the leg press.
Pumped in a way he can hardly understand, with each step he grows all the more impressive. Rows of abs bulge through a gut maintained more for strength than aesthetics. Biceps bloat even larger as sweat streams off his bovine shoulders and drips down his sides from pits muskier than any two of his bros put together. Dreamily wondering where they are, he sits on the next machine and starts pumping.
At first embarrassed at the stick thin legs barely able to hold up his titanic torso, each rep packs pounds onto his thighs and calves. From the feet up his lower body changes to match its better half. Feet burst free from his cheap leather dress shoes before they’re promptly covered once more by ostentatious tennis shoes four sizes larger.
Shocked that he’s been working out in pants his whole time, when he blinks he finds he’s wearing his favorite gym shorts. Malinaw naman… Uhh, obviously, he never hits the gym without them! Probably slept in them after his sesh last night. Shamelessly giving himself a sniff as continues thrusting his legs larger, they quickly outpace even his upper body’s growth.
Sofiel bites his lip as he feels soreness burn deep in his thighs. Hungrily staring, he almost starts laughing as they fill his shorts to their breaking point. Only just formed socks slide down his calves as veins trail up from his feet to his heavy crotch. “God, sexy ako…” He moans to himself as the sun overheats his already steaming body.
Rubbing hands up and down his body, feeling the throbbing veins trailing across his form and the warm skin struggling against the growing muscle underneath, Sofiel’s shorts struggle against the new package within. Having bulked to as close to human perfection as he cares to, Sofiel’s feet slam to the floor as he closes his eyes and begins rutting into the air.
His publicly indecent reverie is interrupted as some mysterious force pours the rest of his ice cold water right onto his head. “Ayy what the fuck!?” Bolting up on the machine, the new Filipino gym bro sees none other than the Japanese receptionist who kicked him out.
“Answer your fucking phone next time! Jesus Sofiel, they’re gonna fire you if you don’t get your shit together.”
“Ahhh and I bet you’d hate to lose this eye-candy huh Suna?”
Rolling her eyes and yanking out her phone to performatively scroll at the accusation she goes on, “As if I’d wanna be with a dick who couldn’t find his way out of a finger trap”
“Ahh, ripping it in half counts! You’re just jelly…” Waiting for a response that doesn’t come, he looks up to see Setsuna gesturing inside.
“Did you not hear me, you oaf? Your horde of elderly women are getting impatient for their Zumba.”
“Ah shit! I owe you another one!”
She can’t help but stare at his ass and back as he leaves. Again she’d never bite but shit, if he isn’t hot. How’d he even get a body like that…
Marcos:
Though it’s the furthest thing from what he wants to do, perhaps ‘developing future talent’ will allow him to get Marcos more under his thumb. Maybe he can even get the kid to tag along when he’s inevitably fired by the end of the month. Sinclair’d hate to train another assistant up when he’s got an entirely passable one in Marcos.
“So, Marcos, what precisely did you have in mind for me to help you develop?”
Stunned that his bitchy boss is for the first time showing interest in him, Marcos accidentally crumples the list in his hands. “Really!? You wanna help me sir!?”
“Well don’t get so hysterical about it. It’s the least shitty option available.” Staring at his assistant, he’s already begun to second guess that. Marcos was never his first choice. The year before last the paper decided to hire all three of its summer interns as staff for the department heads, and while he’s been shafted out of that role his provided assistant remains.
That summer Marcos only applied to have something accompanying soccer and a high school degree on his resume. Taking an initial gap year before applying for college, the short internship has turned into a cushy enough gig and he’s long been angling for a more permanent role on staff.
While diligently working under the most obnoxious man in a relatively toxic workplace for two years and a bit now, Marcos has always known there’s a lot he can learn from the writer. If he could just catch him on a good day. And finally, he will get his chance to do just that.
“I mean, well, I guess what’s a day in the life like, right?”
“Wh- You know that Marcos, you’ve been working under me for years yes? Why don’t you tell me?”
Changing strategies, Marcos tries to shift the onus on him. Doing his best not to stoke an ever-rising temper, “You’re right, sorry boss. I guess, if you had any notes for me we could work on those together today?”
“Notes hm? Well for starters you could certainly care more about your appearance.” A shocking statement from someone wearing a coffee stained shirt to an assistant who clearly hits the gym regularly. Yet he takes it in stride.
“Right, that’s fair. Dress for the job you want right?” Oop, shit-
Sinclair’s eye twitches at this, “Right. The job you want. And what job is that? Marcos.”
Obviously aware what Sinclair’s asking, Marcos tries to salvage it, but one cannot simply wrangle this genie back into the bottle. “You know I don’t- I wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t okay working under you Sinclair.”
“Okay?! Just okay, is that right? Vouching for you to stay on as an assistant even after my position was erased. I- This is exactly why I tell them you’re not ready every time you apply for promotion.”
Marcos was prepared to walk everything back immediately until Sinclair confirms something the young man never even suspected. After everything he’s done for the jerk. Ignoring every spiteful comment and shitty assignment tossed his way so he can be near a writer he has always respected despite himself.
All this time it’s been Sinclair holding him back. His eyes well with tears as he feels his face burn with embarrassment and rage, “You what?”
“Oh don’t look at me like that, you weren’t ready. I was just the feather that broke the camel’s back.”
Biting his lip, Marcos has been deliberately holding something back from Sinclair. He’d explicitly told Sinclair that these jobs were a last chance, and that includes this one. He just didn’t think Sinclair would be such a callous asshole. His boss had always treated him like a tool. Well, Marcos is going to give him one last chance or he is going to literally become one.
“Say sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Sinclair. I would appreciate if you apologized for, on multiple occasions- no fuck that, for day in and day out making my life more difficult than it needs to be.”
So up his own ass he takes offense to the implication that he’s done anything of the sort, despite explicitly confirming he’s stopped Marcos from promotion just moments ago, Sinclair scoffs. “Now I’m sorry if you find the meager workloads I assign you too demanding, kid. But that’s life.” The writer eyes Marcos fingering something in his pants, “Go on, share with the class.”
Retrieving a small button Marcos has a severe look on his face as he presses it. “They told me to use this when I gave up on you.”
Laughing at the hysterics, Sinclair struggles to take someone he views as so lesser seriously. Before he can get out a full sentence chiding him however, he’s wracked with pleasure “Come now Marcoohsshit!” Suddenly every inch of his skin is burning hot. He feels his heartbeat in his head.
“Whuh, what did that- What did you just do to me Marcos!?” Staring at his boss with wide eyes, the assistant reaches towards his crotch as he is similarly filled with pangs of pleasure.
“I- I don’t know?” Reaching down to adjust his package as he is immediately rockhard, when his fingers manhandle his cock Sinclair again contorts in his desk chair.
“Gaahhhd Damnit Marcos! Stop?!” Pent up more than he can understand even as he starts cumming in his pants, Sinclair stares daggers at his assistant while drool begins pooling in his mouth.
Struggling to swallow the spittle rising more and more as he continues to rut and unload into his jeans, Sinclair feels his clothes sear against his skin as everything just feels too much. Face burning up, moving his limbs is suddenly more difficult as he looks down to find clothes that were already slightly too big for him draping across his thin body even more dramatically.
His shoulders slump slightly more as he sees his sleeves fall even limper. Taking another deep, struggled swallow, the reporter notices that his fingers are suddenly barely visible through the ends of his sleeves. Similarly when he shifts his weary legs his shoes just fall to the floor. Despite getting warmer by the second, it seems as if Sinclair has lost the ability to sweat everywhere save his legs which have already stained through his jeans with sweat.
Giving up on swallowing the still increasing pool in his mouth, the reporter allows himself to openly drool as he looks to Marcos. Lost in a reverie clearly more pleasant than Sinclair’s own, his boss has no qualms about interrupting, drool dripping down his cheeks he shouts. “Earth to fuuuhhking Marcos!? Help me get thesesh schlothes off!”
Taking his hands from his crotch Marcos quickly moves to help, shaking his head all the while “Right, sorry! I don’t-” He easily removes Sinclair’s top, though as it drags against his boss’ stomach, the man can’t help but cough up some drool as pins and needles tickle his every inch. Thicker than it previously was, the reporter begins to notice a distinct salty, acrid taste as it refuses to slow down.
The jeans give more trouble as they catch on his thighs which are for some reason bloating slightly. After a tug that dislodges another wave of spit from Sinclair’s mouth, the pants are off. Falling back into his chair as he feels his legs give out, they both apprise the empty crotch hanging between his still growing thighs. But Sinclair feels nothing from this, there’s a far more pronounced vacancy coming from his ass.
Sinclair’s mouth falls open and no matter how hard he tries it stays that way. He feels a pressure deep in his stomach, no lower- His legs are throbbing. It’s rising. Across his body he feels massive veins begin to throb larger. Arteries, blood vessels, and nerves once vital for him to move and think and act are instead being converted into nothing but sacks to hold blood, to make him feel more pleasure, to make him harder.
Liquid from his mouth gets cloudier as he feels his neck get tighter, bloating larger, racing his shoulders to match his torso growing more cylindrical. Throbbing up from his balls, from his legs, he sees the beginnings of a thick tube in the center of his stomach. Barely noticeable at first, he sees it getting more prominent as something seems to course up through it. Higher with every throbbing pump.
Gurgling for help he looks to his assistant who is yet again preoccupied with his own cock- No, even though it’s in his hand, Marcos’ attention is indeed squarely on Sinclair. Hunger in his eyes, it’s the only thing he can understand. Humping his hand, Marcos can’t help himself as he rushes to his boss and flips him over.
Pressure races through Sinclair as he feels his neck tighten and throb. He doesn’t even notice Marcos fucking him. He fails to produce anything besides wet heaving moans as he spits up more viscous pre, and then he hears nothing but blood rushing as every single faculty remaining within him tenses. He feels his legs pull and gags as he spews his first load as Marcos’ cock before blacking out.
When he comes too his vision is hazy. He feels a tickle on his ass that must be the jungle of Marcos’ pubes, straight and untrimmed, unlike his own. Looking down as much as he’s able with a neck that no longer moves he sees his skin tone has drastically darkened, even more than his assistant’s warm tone.
He doesn’t remember having arms to not have as he looks to see his legs balls have grown hairier. They look so big! He’s glad he’s given Marcos such impressive balls. At the thought he feels his skin get a little tighter as he gets excited. At the same time he feels two hands reach to hold him.
Slowly they start rubbing him up and down, “Shit… S*******? You awake?” Marcos' thoughts are so loud. The cock hears him say a word it doesn’t really understand, someone’s name maybe. It doesn’t care. It focuses everything in Marcos on what matters how horny he is.
“Ngggh, no Ssin- you- cock, When I cum again- When we cum again that’s it… I’ll get your, uhhh fuckin’ skills or whatever but you’ll just be…” Flexing its mobility, as Marcos slows down, the cock yanks the man’s heavier balls up as it forces itself to bounce. It can only imagine the quivering look on Marcos’ face as it yanks tight and spews pre in waves.
Looking down as thicker hairs begin to grow at the base of his cock, Marcos watches as whatever pale skin of Sinclair remains is washed away by that dark skin of his cock. It’s so much bigger than his used to be. Cupping his balls as he struggles to masturbate with one hand he sees his cock fully spurting pre as a foreskin quickly grows to fully cover his cockhead before being displaced as his cock gets even harder.
“Noooouh- You don’t understand if I cum that’s it!” But his oh so needy cock doesn’t care. It needs release. It has one button to press, and it is pressing it. Horny. Horny. Horny.
What remains of a boss Marcos can’t even remember is splattered on the door of his new office’s private bathroom. Shaking off a migraine he looks down at his ever so slightly hairier chest and tighter torso before pulling up his underwear. Filled with the pride of a man too cocky for his own good, Marcos looks down at his cock with the smirk of someone who will be a far more pleasant employee of the Pleasant Valley Paper.
“Good one little buddy, now let’s get some actual work done.”
Authors note: this was a comm from a while ago! I hope you guys enjoy it and if you want anything similar please feel free to hit me up!! DMs are always open! We also have a Patreon that gives everyone access to the discord where you can get everything first before anyone else!
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God I hated my Brother, he was such a lil dick he keeps driving me crazy.
Maybe it was just the fact that I was having a bad day already or maybe he had just finally crossed the line. But I have had it up to here with my uptight goody two shoes brother Philip. Ever since we had gotten the new place I thought we would have finally had enough space to ourselves to relax, to chill without any of the overbearing bullshit of our family. That I could actually get to know my perfect older brother without his well fitted shirts and his tight slacks that left little to the imagination with his round ass and thunder thighs. But it turns out that when your brother grows up an academic book worm he stays that way in college with you and prioritizes a clean cut image at his fancy job when he could really be sitting back with me, pants unbuttoned and watching a game or two.
He would normally tell me I was letting myself go, just because I wasn't super hygienic and was super musky after all my workouts (I hate the gym showers can you blame me) and I would drink a beer or two every night didn't mean I was letting myself go. Just meant I was being free and he should try it too. Maybe it would put some damn meat on his bones and he wouldn't look so frail.
I just wish that if he was going to be such a buzz kill that he wouldn't touch my shit. Sure it wasn't properly organized and it was thrown out around the place haphazardly with clothes on crowded surfaces but I know where my shit is. He had a whole cleaning spree when I was out at the club and now I have no clue where my laptop is. I checked all my normal spots I emptied out every storage space it's just fucking gone and I'm furious.
So I went snooping around our place, it was just a two bedroom so I had some decent idea where to go and our layout. But what I wasn't expecting was a closet door between our rooms with an antique trimmed door waiting to be opened. My hand is pulling on the knob before I even know what I'm doing. This wasn't there, this has NEVER been here and there's not enough space for it.
So why was I being every dumbass white person in a horror movie, why were my eyes wide open as it revealed itself to just have a shelf with a single baseball cap. It had this insignia of a fucked up baseball glove. I even asked myself why I picked it up even though it looked like an old cursed or possessed article of clothing with an aura of foreboding but it was simple. I had a thought I knew to be absolutely certain and absolutely not my own, that that door was a door that only shows up when it's needed and that this hat would fix my bro for good.
I just had to get him to put it on and wear it which wouldn't be too hard. My brother would be tired after coming home from class. He'd sit down on the couch and that's when i’d strike. He wouldn’t see it coming, he’d be too tired to even really be upset about how I tore apart our place, just sat with his back to me. So I sat in my room waiting, my cock getting hard at the thought of the power I held, the idea of corrupting my brother, showing him the good life, what he was denying himself.
It wasn’t long before he walked in, sighing dramatically, through the cracked door I could see him run a hand through his perfectly blonde, combed hair. Adjusting his stupid tie he didn't need. He carefully set his bag on the counter, the satchel neatly placed, while his steps forward were all deliberate, his shoes already off.
When he sat down I struck, jumping through the door prepared for anything. I saw him jump, startled at the noise but before he can say anything, do anything I slap it down, his eyes going wide behind his glasses, at first in fear but it quickly transfers to bliss.
“Ty..Tyler what what was that for!” he says, biting back a moan as I walk around the couch to look at him, the hat starting to shimmer. His body twitches, his limbs seem to scramble for a second, arms shaking and legs spasming. He tries to reach up to the cap, maybe to pull it off but his fingers just wont listen, his twig like arms struggling to stay up as magic PULSES through him.
“Nothing bro, just figured you could finally relax a little. Get your head out of your ass and into what did you call my baseball caps last time?” I say smirking, enjoying his struggle, the way his body was fidgeting.
He says something but I ignore it, babbling about how this wasn’t funny. “Oh yeah get your head out of your ass and into one of those lazy douchebag hats I'm always wearing!” The word douchebag echoes out of my mouth and the magic ball cap starts to turn. Its brim, which was facing forward, started slowly ticking back.
“No, Ty..Tyler bro- fuck I don’t say- Tyler stop this, its doi..doin somethin BRO!” His controlled, always frowning, smarmy face relaxing, taking on a dopey grin, he never said the word bro, never was chilled, this was all so new and so fuckin hot. His voice cracking slightly and Phillip’s flailing arms collapsing onto the couch with a thud. The hat was only a quarter of the way when I saw his body start to squirm under his already well tailored clothes.
Another PULSE shot through him, centered around his face and head, his hair going from well manicured, clean and soft to this frizzy, unmanaged greasy pile of curls and sweat. His brow furrowed, the bone underneath strengthening and pushing outward giving his once sharp feminine face an immediate masculine touch, his eyes glazing over as his nose grew stronger, facial hair sprouting forming a chinstrap as his jaw became square, chiseled and his lips plumped up into these perfect kissable DSL’s.
His face was no longer this smooth, cute academic, it looked like a jock, a dumb meatheaded jock.
PULSE
The hat was glowing Brighter “Bro..Bro Ty its, its so warm BRO, its takin.. Taking my brain bro.” The pulse moved down his neck, his adams apple growing, his neck thickened. The hat using his brain as fuel, his personality being eaten away. His shoulders broadening, his collar, the seams of his shirt straining. The jacket burst when it got to his arms, the muscle breaking the fabric, it dematerialized, his button down strains further as his pecs explode, becoming this sturdy meaty slabs, but the final straw is his muscle gut that forms, or as he would call it, a beer belly. Memories of my lil bro keeping himself trim, doing cardio are replaced with late night parties, beer runs and keg stands. The shirt is torn to pieces becoming a beat up, smelly stained white tank.
PULSE
Reality was being rewritten, Phil was begging for it to stop as his hands became this rough mitts made for grabbing beers, lifting weights and slapping asses. But that begging became moaning as pleasure rippled through him, these deep guttural groans of pleasure like an animal in heat.The hat was more then halfway now His legs were next, the thighs that were almost non existent became thunder thighs from all the heavy lifting, his calves were carved into diamonds even with him sitting on the couch watching tv a lot more recently. He was thrusting up into the air, his glutes packing on fat and muscle became perfect for worshipping
PULSE
It was almost done, the hat was almost all the way backwards, its energy shining horrendously bright as my memory of Phillip was erased, gone for good. The uptight brother I wrongfully resented for wanting what was best for me was replaced with Phil, a hard core horny ex jock who leers at you. Memories of him bossing you around, making suggestive comments about using your mouth and muscled ass. Spanking you when you’d walk by, whistling when it would recoil. I was forced to watch as my wish was twisted and his hard, veiny cock grew through his pants, becoming a monster 12 inches that BEGGED for attention, his balls filled to the brim with cum.
PULSE
My eyes were blinking rapidly, the house changed, no longer freakishly organized everywhere even with the mess I made earlier. It was a messy bachelor pad, underwear and dirty clothes everywhere, beer cans on the ground, pizza boxes spread out. Phillips' satchel was replaced with a different alcohol bottle on the counter Phil had already gone through. Our entire dynamic erased and rewritten, my desire corrupted, the hat was was a fucked up jock monkey’s paw.
PULSE
The hat was fully twisted around, our fate was sealed and it was only partial
The tv was on, hard core gay porn was playing on the tv and Phil’s cock was throbbing, he was lightly moving his hand up and down, teasing it. “Yo Bro, wanna come jerk it while this himbo gets his ass pounded!” Phil says, cock leaking precum, getting slicker making it easier for his hands to slide up and down. His breath was hitching as he kept going.
I made a face immediately, grossed out at the offer, my sex obsessed, pervert brother absolutely disgusting to me. “Nah Bro, you know this isn’t my thing!” i didn’t want to start a fight, i didnt want him in here bossing me around.
“Whats not to like Bro, theres something so HOT about a big dumb Himbo bouncing up and down on a cock, pecs jiggling, eyes crossed, only thinking about how to make his top feel good!” Bro moved one of his hands under his wife beater, tweaking one of his nipples as he got off. His eyes were staring right at me now, not at the porn, leering at me at my body, like he was talking about me. I don't notice him grab the hat.with the other hand, how he carefully holds it just off his head, waiting to strike if I say the wrong thing. I’m to angry, too pumped up.
“I’m not into that shit bro, especially not with you, go take your dick and find a dumb ditzy himbo who will actually like sucking it!” Its said out of rage, out of anger, and disgust. But even if I didn’t hate my Bro Phil and how commanding he could be. How he would always try and pull shit like this, try and proposition me or leer at me, I just didn’t want to do any of that with my brother.
It was Phil’s turn to strike, He leapt to his feet quicker than I thought he could. His hat already off his head, a giant evil smirk across his face as he plopped it down on my shorter frame. It all happened at once, so fast so quick I couldn’t get out of the way and I definitely couldn’t get it off of me as I felt it CINCH around my forehead sticking to my head.
“Your right Bro, i do need myself a DUMB DITZY HIMBO, who will LOVE SUCKING AND SERVING MY COCK!” his voice echoes as he lightly strokes his massive cock, worry fills my head as I see out of the corners of my eye a dark sickly green glow emanate from the hat, the world slows down.
The first PULSE hit me like a freight train, my skin felt like it was on fire across my body, my semi pale, acne scarred body was WASHED clean, taking on this deep rich tan. My facial and body hair being lasered off by magic and any and all flaws disappeared as if I had been photoshopped. I watched as my bro circled around me, whistling at the first change.
Another PULSE, this one deeper in my head, the hat began to tick, and as it ticked and rotated I felt a sucking sensation start in my brain, my thoughts slowing down man, becoming harder to think or focus. Another PULSE, My face taking on this look of a dumb innocent jock, lips becoming thicker, just like my BRO’s great DSL’s to suck hi- what the fuck i would never GET DOWN ON MY KNEES AND HOOVER AWAy- I dont think that way BRO, thats my Brother. But this new hunger, this desire to lick along his shaft, eyes glazed over as my tongue gently traces its way around the tip before my lips engulf him. The idea of him grabbing me by my new platinum blonde hair as he fills the hunger that finds itself forming all the way down my throat, that can only be satisfied by his length and his cum.
My jawline was more chiseled and my cheekbones got higher. My hair took on this bright Platinum blonde while my eyebrows were perfectly tweezed into a nice arch.
PULSE
My body was hit with mass, my neck thickening, shoulders broadening, chest being made into this perfect set of Pillows for my brother to tease and play with while I sucked him off or bounced up and down on his massive coc- fuck no the hat was about a quarter of the way and as it sucked out all my intelligence, free will and identity, so that it could replace it all with him, serving him, his massive body. Doing whatever he told me so I could deep throat his cock, feel it fill my empty tight hole. I felt my arms expand, becoming the perfect gym bunny arms, biceps that bulged like mountains, sturdy triceps and wrists that made my meaty hands all the more stable.
PULSE
God Why wasn’t I on my knees RIGHT NOW. Fuck its progressing further, need to get this stupid- AMAZING hat off me. I felt my core tremble as abs cobbled themselves together, my waist tightening giving me this Dorito shape before my hips exploded outwards.I had this perfect V, a slutty waist for my brother to grab me by, to bend me over and hold onto while he fucked me silly.
PULSE
It was almost halfway turned around, burning brighter, my head on fire as it fried my brain for all it was worth, I felt it looking around for more fuel, it didn't have much brains to work with like Phillip so it started to creep down my body, sneakily snaking through me. Phil was walking around me when I felt it, him SLAPPING my ass, causing what once used to honestly be kinda flat because I skipped Leg day, to RIPPLE. That warm energy SURGING, becoming a fiery heat as my ass piled on the perfect ration of fat and muscle. These two massive globes looked like a shelf, from every angle they were noticeable, I would never be able to hide them. WHY WOULD WE WANT TO!!! These big bouncy cheeks are gonna make bro so happy I cant wait for him to give them a quick swat, or to gyrate on his lap getting him nice and har- No I’m not some cock obsessed himbo.
The energy spread further in, diving between the cheeks, I felt my hole TWITCH. That PULSE from before was nothing, this one, this felt like 8 of them going off all at once, I lost my footing as my ass clenched, my hands grabbing onto Phil as my eyes rolled back. My hole, god it was empty, so fucking empty, empty empty empty, i needed it filled, I needed cock, fuck I needed phils cock so bad. I didn't care that I would never have wanted it before, didn't care that this didn't sound like me, the only thing I cared about was his hard, slick cock thrusting in and out of me.
Making this bouncy bubble butt took a lot of energy, fuel, essence and it needed to burn something else, something substantial, something I used. So when the hat finally found it, it wrapped around it, engulfing it in the same fiery PULSE as my cheeks, I felt it, I felt my cock shrink. My once decent six inches, my pride and joy I used for conquests, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch was shrunk down to a tiny nub.I couldn’t stop myself from thrusting in the air, my balls which would have swung wildly dwindled down, useless no longer important. Neither body part had use, all my pleasure was focused on my ass, tits and mouth. Why would I need a dicklet when I had big bros to play with?
I felt another PULSE , my legs becoming strong, sturdy, able to hold myself in any position Bro would want me in, my flexibility increasing all over my body as I became the perfect fucktoy for Phil to use however he wanted, whenever he wanted. God I just wanted him, no I NEEDED him to want me and didn’t care what it took to please him, I would do it.
I had one last thought that I knew was mine, Tyler, not Ty’s, staring up at Phi, this man who was the peak of masculinity in my eyes, his beer belly out and proud, flexing his arms in a double bicep pose making my already horny mind race at the thought of the musk to worship in those hairy, sweaty pits. My mouth partially opened, pouting begging for his cock as it swung back and forth, drips of pre cum oozing out of his cock and onto my face. It was that I hated Phil, that I wanted Phillip, my annoying uptight brother, I guess you don't really know what you have till you lose it to a magical reality manipulating hat that feeds off of intelligence and cock size..
PULSE
God my Brother was so hot and strong, I love when he would command me to do things. Today were gonna be watching the game, but right now he is seeing how much precum he can paint with my face. His cock leaks it like a faucet and its like the hottest thing ever my god I just want to be covered in it. Some people used to say he was overbearing and commanding but I always found Big bro to be SOOOO HOT.
“Yeah, that's a good boy! So cute with your backwards cap on!” My eyes are following after his cock as it swings over my head, his balls hitting my chin. I feel his hand push the cap further down on my head, scrambling my brain one last time, burning up the last reality till I was just an empty headed himbo that needed both his holes filled.
“Even cuter when your eyes follow after my cock!” He does a quick dip/squat his cock swinging into the right side of my face, his precum and sweat glazing my face as he does, my mouth follows after trying to get it in there.
“You are so fucking cock hungry its adorable bro, tell me how badly you need my cock!” he says quickly hitting the other side, my lips are almost able to kiss the side of his dick as it swings.
“Please Big Bro, i need your cock so bad, I’m so hungry Bro, im just a cock hungry slut for you bro please fill me up I’ll do anything!” I beg, my hands grabbing his legs, my ass jiggling as I plead with him. I see him stare at me with the predator like hunger, his hand squishing the hat on my hair one last time before ripping it off and throwing it behind him. It faded out of existence like it was never there. His other hand quickly ran through my lush platinum hair before grabbing it and holding it still.
“Okay boy, since your such a good, dumb, cock hungry slut, I’ll give it to you but only because you asked so nicely!” He has the widest grin on his face as he brings his cock down to my lips, smearing more precum across them as I greedily lap it all up. My tongue rolling around the tip of his dick as he lightly applies pressure to my face. I moan just thinking about what happens next.
“Open up and take it like the bitch you are!” He commands and I listen. He’s not gentle, why would Big Bro be anyway, he thrusts in, all the way. I love that Phil fucked my gag reflex away with his amazing fuckstick months ago. To feel him go from his tip ALL the way down to the root of his cock in one fluid motion was divine, my eyes rolled back as I felt his pubes smash against my face, his hands on the back of my head now grabbing fistsfulls of hair while he moaned. The smell of his musk, the feeling of it all happening so suddenly, overwhelms me and I can’t stop myself from jumping off the edge, eyes rolling back as my tiny dick fires shot after shot.
He tsks through light laughter and wags a finger in the air, pulling his cock out halfway, and so quickly that hunger that he had satisfied with plunging all the way down returning, eating away at me. “So hungry you can’t control yourself slut, fuuuck i’m gonna have so much fun tonight!” he says, he quickly slaps one of my cheeks, a quick surge of pleasure floods me as I feel them both shake, he whistles before plunging his cock back in.
I can hear the game going on in the back, his thrusts are fast but even, his balls slapping into my neck. Hearing him talk about some stupid guy named Tyler, how he was happy he could finally get everything he wanted, a bitch to clean up after him, take care of his cock and not make any mess. That some stupid hat was the best thing that happened to either of us.
The sweat from his beerbelly his hot and heavy, soaking through my hair and forehead, his smell ingrained in my mind as an aphrodisiac. My hands move up and down his body, worshipping it like the god he is. His own cheeks clapping with every thrust as he takes exactly what he wants. I hear cheering from the game, someone is apparently near the end zone, Phil is getting faster, his hands are a bit rougher as he’s getting closer. Almost at the edge.
My stomach feels so full from his precum, my throat trying to swallow more and more of him as he skull fucks me silly. I’m so close again, his moans were getting louder, telling me how I was such a good boy for milking his cock. That I had to get ready to take it all, swallow all of his cum, to be his good lil bitch and that praise, that encouragement was all I needed to have my second hands free orgasm this time around. The thought of him painting my throat white making me throw my head back as he thrusts into my puffy, hungry lips.
“Here…here,...It comess you DUMB HIMBO!” he shouts as the screen yells touch down, he rapidly does three more smaller thrusts as he fores not one, two or three loads, five all down my throat.
“Now be a good bitch and get me a beer!” He says pulling out of my mouth with a plop and playfully slapping my face.
God I loved My Big Bro and his massive cock so much, it drives me crazy!
(i just thought these two guys were hot for the purpose of this)
It has been many some hours since the sun set. The road is almost pitch black, the headlights of our car providing the only bit of sight as we drive along. My legs won't stop shuddering, not in fear, but for another reason.
I call out to my friend Liam, who is driving.
"Hey, how much longer until we get there?"
Liam turns around.
"Another 2 hours. Why?"
"I think I might've drank too much."
"Are you serious? Why didn't you go back when we were at Burger King?"
"Didn't cross my mind."
"Sigh. Well I guess you just have to suck it up Jacob. There isn't another Rest Stop for another 40 minutes."
I groan and start staring out the window. Watching the grass go by is just an attempt to distract myself into forgetting about it.
A green sign then flashes by in faded white letters. Though it looks like it had seen better days, it was still faintly legible.
"Frank's Gas Station. 3 mi"
"Wait Liam. There's a gas station up ahead."
"That's strange. I don't see it on the GPS."
"Who cares. A bathroom's a bathroom."
"Fine fine."
A little while later, we reach Frank's Gas Station. Or what used to be it.
"Damn. This place is a dump."
The sign in the front is missing at least 3 of its letters, and both it and the entire building are covered in vines and grass. Not a car was in sight except for a single old pickup truck in the corner. A chain link fence surrounds the complex, but the gate is left open from the last maintenance worker. Whenever that was. On the store window, a tattered piece of paper is taped to the window, reading "Restrooms in the back--->"
"Are you sure it even has plumbing?"
"Well it's my best shot out here."
"Okay then. I'll wait in the car."
I go through the open gate and trudge through the grass to the back of the station.
The back is not that much different in condition from the front, if not a little worse for wear. But sure enough, there's the bathroom door. For some reason there's a green baseball cap hanging on the door, alongside with a pair of green aviators. The hat's surprisingly new feeling. Probably left behind by the maintenance guy. I pick it up and put it on my head. Hey, free hat. It'll make for a good souvenir.
I carefully open the door and flip the switch.
A single light bulb turns on, illuminating the restroom. Phew. At least there's power. I was not about to pee in the dark. A row of stalls lay just beyond the light of the bulb, but I only need to take a quick leak so that won't be necessary.
I walk towards the urinal and open my fly. Huh. Were my jeans always so tight? I should check my weight later.
I begin to relieve myself, whistling myself a tune. It's a song that I don't recognize, but for some reason it resonates with me.
I then suddenly get a chill down my spine, followed by goosebumps all over my body. Then my cock suddenly starts pulsating.
"Shit. What the fuck!?"
With every pulse it elongates in my hand. I have to struggle to hold the stream's aim.
My shirt is stretched to its limit as my chest expands with a new heft, ballooning into 2 round globes of pure muscle. Same with my shorts, which have also begun to tear a bit under the mass behind me. My limbs also elongate, making me shoot up 5 inches, increasing in circumference accordingly. I could feel every burning sensation as my biceps and forearms expand past the boundaries of my sleeves.
The goosebumps then erupt as dark coarse hair covers my body, including a full beard on my face.
And then it stopped. I catch my breath, looking down at my new body. I had never been able to grow any sort of body hair, but just as I was about to feel the newfound fur on my chest I felt a sharp pain on my left arm.
"Jesus!", my newly deepened voice yelps.
A tribal band tattoo etches itself across my arm like an artist signing their own work. I pause, waiting for another change, but nothing comes. I sigh, pulling up my pants after letting the final drops through.
When I turn around, I come face to face with my new self in the mirror. Honestly I no longer bear any resemblance to my previous me at all.
I marvel at the full beard of hair on my face. I always wondered what it would feel like to have one.
Then the same voice rings out inside my head.
"Enjoying my mug huh fag?"
"Who's there?"
"Why so surprised? You're the one who took my crap, son."
My mouth then starts moving by itself.
"But don't worry, I'm just taking back what is mine."
Instantly I lose any and all control of my body. The person in the mirror smirks and checks out their arms.
"It's good to be back. Now let's take a picture to celebrate."
My arms involuntarily move against my wishes, first removing my tattered shirt off, followed by the remains of my shorts. What's left is my pair of gray briefs, framing a frankly impressive bulge begging to be released. With a quick motion, my newly enlarged member flops out into the crisp air.
Seemingly satisfied with its business, its eyes are turned to a different matter. My knees bend into a squat position, not too far away from the disgusting tile floor. My rod stiffens, almost touching the ground as it twitches in anticipation.
Both of my hands then grasp my shaft and start vigorously rubbing up and down. Despite it being my own hands dictating the action, I can't help but feel the sensation of being jerked off by another entity. It's honestly quite unnerving, but all those thoughts quickly faded away as my mind flooded with feelings of pleasure unlike anything I've experienced. My body starts sweating from the heat from the hair on my thighs and calves rubbing together. I begin to pant. My tongue hangs outside my mouth as my voice moans obscenities. At this point I cannot even tell where my voice ends and the other begins.
I fall backward, my bare ass and cock touching the filth. But I couldn't care less. All I and the voice wanted to do was to pump. Pumping is good. Real men don't care about sissy things like hygiene and being proper. A real man knows that they need to take life's balls by the reigns and make it your bitch.
With a final groan I cover the floor of the little restroom with my seed. I get up, stretching. It's been a while since I had a good rub like that. Always nice to take a break when on the road.
My hands move for my phone placed on the side of the sink. For some reason there's some fairy on the lock screen. That's weird. When did that happen? Must've been a prank. Opening up Facebook, I suddenly see the same homo has turned my page into his own faggy playground. The nerve. I watch wipe the profile, replacing it with the proper detail. I then snaps a dick pick and a few nudes for good measure, uploading it with the caption "Feeling frisky today" with a winking emoji.
"There. That's a big improvement."
I retrieve my belongings from a bag on the hook behind the door, putting on a white undershirt and straight blue denim jeans. There's another old looking backpack on the hooks that I just noticed. Poor dude. Hope they find what they're looking for. After checking myself in the mirror, I leave to get back to my car. Along the way, some college aged boy in a tank top and snapback approaches me.
"Hey have you seen my friend Jacob? Skinny little guy, bout this tall. He was supposed to meet back with me after going to use the restroom, but it's been a while. Did you see him back there?"
"Jacob... that name does sound familiar, but I can't seem to recall anything. Maybe try looking back there? I remember seeing some clothes in the back."
"Ok. Thanks Sir. Will do."
The young man heads to the back of the gas station. With a shrug I start up the engine to my old beater before leaving to get back on the road.
“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.
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.”
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.
The old wooden sign reading “Blackthorn Lake House” still hung crookedly from the rusted iron post at the end of the long gravel driveway, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. Joey’s truck rattled over the familiar potholes as the two men drove in silence for the last stretch. It was late May, the air thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and blooming wildflowers. Duncan stared out the passenger window, one elbow resting on the door, his expression unreadable.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Joey finally said, breaking the quiet. “Coming back here after all these years.”
Duncan nodded slowly. “Fifteen years. I still remember the last summer we spent here like it was yesterday. Mum cried for weeks after we left. She couldn’t even look at the place again.”
The house emerged from the trees like a ghost from their childhood. A large, two-story Victorian-style lakeside retreat with dark timber framing, wide verandas, and tall windows that once let in endless summer light. Now the paint was faded and peeling, the shutters on the upper floor hung at odd angles, and moss clung to the roof tiles. The garden had gone wild tall grass swaying in the breeze, rose bushes grown into chaotic thickets, and the old wooden dock stretching out over the dark water of the lake like a skeletal finger.
They parked and stepped out. The evening air was cool, carrying the gentle lapping of water against the shore. Crickets had already begun their nightly chorus.
“Still standing, at least,” Joey muttered, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. “Your mum never sold it?”
“Couldn’t bring herself to. It’s been in the family since my great-grandfather built it. After Uncle Richard disappeared… she just locked the doors and paid someone to check on it once a year.”
They climbed the creaky porch steps. Duncan pulled out an old key that still somehow worked. The heavy oak door groaned open, releasing a rush of stale, dusty air that smelled of aged wood, old books, and faint traces of pipe tobacco that somehow never fully faded.
Inside, time had frozen. The furniture was still draped in white sheets like ghosts. Duncan pulled one off the big leather sofa in the living room, sending a cloud of dust dancing in the golden evening light filtering through the windows.
“Jesus,” Joey laughed softly, running his fingers along the carved mantelpiece. “Look at this. We used to race Matchbox cars right here. You always cheated.”
“I did not,” Duncan protested with a grin. “You just sucked at it.”
They spent the next hour exploring the ground floor together, beers in hand. Every room triggered another memory. The kitchen where they’d made disastrous pancake experiments. The hallway where they’d slid down the banister until Duncan’s mother caught them. The study lined with dark oak shelves still filled with Uncle Richard’s old travel books, maps, and strange artifacts from every corner of the world.
Eventually they made their way upstairs, footsteps echoing on the worn hardwood. The door to the attic was at the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a tall cabinet. Duncan hesitated for a moment before opening it. Narrow stairs led up into darkness. He flicked on the old light switch. A single bare bulb hummed to life, casting long shadows across the vast, cluttered space.
The attic was exactly as they remembered it low rafters, trunks stacked high, old furniture covered in sheets, and shelves upon shelves of Uncle Richard’s souvenirs. Brass instruments, carved wooden masks, colorful textiles, strange coins, and glass bottles from distant lands.
They sat on an old Persian rug in the middle of the floor, legs stretched out, cracking open fresh beers.
“God, we were so sure we’d end up like him,” Joey said quietly, gesturing at the collection around them. “Traveling the world. No ties. Pure freedom.”
Duncan took a long sip. “Yeah. Remember how we’d play explorers up here? You’d put on that old turban and declare yourself Sultan Joey the Magnificent. I was always your loyal adventurer sidekick.”
Joey chuckled. “We swore we’d never settle down. No mortgages, no office jobs, no responsibilities. Just passports full of stamps and stories worth telling.”
A comfortable silence fell for a moment before Duncan’s voice grew heavier. “Instead, I’m turning thirty in two days with a wedding planned, a promotion that feels more like a cage, and a spare tire I can’t get rid of no matter how many times I join a gym. Kelly’s great, but… sometimes I wonder what the hell happened to us.”
Joey stared at the floor. “Tell me about it. Cynthia’s seven months pregnant. I love her. I really do. But I’m still pouring pints at The Crown six nights a week. No degree, no prospects, just scraping by. We were supposed to be different, Duncan. We had stars in our eyes.”
They talked for a long time about the girls, the jobs, the quiet disappointment that had crept into their lives like fog over the lake. The conversation eventually drifted back to Uncle Richard.
“You know… I still think about him,” Duncan said, voice low. “Mum never talks about it. The official story was that he just… vanished. Packed a bag one night in late August and was gone. No note. No body. The police investigated for months but found nothing. Some people thought he ran off with a woman. Others said suicide. But we both know that wasn’t him.”
Joey nodded slowly. “He was the happiest person I’ve ever met. Always laughing, always planning the next trip. Remember that scar on his arm he said came from a camel bite in Morocco? Or the way he’d tell stories about getting lost in the souks of Marrakech? Who would have thought this would be his last trip…”
Duncan stood up and walked over to a particular shelf. He picked up a small, ornate oil lamp made of aged brass with intricate oriental patterns sitting on a dusty box. It looked remarkably clean compared to everything else in the attic.
"This was his favorite piece,” Duncan murmured. “He told us once that it was special. Said it had… history.” He turned it over in his hands. “Funny. After he disappeared, Mum wanted everything cleared out, but she couldn’t touch this room. Said it felt like he was still here.”
What Duncan didn’t know what no one in the family had ever known was the truth. Uncle Richard had indeed found this lamp years earlier during one of his travels. He had become its master. He had made his wishes. And when the Genie had finished granting them in his own cruel, creative way, Richard had been transformed and rewritten into a new life far from this one. The Genie had neatly erased him from this world, leaving only mystery and grief behind. The lamp had returned here, waiting patiently for the next pair of dreamers.
Joey stood up and joined him, taking the lamp gently. “Crazy to think we used to rub this thing as kids, hoping a genie would pop out and take us on adventures.” He rubbed his thumb across the surface absentmindedly while continuing to speak. “Imagine if it actually worked. We could fix everything. Get our old bodies back. Have the careers we should have had. Live the life we always talked about.”
He tossed the lamp lightly to Duncan. “Your turn to make a wish, birthday boy.”
Duncan caught it with a laugh and rubbed it as well, playing along. “Yeah, sure. Three wishes to turn our boring lives into something legendary.”
The moment his fingers completed the second rub, the lamp began to vibrate.
At first it was subtle a faint tremor. Then it grew stronger. Duncan frowned. “Joey… it’s getting warm.”
Joey stepped closer. “What do you mean warm? Let me see…”
Suddenly the brass grew scalding hot. Duncan cried out in shock and pain. “Fuck! It’s burning me!” He tried to drop it, but for a terrifying second his fingers seemed stuck to the metal. Joey grabbed at it instinctively to help, and searing pain shot through both their palms.
They finally managed to fling the lamp to the floor. It clattered loudly against the wooden boards. Both men staggered back, clutching their hands. Their palms were bright red, already blistering, the skin looking raw and angry. The pain was intense, throbbing in time with their racing heartbeats.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?!” Joey gasped; teeth gritted. Tears of pain pricked at the corners of his eyes. “It felt like molten iron!”
Duncan was breathing hard, staring at the lamp on the floor. Thick purple smoke had begun to leak from its spout, swirling unnaturally, rising and twisting in deliberate patterns. The air in the attic grew heavy, charged, as if the temperature itself had shifted.
The smoke thickened, coalescing, taking shape.
A tall, powerfully muscled figure began to form bronzed skin, bare chest, sheer blue silk pants. The Genie’s eyes opened, glowing faintly, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
The two friends stood frozen, pain and terror mixing as they stared at the impossible being now standing before them in the dusty attic.
The Genie tilted his head slightly, regarding their burned hands with mock sympathy. He raised one finger as if to say “wait,” and the purple smoke around him stirred again.
Then, very slowly, he began to move toward them.
The Genie stood before them in the dimly lit attic, towering and impossibly real. He was easily six and a half feet tall, with broad, powerfully sculpted shoulders and a chest that looked carved from warm bronze. His skin glowed with a healthy, sun-kissed tone. The only clothing, he wore was a pair of sheer blue silk pants that hung low on his narrow hips, the fabric so thin it revealed the heavy outline of his cock and balls with every subtle shift of his body. A faint, exotic scent of sandalwood, spice, and something electric filled the air.
Joey and Duncan pressed back against an old trunk, hearts hammering. Their burned hands throbbed with fierce pain.
“This isn’t real,” Joey whispered, voice shaking. “This can’t be real. Duncan, tell me this is some kind of fucked-up hallucination.”
Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the being. “If it is, we’re both having it.”
The Genie’s lips curved into a slow, amused smile. His eyes a deep, piercing amber studied them with predatory interest. “Fear not, Masters. I mean you no immediate harm.” His voice was rich, cultured, with a faint accent that seemed to shift between languages. “You rubbed the lamp together. You freed me together. Therefore, you share three wishes. No more. No less.”
He took one graceful step forward. Joey flinched.
“Stay back!” Duncan shouted, cradling his blistered right hand against his chest. The pain was excruciating, like someone had pressed a hot iron into his palm. Blisters were already forming. Joey’s hand looked just as bad.
The Genie tilted his head, clearly enjoying their terror. “Such small injuries… and yet you tremble. How fragile humans are.” He raised his right hand slowly, deliberately, fingers spread. Purple smoke began to drift lazily from his fingertips. “Allow me to demonstrate my sincerity.”
Joey’s breathing quickened. “Don’t touch us! We don’t want anything from you!”
But the Genie ignored him. The smoke drifted toward them like living tendrils. Duncan tried to scramble backward but hit the trunk. The smoke gently coiled around both men’s injured hands without touching their skin. A strange warmth not burning this time, but soothing, almost silky enveloped their palms.
“Oh God…” Duncan breathed.
At first, nothing visible happened. The pain remained sharp. Then, very slowly, the Genie closed his eyes as if concentrating. The smoke pulsed. A tingling sensation spread across Duncan’s palm, like thousands of tiny needles dancing just beneath the surface. The redness began to fade from the edges inward. Blisters that had started to rise flattened gradually. The raw, angry skin lightened from crimson to pink, then to healthy flesh. The deep throbbing eased into a gentle itch, then disappeared entirely.
Duncan stared, wide-eyed, as he flexed his fingers. No pain. No mark. Nothing.
Joey’s healing was even slower, more theatrical. The Genie clearly wanted them to feel every second. Joey watched in horrified fascination as the blisters on his hand shrank, popped without fluid, and the skin knitted itself back together. The process took nearly a full minute. When it was done, both men’s hands looked completely untouched, as if the burns had never happened.
The Genie lowered his hand. The purple smoke dissolved. “Better?” he asked, voice dripping with mock politeness.
Duncan examined his palm under the attic bulb, turning it over and over. “How… how did you do that?”
“I am a Genie. Healing is among the simplest of arts.” He smiled again, but the expression never reached his eyes. Those eyes held centuries of cruel entertainment. “Now. You have three wishes. I suggest you use them thoughtfully. Many before you have regretted hasty words.”
Joey swallowed hard. His mind was racing. Part of him still screamed that this was impossible a prank, a dream, gas leak, anything. But the healed hands were undeniable. The being in front of them was undeniable.
He looked at Duncan. “We should just leave. Run. This thing is dangerous.”
Duncan hesitated, breathing heavily. “And if it’s real? If we actually have three wishes?” His voice dropped. “Joey… we’ve been talking all night about how we fucked up our lives. This could be our only chance.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Fear and desperate hope warred on both their faces.
“Fine,” Joey said finally, voice hoarse. “But we think carefully. No rushing. We discuss every wish.”
The Genie crossed his powerful arms over his broad chest and waited, clearly entertained by their mortal panic.
Duncan spoke first, choosing his words with care. “Before we wish anything… what are the limits? Can we wish for anything?”
“Almost anything,” the Genie replied smoothly. “I cannot raise the dead in their original form. I cannot force genuine love where none exists. And I cannot undo wishes already granted. Everything else…” He spread his hands. “Is negotiable.”
Joey ran a hand through his hair, thinking hard. “Okay. Okay. We need to be smart.”
They sat down again on the old Persian rug, keeping distance from the Genie. For nearly twenty minutes they talked in low, urgent voices, weighing possibilities while the Genie watched silently, his smirk never fading.
Duncan went deep into his regrets. “I’ve put on nearly thirty pounds since university. I feel old. Slow. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a guy who gave up. If I could just have my twenty-year-old body back lean, strong, full of energy that alone would change everything. I could actually enjoy life again instead of feeling like I’m already declining at twenty-nine.”
Joey nodded slowly. “I get it. For me… it’s the wasted potential. I dropped out after first year. If I’d stuck with it, gotten my degree in finance like I planned… I could’ve given Cynthia and the baby a real future. Instead, I’m pouring beers and worrying about rent. I wish I had actually succeeded. That I’d become someone.”
They kept talking, circling the same fears. What if the wishes backfired? What if the Genie twisted them? They tried to add safeguards, but every condition they imagined felt clumsy.
Eventually Duncan stood up, lamp in hand. His voice was steady despite the fear in his eyes.
“I wish I had the body I had at twenty.”
The Genie’s amber eyes flashed with dark delight. He bowed his head slightly.
“As you wish.”
A faint pulse of energy passed through the attic, but no visible change occurred yet. Duncan exhaled shakily. “It… it didn’t do anything.”
“It will,” the Genie said softly. “When all three wishes are spoken.”
Joey took the lamp next. His hands were trembling. He thought of Cynthia, of the baby on the way, of all the nights he lay awake wondering how he’d provide. His voice cracked slightly.
“I wish I had gotten my degree and made something of myself.”
“As you wish,” the Genie repeated, the same hungry smile playing on his lips.
Another subtle pulse. Joey felt a strange flutter in his chest but pushed it down. He handed the lamp back to Duncan.
They stood shoulder to shoulder now, holding the lamp together. The weight of the moment pressed down on them. This was their last wish the one that had to count.
Duncan spoke carefully. “We’ve spent our whole lives dreaming about this. Travel. Adventure. Real excitement. No more boring routines. No more feeling like we settled.”
Joey finished the thought, voice firm despite his fear. “We wish for the exciting life full of travel and adventure we were always meant to have.”
The Genie was silent for several heartbeats. His smile slowly widened into something predatory and ancient. For the first time, both men felt a chill run down their spines, as if they had just stepped off a cliff.
“As you wish,” the Genie finally purred, each word dripping with satisfaction.
He raised his hand dramatically.
The air in the attic grew thick with purple smoke and electric tension. A low humming filled their ears. Both Joey and Duncan felt a strange warmth bloom in the center of their chests pleasant at first, then rapidly intensifying.
They looked at each other, eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and exhilarating hope. For a short moment, they felt like they were on the edge of the greatest adventure of their lives. They had found the long-lost spark that animated their hearts and days.
In front of them, the genie was standing straight, a malicious smile covered his tanned cheeks and with a sweet movement of his wrist and fingers, he snaped.
Purple smoke exploded outward like a living storm, choking them in thick, electric heat. Joey gasped in surprise first shortly followed by an intense sensation of discomfort followed by pain as the agony ripped into his legs.
“AHHHHHHH THE FUCK IS THAT!!! IT HURTS! MAKE IT STOP!” His thighs and calves shattered and swelled violently, bones lengthening with wet cracking sounds while powerful new muscle tore through his flesh. He collapsed to his knees as his feet followed, toes breaking and stretching, arches rising painfully as his shoes split apart.
Joey tried to look around with the hope to see his friend ready to help him or the genie about to snap his fingers again to cancel this clearly bad outcome of their wishes but he saw nothing, only purple glittery smoke bocking everything from his view.
“HELP ME!” He screamed one more time with the hope of finding help but he only heard a villainous laugh back in return echoing through the smoke and mist and coming back to his ears.
What has been granted cannot be taken back, master…
Duncan roared in terror as well. In the blink of an eye, the attic was gone and now all he could see was purple smoke all around him. He could still feel the wooden floor under his shoes but he couldn’t even see it.
“Joey! Joey, are you alright? Where are you?! JOEY!!” he creamed for his friend feeling the anxiety skyrocketing through his veins. “JOE… AAAAHHHHHH!!” his sentence was cut short as he felt a rush of heat followed by pain of breaking bones crashing through his legs.
Joey could feel his legs ballooned next, muscles exploding with brutal force far beyond anything from his youth.
The Genie hovered closer, smiling with dark amusement. “Begging already? How precious. This is only the beginning, Masters…” his voice echoing to both of them through the smoke.
The burning surged upward. Both men gasped and screamed as their chests expanded with sickening pops. Ribs widened, pectorals ballooning into thick, heavy slabs of muscle that stretched their skin painfully tight. “It’s breaking me apart!” Duncan howled. “Please… make it stop!”
Coarse dark hair erupted in their armpits as fresh sweat glands activated, flooding the attic with a thick, pungent masculine musk, heavy testosterone and raw male sweat. A dense treasure trail raced up from their groins, spreading across their newly carved abs and fanning over their swollen pecs.
Joey whimpered brokenly, “I can’t… I can’t breathe… please…” as he was feeling his overheating body starting to shut down and his vision blurring darkly because of his restarting nervous system and rearranging organs.
Duncan was crying and screaming in pain as he could feel his limbs starting to spasm on their own, muscles activating by forced electric signal sent by his brain drowning in a cocktail of hormones. He could feel his heart beat in each of his cells and could hear the sound of his pumping heart. Duncan was starting to dissociate when he heard the genie snap his fingers one more time. Out of nowhere, he felt his senses coming back to him as he heard the genie talk directly in his brain.
“We don’t want you to miss the best part of the show, do we?”
Out of nowhere, Duncan felt blood coursing through his body in one central position as he could feel his cock straining his jeans and getting trapped against his muscled and hairy thighs.
His cock surged forward with vicious intensity, thickening and lengthening into a massive uncut cock and with one more spasm from his un-controlling body and pumping heart, his cock contracted and torn apart his fly as he felt it slap hard against his hard rock forming abs. in the blink of an eye, it started to feel active and soon he could feel precum pumping out of his urethra and slushing all around his hairy abs.
Joey could feel changes happening to him as well. He was screaming in pain and fear as he could feel his cock straining against what was left of his Calvin Klein underwear. He could feel his heart beat in his hardening cock head as he could feel his foreskin starting to tighten around it because of the pression caused by his blood system. He could feel his nuts pulling lower and lower as sperm started to be product in huge proportions. His cock head was starting to look downward because of its weight and now was permanently bent down and slightly on the left side because of his left ball which were bigger than the right one.
“Please…. Stop, thi… iis” Joey said as he could feel his throat starting to heat up shortly followed by his chin and whole face. His features twisted in agony as his jaw sharpened, cheekbones rose, and his eyes tilted.
“HHAAAAaaAaaAaaaAAaaa… UUUHHHHhhhhHHHhH “screamed Joey as his voice cracked and shattered mid-scream, shifting into a younger, melodic tone thick with a heavy Arabic accent.
“MAkE iT stoP!!” Joey screamed one more time as his voice settled for a younger one.
Duncan’s own face hardened into something rugged and commanding, heavy stubble exploding across his jaw while a thick mustache appeared above his upper lip.
“What is happening?!” he screamed as his voice dropped into a deep, authoritative baritone.
“You two already sound way more in character!” said the genie to himself as he could see the possibilities opening for both of his masters in front of his eyes, appearing and disappearing in the purple mist.
Joey was still crying in fear and pain, his knees still on the ground when he felt the heat coming back.
“GOD NO, NOT AGAIN… PLEASE!!” the heat continued to climb and hike all around his tightened skin, leaving behind a rich golden-bronze hue, turning his skin into smooth coffee-toned perfection while Duncan’s deepened into a reddish sun-bronzed, powerful athletic glow.
Joey was crying as he could see his transformed and tanned hands in front of him, no sound coming out of his mouth because even the sound of his voice was terrifying to him now.
Creeping behind him, he heard the low baritone voice of the genie once again and felt chills running up his elongated spine.
“Something is missing… I don’t see your character fully… But what is it…” the genie continued as Joey turned around trying to face him and thinking that maybe if he did, he would be able to beg him face to face to turn him back but when he did, he saw nothing except the purple void.
“Found it!” he heard once again coming in front of him.
Joey’s eyes opened wide as he saw the genie materialized in front of him and with the flick of his wrists, he felt his torn clothes disintegrate into glitter that swirled in the mist.
Joey was hoping to see the kind face he saw when the genie first appeared to them but all he saw was the manly face wearing a vicious smile.
The genie opened his hands and Joey could feel pressure building in his dick.
“What are you doing?” He asked shaking in fear of what was about to happen.
“Please tell me, what are you do… AAAAHHHHHHH” The genie reached down and roughly seized Joey’s foreskin still covering the head of his enlarged new cock. Joey’s eyes widened in pure panic.
“No! No no no… IT’S GONNA BREAK, STOOOOO!!!” he screamed.
Duncan stared in horror and fear as he could hear the deep accented voice of someone echoing back to him, slightly muted by the mist hugging his modified body. He could feel his body continuing to spasm on its own without him having any control on it. He could feel his dick exhaling drops of precum with every heart beat, smashed against his hairy abs and leaking along his muscled thighs.
The Genie turned his back to Joey and smiled as he saw Duncan was still lost in the haze of his hormones and sensations while continuing to tear on Joey’s foreskin.
“I’m begging you… Please… Stop teari…”
SCRATCH
With one flick of his wrist, the genie torn out the foreskin as it detached in a snapping motion, releasing Joey’s cock that flopped back down against his legs, pointing downwards. His cock head now fully uncovered and extremely sensitive as he could feel the particles of purple dust touching his extremely sensitive skin. Joey was crying in fear as he realized the pain was completely gone.in fact, in a couple of second, all sensations were gone. It felt like his nerves had been numbed by years of frictions and movements against his now hardened cock head. He looked down and realize a neatly crafted scar was circling the base of his cock head.
He tilted his head back up to the genie as he watched the genie looking with a smile at the palm of his hand.
“Why have you done that… What have you done to me…” Joey continued to ask in a febrile voice.
The genie didn’t even look at him. He just continued to smile as he grabbed back his thick veiny cock in the palm of his left hand.
The Genie held the twitching piece of foreskin in his palm, exhaled a stream of purple smoke over it. The piece of foreskin started to levitate and rotate faster and faster in the palm of the genie. Joey could start to feel like his cock head was getting jerked off even though no one was touching it. The faster the foreskin went, the more he felt he was on the edge of cumming.
Joey tilted his head back up with almost out of breath as he could feel the orgasm rushing to him and his mouth barely open to let his breathing flow out.
The genie was looking at him and with a quick movement, he closes his hand on the foreskin.
Joey could feel pressure building in his groin as it felt like he was getting jerked off faster and faster.
Then as he was about to cum, his eyes starting to revolve inside his skull, the genie opened his hand again and all the sensations were gone, leaving Joey out of breath on the edge of orgasm.
In the palm of his hand, the foreskin was gone, reformed as a shiny golden loop earing with a blue sapphire on it.
Joey didn’t understand any of what happened, his brain still trying to function properly as it still was lacking oxygen from the forced edging session.
“What was that… what have you… done… Where is it…” Joey asked out of breath but the genie never answered, he just snapped his fingers and suddenly the golden foreskin earing disappeared in shimmer. Instantly, Joey felt a pressure building on his left lobe as he could feel it heating up with a pinching sensation.
joey was left flabbergasted, not understanding any of what just happened and what happened to his foreskin. He tried to look around, maybe catching his reflection in a shiny surface or something, but he didn’t see any of it. All he could feel was the cold wind on his numb cock head and the sensation of something dangling from his ear.
The Genie laughed softly, stroking his own massive erection. “I knew something was missing, master… now you look exactly like you should have, ready for your next big adventure.”
The genie took a step back and snapped his fingers one more time. Both Duncan and Joey felt like a weight had been lifted from their shoulders and like they could breathe again for the first time since the mist invaded their lungs.
As the two men collapsed, gasping and twitching in their new bodies, their old clothes finished to dissolve away. They stood there naked and, on the ground, as they could see the mist starting to fall to the ground and with them changing the dusty attic into a new room. Something with white industrial lights handing from the rooves. Then tiles started to appear on the walls soon followed by the ancient wooden cabinets turned into metallic lockers covered with stickers and grim.
as the mist finally reach their heads, new clothes started to shimmer into existence around their transformed bodies. A tight pair of black sport shorts for Duncan and a fitted V collar T-shirt with a black baseball hat. Then a pair of well used white trainers and high sport socks appeared on his bigger feet.
On Joey, a white jockstrap appeared on his body, forcing his cock to look downwards again, now fully entrapped inside the cotton prison and almost nudging against his own ass hole. The pouch being extremely prominent. Then a pair of tight-fitting black soccer shoes appeared on his tanned musky feet as socks finished to materialized against his legs climbing up to his knees.
The Genie kept lazily stroking his enormous, throbbing cock, veins pulsing under his bronze fingers as he watched the two broken men on the floor. His smile widened with sadistic pleasure.
“Look at you both… already so pretty in your new skins.” He then grabbed Joey by his thick, dark hair and yanked his head forward. “Open up, stud. Time to taste your new reality.”
Joey tried to pull away, eyes wide with terror. “No! Please don’… I’m not… I won’t…!” But the Genie’s grip was iron. He slapped his heavy, leaking cock against Joey’s plump new lips, smearing sticky precum across them.
“That’s it… fight me. I love when masters start to realize I am the one holding the cards.” The Genie laughed, low and cruel, then forced the thick head past Joey’s resisting lips and deep into his mouth. Joey gagged violently, eyes watering as the massive shaft stretched his throat. The Genie held his head in place and began thrusting with slow, deliberate strokes, fucking his face with relish.
“Mmmph! Mmmghh!” Joey’s muffled screams vibrated around the Genie’s cock. Tears streamed down his bronzed cheeks as he choked and drooled.
The Genie groaned in pleasure and taunted him between thrusts. “Yes… just like that. Suck it, stud. This is what your exciting new life tastes like. Keep crying… I love how your throat squeezes when you panic.” He laughed again, deep and mocking, pushing even deeper until Joey’s nose pressed against his hairy musky shimmering pubes.
After several long, brutal minutes of face-fucking, the Genie’s balls tightened. “Here it comes, boy. Drink every drop like the good little whore you’ve always been.”
With a loud, satisfied roar, the Genie came hard. Thick, glowing ropes of purple-tinged cum flooded Joey’s mouth and throat. Joey thrashed, desperately trying to pull back, but the Genie held him firm while laughing in pure pleasure. “Swallow it all. That’s it… good boy.” Joey continued to resist, gasping for air as he could feel cum rushing directly in his stomach. A weird feeling invading his throat and mouth as it felt like his tongue was numbing a bit.
After a couple of minutes frozen like that, the Genie slowly pull his still rock-hard cock free with a wet pop. Joey immediately tried to scream for help and gasping for air.
“Air, I need air…. Huuuuuuuuuu. I couldn’t breathe…” But the words that came out were completely different: “هواء، أحتاج إلى هواء... هووووو ...!”
His eyes widened in pure panic. He clutched his throat, trying again. “What the fuck?! Why can’t I speak English?! WHAT THE FUCK!!” Only fluent, desperate Arabic poured out: “يا إلهي! لماذا لا أستطيع التحدث بالإنجليزية؟! يا إلهي!”.
No matter how hard he tried, English was completely gone. He kept repeating frantic Arabic pleas, voice cracking with rising hysteria.
“أرجوك… أعدوني! أنا لا أريد هذا!” (Please… change me back! I don’t want this!)
Duncan stared in the distance, his head still spinning and still feeling dizzy from the smoke leaving his older lungs, taking more time to regain his senses.
“Joey? Are you ok? Where are you, where are we?! What happened to us...”
The Genie turned away from Joey’s sobbing of incomprehension. He took a look at Duncan and with a happy smile of work well done, he snapped his fingers.
Duncan suddenly gasped, clutching his head as memories began flashing violently before his eyes. Kelly smiling at him on their first date suddenly appeared clearly in front of his eyes, he felt like reliving this moment in the smallest detail but as his lips left her, he opened his eyes only to realize Kelly was now burning from his memories as in her place stood a very muscled Latino athlete looking at him with eyes full of admiration and hungriness. He couldn’t understand what happened or why that happened, suddenly he blinked and he was no longer on a bench in the park but instead in his living room with his computer on his laps, Kelly hugging him as they were planning their honeymoon, the house they wanted to buy, lazy Sunday mornings together… One by one they ignited and disintegrated. In their place, new memories flooded in with brutal clarity: the thrill of sneaking young athletes into hotel rooms during tournaments, the wet sound of tight asses stretching around his thick cock, the addictive taste of sweat and submission, the roar of stadium crowds mixed with moans in locker room showers.
“No… no, stop!” Duncan screamed, voice breaking.
“Kelly! Stop that please… KELLY!! I … I… Get out of my head! That’s not me… I’m not… I want to marry her… I love her… I… love her? Fuck… I love… her tight… No that’s not me, STOP IT!!! I love… his… ass? I LOVE FUCKING ASS!! NO Please… don’t…. do this…. Kelly… I love…” He fell to his knees as more of his old life was ripped away. The memory of proposing to Kelly burned to nothing and was replaced by the image of him balls-deep in a muscular exchange student after a late training session. Every time he tried to cling to who he was, another piece turned to ash. His personality was shifting, getting confidence, dominance, and an insatiable hunger for male bodies overwriting his old shy, settled nature.
“Please… I don’t want this… I’m Duncan, I’m not…” His resistance grew weaker as the new identity took root. Suddenly a new memory appeared in flashing color in front of his eyes, a new name appeared and engraved itself in his brain. Noah. He is Noah, he has always been and always will be. He is the coach, Noah. The traveler. The predator who lived for the next tight hole and the next victory.
The Genie watched with dark delight, lazily stroking himself again. “Welcome in your new life, master Duncan.”
The man who used to be Duncan, now fully Noah, stepped up as his manly hands caressed his hairy pecs, a dominant smile appearing on his cheeks as he took his first step into his new life, his cock rock hard and pressing against the front of his shorts, leaving nothing to imagination. He took another step and suddenly Joey heard the Snap echoing again. Suddenly, he felt his body starting to levitate from the wet musky tiled floor to the seat of a wooden bench that had seen thousands of athletic asses through the years.
Joey tried to resist but his body was completely immobilizing by the purple magic controlling and positioning him, his legs then were positioned up, giving free access to his tight hole.
Joey tried once again to scream for help but was still in incapacity to talk anything else then Arabic. He heard the genie laugh as he saw Duncan getting closer and closer to him, positioning himself between Joey’s forcibly spread legs.
His thick, veiny uncut cock throbbed angrily, already drooling precum onto the boy’s smooth, tight hole. Joey’s heart hammered in terror.
“Duncan, please don’t do this. We are friend, remember about Kelly. No don’t please, DON’T!!” he begged in fluent Arabic, voice shaking.
“أرجوك... هذا ليس أنت! أنا جوي! توقف!!!” (Please… this isn’t you! It's me, I’m Joey! Stop!).
Noah didn’t understand a word. He just grinned, spat on his cock, and pressed the fat, leaking head against Joey’s virgin entrance. With one brutal thrust, he forced half his massive length inside. Joey screamed, back arching off the bench as his hole was violently stretched open.
“AAAAAH! ألم! أرجوك توقف! إنه يؤلمني!” (It hurts! Please stop! It hurts so much!). Noah groaned in pleasure and kept pushing deeper, inch by thick inch, until his heavy balls rested against Joey’s ass. “Fuck… so goddamn tight. This Moroccan bitch was made for cock.”
Joey’s eyes rolled back as Noah started fucking him with long, powerful strokes, each one slamming harder than the last. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping skin filled the locker room. Joey’s heavy circumcised cock bounced uselessly against his abs, leaking despite his horror.
Suddenly, Joey noticed movement above them. The Genie hovered near the ceiling, lazily stroking his own enormous cock and watching with cruel delight. Their eyes met. The Genie smirked, raised his hand, and snapped his fingers.
In that instant, the Genie’s form disappeared in shimmer. Then Joey saw from the corner of his eyes the air near the lockers next to the door starting to move and agitate. He then saw the genie’s silhouette appear and stated to melt and shrink, transforming into a tall, muscular young athlete with short black hair and a cocky grin. At the same moment, the locker room door swung open.
Captain Josh and four of his teammates walked in, already half-hard in their shorts thanks to the very intensive training and the overdose of testosterone and horniness running through their veins.
The newly-transformed Genie simply stepped forward and joined them, laughing with them all like he had always been a part of the group. No one else noticed anything strange and then even started to laugh back and talk like they truly know each other from years of practices and friendship.
“Coach! you already started without us?” Josh laughed loudly. “Look at Ahmed. Little slut can’t even wait.”
The players quickly stripped, tossing their clothes aside. Thick, hard cocks sprang free. Joey tried to plead with them, eyes wide with panic.
“أرجوكم، أتوسل إليكم، يجب أن تساعدوني. أنا لست أحمد، أنا جوي، لدي حبيبة وسأرزق بطفل قريبًا. أريد العودة إلى بيتي، ساعدوني، أرجوكم!!” (Please I’m begging you, you have to help me. I am not this Ahmed, I am Joey, I have a girlfriend and soon a baby boy. I want to go back home, Help me, please!!!).
The players just chuckled, not understanding a single word that came out of Joey’s mouth. One of them then took a step forward, his thick veiny cock in hand as he lazily jerked off. Joey opened tilted his head only to realize it was the genie now in the jock’s body.
“أرجوك لا تفعل ذلك، لا أريد هذه الحياة، لم أتمنَّ ذلك... مممم ...” (Please don’t do that, I don’t want this life, I didn’t wish for that… mmMMMmmGGgMGgggGG) Joey couldn’t even finish his words as the genie grabbed Joey by the hair and shoved his thick cock straight into the boy’s pleading mouth, cutting off his words. “Shut the fuck up with that Arabic shit,” he laughed. “Good little cumdump doesn’t need to talk.”
Everyone roared with laughter as they surrounded him. “Let’s go guys, we have a tanned bitch to fuck!” Josh mocked while lining up his cock at Joey’s already-stuffed hole alongside Noah’s.
“Maybe you’ll start to pick some words up after taking so much American cream!”.
They descended on him without mercy. Noah and Josh double-penetrated his ass, stretching him brutally wide while two others took turns fucking his throat once the genie was done with him. Hands roamed over his sweat-slicked bronze body, slapping his ass, pinching his nipples, and constantly tugging on the golden earring. Every pull sent humiliating jolts of forced pleasure through his cock.
“Fucking perfect exchange student,” one player grunted as he hammered into Joey’s throat. “Came all the way from Morocco just to be our team bitch.”
“Bet his family would be so proud seeing him like this,” another laughed. “He truly lives his American dream!”
Joey could only sob and gag around the cocks in his mouth, tears streaming down his face. “مممغhhh— أرجوكم… أنا لست مثل هذا… أريد Cynthia… أريد طفلي…” (Please… I’m not like this… I want Cynthia… I want my baby…). None of them could understand him and they didn’t care. They just kept using him harder, rotating positions, filling every hole, painting his bronzed skin with sweat and spit.
After what felt like an eternity of relentless pounding, the Genie still wearing the jock identity saw that Joey was on the edge of losing himself, his cock played with like a joystick by the one currently fucking him. He felt like he was on the edge but never close enough so he could be forced to cum.
The genie then grabbed the athlete that was hard fucking Joey by the shoulders and tapped his scapula as he asked for him to give him the space so he could finish inside the bitch.
The athlete laughs and then took his cock out of Joey’s opened ass.
“أرجوك... لا أستطيع فعل ذلك بعد الآن... أرجوك...” (Please… I can’t do …that, anymore… Please…).
Once again, Joey was cut short as the genie got his mouth closer to his ear and murmured.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your new life, Master!” Suddenly, he grabbed the earing between his calloused fingers and Joey felt like someone was directly playing with his cockhead and whole length. It felt like he was getting jerked off by the most delicate hand ever, it felt like he was getting sucked by the warmest mouth. His breath started to path faster and faster as he we slowly losing his sight, invaded by a pure feeling of pleasure. In front of his blurring vision, the genie smiled as he started to fuck him faster and faster, enjoying the view of Joey slowly losing his grip on reality and falling into dissociation.
With one more thrust of his cock deep against Joey’s prostate and a pinch of the hearing, the genie came hard and deep inside Joey’s welcoming hole, and as he did, Joey felt the orgasm finally rushing past the point of no return as he could feel his length starting to contract and in an instant, starting to release the only trace of his Britannic DNA.
A devastating orgasm ripped through him. His circumcised cock exploded hands-free, shooting thick ropes of cum across his own chest and abs while every muscle in his body spasmed around the cocks buried inside him.
In that exact moment, his mind shattered and reformed.
Memories burned away in purple fire: the old house at Blackthorn Lake… the summers with Duncan… proposing to Cynthia… the ultrasound pictures of their unborn baby boy… nights at the bar dreaming of travel… all of it turned to ash. New memories flooded in to replace them, a sun-drenched childhood in Morocco, arriving in Huston at 21 as an exchange student, struggling with English, quickly discovering he was gay and addicted to getting fucked and used like the sextoy he truly was. The endless locker room sessions, the hotel rooms during away games, the thrill of being passed around by the team. He was Ahmed now. A 21-year-old power bottom who lived for cock, especially Coach Noah’s and his teammates’. English was hard for him, but his body spoke fluently.
When the orgasm finally faded, Ahmed blinked slowly, a slutty, satisfied grin spreading across his cum-covered face.
“Coach Noah…” he moaned in heavily accented English; voice hoarse but eager. “المزيد... مارس الجنس معي بقوة أكبر، من فضلك...”.
The players laughed and kept going, knowing their favorite cumdump was ready for another round.
Coach Noah was waiting behind them, his arms crossed as he felt his cock jump in anticipation knowing he would require a private session with Ahmed later on in his office. Only Ahmed and him.
In the months that followed, Noah and Ahmed lived the exciting life full of travel and adventure they had wished for so desperately in that dusty attic.
They flew from city to city, country to country, following the demanding schedule of international university tournaments. New hotels every week. New locker rooms. New opponents, and new teammates, eager to celebrate victories deep into the night.
Noah’s powerful 6’3” body, thick with muscle and commanding presence, was everything Duncan had once dreamed of and more. He thrived as the dominant, respected coach who lived for the game… and for bending young athletes over whenever the mood struck him.
Ahmed, the 21-year-old Moroccan exchange student, had become the star attacking midfielder everyone wanted. He had gotten his degree in the form of a sports scholarship and was well on his way to making something of himself and his life, at least on the pitch and in the bedroom. His bronzed, athletic body and eager, talented hole made him the team’s favorite power bottom. He barely spoke English, but he didn’t need to. His body communicated perfectly.
Every night after training or matches, Ahmed found himself exactly where he now belonged: legs spread wide, moaning sluttily in Arabic and broken English as Coach Noah and the boys took turns wrecking him. The golden earring made from his former foreskin remained his most sensitive spot, one playful tug and he would cum hands-free, shaking and begging for more like the perfect cumdump he had become.
All that remained were sun-soaked memories of Morocco, the thrill of arriving in Huston, and the addictive rush of being passed around by his coach and teammates. He was happier than he had ever been, a gay, cock-hungry 21-year-old who lived for the next load and the next victory.
The wishes had been granted and they would finally live the lives they craved for.
They no longer remembered Cynthia and Kelly.
They no longer remembered the baby and their bored lives.
They no longer remembered Duncan, Joey, the attic, or the terrified man they used to be.
High above, safely tucked away in the ornate brass lamp that now rested on Coach Noah’s office desk, the Genie leaned back in his lamp with a contented sigh. Once known as Uncle Richard many decades ago, he had learned this lesson the hard way himself after wishing for a life full of magical adventures and being able to help people while having a long and joyful life full of pleasure and happy moments. Now he made sure others learned it too, slowly, thoroughly, and without mercy, one wish at the time.
I hope you’re having an amazing day! This is the story you guys voted for, with a little twist from my side. I had a blast writing it, and I think this one might be one of my all-time favorites to this day.
Thank you so much to everybody who voted in the poll, and thank you so much to @bremenmask for sending me this ask. I really appreciated it, and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
This story officially marks my first step into my thirties, and I hope they’ll be just as good as the previous decade. I want to thank all the friends I’ve made along this journey, and I can’t wait to meet new ones.
To everybody who has sent me kind messages, please know that even if I don’t reply to all of you, I read everything, and I love interacting with you as much as possible. So please continue to send me messages if you want to talk about ideas or simply if you feel lonely :)
A huge thank you as well to @mystrangetfs for his very useful help in brainstorming and putting this story together, especially for helping me create and find the pictures.
I can’t wait to hear your feedback, and I hope you’ll appreciate this story as much as I do.
You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.
"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"
"Jason is like totally the hottest."
"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."
"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"
You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.
"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"
The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.
“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"
"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.
"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.
The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"
You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.
"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"
Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.
"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"
"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"
"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.
"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."
"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"
You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.
"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.
"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.
"No shame in that, brah!"
You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.
"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"
Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"
"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"
The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.
"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"
Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.
"Chlorophyll."
"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"
Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"
The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.
"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.
"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"
You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."
"Correct!"
"Woah bro, nice one!"
Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.
"What the…?"
The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…
"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"
The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"
"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."
But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?
"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."
You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!
"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.
"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."
You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...
"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.
"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."
The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...
"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"
"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."
"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"
"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.
The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?
"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."
"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"
"Dead lifts..."
"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."
The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"
"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."
Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?
"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.
You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.
"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.
"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."
Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.
"The answer is hips, bro."
"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.
As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.
"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.
Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind- Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.
When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?
"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.
Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.
Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?
A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.
The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."
"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.
"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.
"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"
The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"
The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.
"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."
Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.
The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.
With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.
"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.
And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…
