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Origami Around
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One Nice Bug Per Day

Kaledo Art

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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Today's Document

#extradirty

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@morphkastreblogs
ASK ME ANYTHING
Putting this out there to all my followers... ask anything you wanna know and i'll answer honestly....*gulp*
CYOC - Chameleon Clothes
--- REPOSTING some of my favorite CYOC stories and adding images to them. This is various branches from Chameleon Clothes from the Chronivac Version 4.0 storyline ---
Makes the wearer tranform into the 'most' ideal form (look) for a pair of clothes.
ex. Skater clothes worn turn the wearer into the ideal skateboarder looking guy
There are som presets that SHOULD be kept the same:
IDLE TIME (TIME AFTER YOU PUT CLOTHES ON, BEFORE CHANGE): 1 minute TRANFORMATION TIME: 5 minutes IDEALNESS (1 to 10, 10 BEING PERFECT, 1 BEING ALMOST YOURSELF): 8 DURATION : 1 year
PLEASURE FROM TF : Yes BRAIN PATTERNS (THINKING LIKE THE TF): 50% ----
Jeff goes over to the machine and makes a choice:
Jeff notices the option for wearing a t-shirt of his favorite baseball team. Since his favorite sport was baseball and he loved the Cardinals, it was the obvious choice and clicked on it.
In front of the computer appeared a t-shirt for the Cardinals. Jeff put it on hurriedly eager for the changes to happen, shaking of excitement. At first, nothing happened, making him wonder what is going on until....
Jeff started breathing heavily, each breath making his pecs expand and start stretching the Cardinals logo on the t-shirt, showing off his definition. His stomach started quickly developing a six pack, making him cringe in painful pleasure as each muscle developed. Next his biceps and arms began enlarging, stretching the t-shirt's sleeves almost enough to burst.
As Jeff's butt began to firm and take more athletic shape, his legs began expanding greatly, making it easier for him to run bases at breakneck speed. His crotch then starts to ache painfully while his testicles enlargen to accommodate his needs for testosterone. Jeff moans while it feels like he's getting a blow job....meanwhile his cock is expanding rapidly, wave after wave, until it reaches 10" erect.
Jeff's hair now begins to retract into his head and change color, leaving him with a short haircut with newly blonde hair. His face painfully changes to give him a sharper jawline, while his neck thickens to match. His eyes change to a dark blue color while both his ears become pierced with small studs. A pair of Oakley sunglasses then appear over his eyes, while tattoos appear on both of his arms, visible just below the arms of the t-shirt. On his left arm is the number 23 in large print; on his right arm is a large tribal tattoo that extends down his arm and up over the shoulder.
A pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs then appear on his body, followed by a pair of tan cargo shorts, barely covering up the definition of his cock. A pair of red and white Adidas shoes and no-show socks appear as well.
Jeff grabs his head as he feels shooting pains all over his body as he learns his new identity and how to play baseball in the Majors. He now realizes he's 25 years old, a player for the Cardinals, number 23, a short stop and star home-run hitter. He's getting ready to leave the house for the stadium, where he will be playing the most important game of the year. While not on the field, he's not a traditional clean cut baseball player, but instead pushes the envelope with his tattoos and jock attitude.
THE PURPLE STORY INDEX
Story Originator: SERVE-579
Story index: click on the parts to read
Part 1 Part 5 Part 9
Part 2 Part 6 Part 10
Part 3 Part 7 Part 11
Part 4 Part 8 Part 12
The story continues in the second index
CLICK HERE
---------------------------------------------------------
Side Story 1 - part 1 (serve-302)
Side Story 2 - part 1 (serve-425)
Side Story 1 - part 2 (serve-302)
Side Story 2 - part 2 (serve-425)
Side Story 2 - part 3 (serve-425)
Side Story 2 - part 4 (serve-425)
Side Story 3 - part 1 (serve-331)
-------------‐----------------------------------
Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. [Check your eligibility], then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-302, @serve-343, @serve-425, @serve-525, @serve-579, @serve-588, @serve-655, @serve-690 or @serve-714.
#SERVE #SERVEdrone #Rubberizer3 #TheVoice #Rubber #Latex #AI #RubberDrone
Twink or Treat
CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.
Twink or Treat
— Shit, this can’t be real – Kyle said in confusion after realizing his room looked... strangely similar to his brother Wyatt's.
Kyle and Wyatt were brothers, but they looked so different from each other. Kyle was the oldest, more muscular, and a bit of a womanizer. Wyatt was thinner, with a slender build, although his muscles were geared in a completely opposite direction, more for... impressing guys.
They both had their groups of friends, who ironically, were also brothers. Neither of them remembered how it all started, but they were definitely inseparable with each other's brothers. All six of them even attended the same college, just in different majors and years.
Wyatt was very close to Damian and Adrian; the three of them had almost the same build and the same sexual orientation.
While Kyle had Thomas and Jonathan as friends, other brainless jocks with huge muscles to "casually" flex in front of the girls. Although now... They were definitely in a bind.
Kyle yelled as he noticed he was now wearing a rather tight Spiderman suit; he felt the fabric literally bulge into unusual indentations. He could see his brother's room, decorated with a few plants, curtains on the door, and sepia colors. He gulped nervously.
— What the fuck is this? – he said, lying back on the bed. He almost didn't want to move because of how tight the suit was, but he knew exactly where he was. He recognized the costume his brother had picked out weeks before, the same one he'd made fun of and was now wearing.
— Shit, shit – he muttered, feeling his brother's limbs now under his control. He ran his fingers through Wyatt's silky hair, still dumbfounded. The worst part came when he became aware of another very particular part of his body: how big his buttocks felt, how firm it was, and how the fabric clung around them.
He let out a soft moan, unable to understand the stimulation of his new form. He was almost trembling; he didn't know if it was from nerves or something else.
His hand slowly approached his new tool, ready to take it. However, his cell phone (or rather, his brother's) rang. He picked it up, noticing it was Damian, so he swiped to answer.
— Hello? – Kyle said with some hesitation, letting out an imperceptible sigh as he heard Wyatt's voice answer.
— Uh... Dud – he heard the other's voice on the phone, somewhat nervously but also awkwardly – Is Kyle home?
He raised his eyebrow, not understanding why the other was looking for him. They practically never exchanged messages or anything like that, beyond cordial greetings when he happened to be at his house or vice versa.
— No… – he muttered. He looked at the door, thinking about getting up to go to his own room, although his doubt was stronger – What do you need him for?
The silence on the other end was long. I noticed how he tried to make his voice a little deeper, with "uh"s galore, as if he were tripping over the words himself, just like his brother, Tommy, spoke.
— Tommy, is that you? – He dared to ask. There was another long pause.
— Uh... Yeah?
— Dude, it's Kyle!
— Woah. Really? No way, man! – he said, somewhat surprised, as he looked at the outline of his new, slimmer body. Maybe Wyatt and Damian had agreed to be the same superhero, but the new Damian felt the suit fit much tighter around the chest, as if it emphasized his pecs more, and the suit rubbed against the ridges. Shit.
Tech Amuck: Uploaded Uncle
Everyone wanted to be part of Connected Growth Innovations new project. Sure, there were rumors and unproven lawsuits concerning their previous endeavors, but what was the real danger? Everyone knew those fake claims were just publicity to play into their name CGI.
Their newest endeavor was centered on their Upload Helmets. Users could put themselves into a virtual world, created entirely by memory. Through this people could experience the world through another’s eyes, no danger of any mishaps. This meant people could even relive memories based on emotions. Parents could see how they yelled at their kids and looked like monsters. Boyfriends’ “jokes” about their girlfriends became exposed as personal bashing comedy routines. Simple arguments could directly be seen as misinterpreted by both parties incorrectly assuming. Intentionality. Once Again, CGI Labs had done the impossible and found a way to connect hearts and minds.
The Upload Helmet connected people to a virtual world that was entirely based off of a person’s mind. A way to visit a shared mindscape if you will. Of course, a single person could craft their own virtual world just to experience the out of body-state.
Keith Stewart was a huge fan of the Upload Helmet. Every day he was sending his consciousness off into a world that he could craft and explore. There were warnings not to abuse the product, but Keith was never known for being a great listener. He was in the artificial world, helmet on his head every day. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. His favorite thing to do was to recreate his home from his memory. A test of his skills as an architect. Each time he’d tried to add whatever he missed. Then he tried to expand upon his home adding rooms that didn’t exist. His home became a mansion, then he tried to expand beyond that, creating a city. A strain on his helmet as the server was only meant to create things for a short time. If someone’s memory took place in a bar, then their home wouldn’t be loaded up.
Lucky for Keith the final abuse of his helmet came, when he was surrounded by others at work. So, when he put the helmet on for a demonstration and it began to smoke, people were able to respond. Unfortunately, when they got the helmet off, Keith’s body was unconscious.
Reap What You Sow (Hypnosis/Gabriel Reyes TF)
When Oliver Queen declared he would protect his city, he meant it. He just didn’t realise that it would take over his life in more ways than one. There was Green Arrow, the vigilante, the side of him that he could compartmentalise. As long as he donned his costume and went out in the dead of night, then it was like that side of himself was something tucked away. Hidden. He could imagine both sides and keep it from interfering in his daily life, if not that, then who he was as a person. He had failed at both of those numerous times, but yet it still helped. It helped that he could separate the two.
But the Green Arrow wasn’t enough. Ever since a new organisation, Blackwatch, had reared its head, he had to take matters into his own hand. So that was how Oliver Queen found himself waiting patiently in his office—the Mayor’s Office. He had traded the boardroom for the city council, hoping that with this new organisation he could take on a two pronged front.
At night, he was Green Arrow, stopping shipments, dropping drug dealers and making sure anyone and everyone who failed Star City wouldn’t get another chance to do it again. He had been pushing himself, making more arrests and captures and intelligence than ever before. All the while in the position where he wasn’t ‘recovering from the island’ or running a company that ‘practically ran itself’. He had been stressed about keeping his daily life separate and yet now more than ever when he had the most important and busy position in his life, he found the lines blurring until there were moments where he could no longer tell where Oliver Queen ended and Green Arrow began.
If the mission was to save the city (a nice slogan by Felicity he had to admit), then what was the difference whether he was doing it as mayor or vigilante? There was no difference besides the method and that was exactly what tonight’s upcoming meeting was about. He had given up patrol for the night, both too tired and too tense to focus on anything else but what was tonight.
Oliver didn’t even let himself show it by pacing in his office, thinking of a plan of what to do. This new organisation was like a hydra, they had a limb spread everywhere and he wasn’t even sure if he could trust the city council.
Oliver checked the time. Almost midnight. His office wasn’t bugged, he knew that for certain. They would need total privacy. The office was built for it. It was an old place in an even older building, its walls were thick enough that sound did not travel and the wiring had been replaced twice over during his first months as Mayor because he knew it needed to be secure. There were countermeasures hidden beneath the desk and inside the walls.
Devices that scrambled frequencies and rendered microphones useless. If there were going to be any surprises tonight, then he already cut the head off that snake. And yet there was something in his head that told him he couldn’t be so sure. He told himself that there was still some way they could see inside his office, could detect his behaviour, could see any hint of nervousness. Blackwatch was quietly winning the war, consuming gangs, taking over the city like a rot. Oliver had to play chess and make sure they didn’t see any weakness.
When the door opened two minutes after midnight, Oliver Queen was staring outside the window at the skyline of Star City. The city was like a jungle, wild and untameable in essence but also in how it looked. Maybe it was his time on the island but he just saw everything as some extension of nature and in the dead of night, Oliver Queen could only see the buildings as tall trees, made of steel and illuminated by a thousand different campfires burning away in the windows. It also meant that as he turned to look at Cole Cassidy stepping into his office, he didn’t see a man. He saw a wild thing, not quite a beast but not human either, but still the same thing—predatory.
Cole Cassidy sauntered in like a cowboy stepping into a saloon, with Oliver supposedly playing one of the stunned men in his mind. He was dressed like he came for war, adorned in black from throat to boot. A tactical vest sat across his chest over a dark shirt rolled to the elbows, whilst the man wore a duster above, slightly lighter yet rain dark at the shoulders. Oliver could instantly see the plates that shifted beneath the vest, armour most likely, more than enough to stop a bullet. The man was unfortunately handsome, Oliver wasn’t going to hide facts. His square jaw was made sharper from the sharp facial hair that adorned it, merging with the thick moustache across his lip. His brown narrow eyes instantly fell on Oliver, raising one of his thick brown brows so high that it nearly touched the black cowboy hat atop his shaggy head. His nostrils flared, like the smell of detergent and cologne was offensive to him and without saying another word, he reached into his holster and pulled out a cigar.
Better than a gun I suppose, Oliver thought to himself.
“I’d rather you not smoke here,” said Oliver with a warning tone that translated his words to you better not smoke here. Cassidy tilted his head up, cigar in mouth, lighter in hand inches away as if calculating how angry Oliver would be if he lit up anyway. He took the cigar out of his mouth and returned both it and the lighter to his holster. Oliver nodded, satisfied, and then gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Cole grabbed the chair with his mechanical arm and pulled it closer to the desk before he sat down.
“So…here we are.”
“Here. We. Are.” Oliver punctuated every word, trying his best to hide how excited he was for the meeting. If it were true and he could strike up a deal with Cole, then he would be in with one of Blackwatch’s commanders and stop them before it was too late. He knew what Cole would want, to sell out the commander of Blackwatch so that Oliver could take him down and then Cole would swoop in and take leadership himself. All these criminals were always so shortsighted. The one advantage this supposed ‘Reaper’ had that Cole didn’t was the fact that Oliver didn’t know who he was. He had searched everywhere, used every resource, called on every ally and still, nothing. It was almost like Reaper wasn’t real. A man who could supposedly turn to smoke was just as elusive as his abilities. Tonight that would all change, Oliver thought that and he was sure Cassidy did too. “I heard you’re the man who is ‘always right’, so let me ask simply. Do you really have information on Blackwatch’s leader?”
“I do. And you’re right…I am the man who's always right.” Cole declared as he leaned back, opening his legs as Oliver could see the man’s bulge. The dark jeans that wrapped around Cassidy’s thighs pressed inward, outlining the man’s cock. Oliver pretended not to notice. Cole smiled. “The leader is…how do I put it…” He tapped his finger animatedly on his chin, each tap stirring an impatience within Oliver. Why could the man not just hurry up and say what he meant? Does he think this is some kind of game? Oliver cleared his throat after a moment. “Oh. Sorry.” The cowboy smiled at Oliver, as if only just realising he was there. “Lost mah train’o’thought.” The words came so quick it was either a rehearsed lie or embarrassment. Oliver didn’t think the cowboy let himself be embarrassed by anything. “Funny how that kinda thing can happen.” At that, Cole stared at Oliver, enough to make the mayor realise the man hadn’t really been looking at him. The brown pools had been focused off to the side, raking up and down the mayor’s form, sometimes looking at his face but not directly at him. Not with his own eyes locked onto Oliver’s. When he did, a pale pink glow emanated from nowhere. The brown edges of the eyes suddenly darkened pitch black in contrast. As if the iris itself was injected with new colour, pink bloomed from within. Oliver did a double take. At first confused why the man’s eyes were glowing, then confused why he couldn’t look away when he tried to. His eyes felt magnetized, shaking, tearing his eyes away was the equivalent of rebelling against gravity.
“What…can…” Oliver blinked. Why had he suddenly sounded so quiet? He was the mayor, he told himself. He should have been focused, ready, this was important information. And yet all he could do was stare helplessly as the eyes drew him in. Much like how the outer edges of Cole’s brown looked pitch black in comparison, the rest of the world felt the same. The windows to the city darkened as if night could get blacker. The door to his office melted from mahogany to murkiness. Anything and everything that was not the cowboy’s face, his eyes, simply blurred, like he could only see the entire world as if it was out of the corner of his eyes. Oliver’s mind smudged like his vision. Thoughts were there, taking up space, but he couldn’t differentiate what they were or what he even wanted to say. All he could do was stare and comprehend that he was staring too long.
“Our leader’s a lot like you actually. Reaper. Grumpy and cocky sonofabitch,” Cole smirked wider and carried on as if nothing was wrong. Oliver blinked heavily, the only relief from staring at the eyes.
“Like…me?” The mayor shifted or at least tried to. But his body didn’t even risk movement. Completely focused on just staring. The words took a moment for him to understand. Like me? Does he know about The Arrow? He couldn’t…Could he? Even if he did, Oliver knew that The Arrow and the leader of some criminal empire were far from the same. “That…That’s impossible.”
“You sure?” Cole questioned quickly, surprising Oliver. Compared to him, it felt as if the Blackwatch agent was thinking twice as fast. “You sure you ain’t that kind of person?” Oliver blinked. He wasn’t sure why but he felt the same as if he had been asked something he didn’t know the answer to. All certainty slipped like the rest of the world into a blur, vague shapes and colours and ideas of what it could have been with none of the definitive definition. The uncertainty suddenly gave way to memories, short and clipped and few and far in between. Moments where he had to make the hard call. Times when he brutalised some thug as The Arrow. Days where the press pushed his buttons and had him snap at an intern. It was hard to think of the times when he showed criminals mercy or would apologise moments later to his staff. It was so hard to think at all. Oliver had no clue that his eyes began to slowly grow pink.
I…I…I don’t act like that. I do my best for the city, I help people.
“Well I…I do act like that, but only because my staff can be so incompetent when I try to do what I think is best,” Oliver’s words felt foreign to him, as if speaking another language. They sounded so close and so far away from what he actually wanted to say. But as if the conversation was a chess game, he felt like speaking was making a move. And he couldn’t take it back. He tried to speak, to correct, to explain, but he suddenly felt the urge to wait for his turn.
“Ah see that’s what I’m talkin’ about-”
No! No. That’s not…
“I’m…No I’m sorry I…” Oliver shut his eyes. Cole raised a brow as if that wasn’t what he anticipated. The moment the mayor did, his mind felt like it was at a standstill, on the edge of some unknown precipice, barely saved from falling. Oliver tried to focus, to think and could feel the words coming back. “Sorry I…” “You okay?” The smile in Cole’s voice wasn’t hidden at all. “Here, why don’t you put yer feet up.”
At once Oliver did so, moving to lean back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table. He did it without thought, an urge that he completely gave into. The moment the feet were crossed and on his desk, he blinked hard again. What was he doing? He thought to himself. He never sat like this before. Why would he? He wasn’t some cocky mayor that would be the type to have their feet up on their desk as they go ahead with their work? Especially not with a meeting as serious as this. Yet he couldn’t help himself. Somehow it felt right to do so as his mind warred with itself if that was even true.
“I-” “Here partner, lemme help you get comfortable,” Cole came closer, one hand wrapped around one of his shoes. Before he knew it both shoes were suddenly off, revealing his bare pale feet. Oliver wanted to say something, how obviously wrong and inappropriate this was. But he thought about the pink glow and everything turned into a dream, where he could think about how wrong things were and yet they happened anyway. What’s he…What…doing? My feet…
The man suddenly wrapped a gloved hand over a foot. At once, some of the darkness spread from the gloves as a tan spread over the paleness. The toes slowly thickened. All the while the arches of the feet stretched longer, lengthening as they writhed beneath the leather coated fingers. As the tendons clicked into their new place, the cartilage and muscles of the feet expanded, stretching out so much that it was almost comical they even managed to fit inside the shoes they slipped out of, moments ago. There was a cartoonish growth that made Oliver unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The same way he knew Hulk movies weren’t really an actor growing gargantuan green feet to burst out of footwear, he couldn’t conceive what was happening to his own feet. The toes twitched and he could feel it, the way the big toe brushed against the skin of the others. They were his feet and yet he still couldn’t understand.
All the while the arches spread out, growing both wider and longer as if trying to outrun the tanned complexion that bloomed across them. It looked like coffee poured into water, spreading to all the skin over his feet. As they did, both feet grew warmer, a sweat forming a sheen as they itched with hairs that bloomed through the skin. Each hair felt like a pinprick where instead of pain, there was just pleasure. The more that they were underneath Cole’s touch, the more that the feet began to be kneaded, not just massaged but suddenly stretched. Oliver could only stare the same way he did when the man’s eyes glowed pink.
My feet…What…Why are my feet…
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Yet he couldn’t deny that the feet were also feeling good. More than that, they felt orgasmic. As his feet were being rubbed, a scent wafted from the toes, so thick that Oliver swore he could almost see it curdling. Then it hit him, the tangy thick scent of musk and suddenly his cock wasn’t just something vaguely stirring. It shot up. Hard. Outlined in his own suit pants as much as Cole’s was. He was entirely unaware that it was slowly growing thicker, pooling mass, like there was so much pleasure to be concentrated through his thick cock that it just simply needed the added space to keep growing.
“Wooowee,” Cole whistled. “And look at these big manly things huh? You got a nice big pair of manly feet.” As he spoke, Oliver blinked.
Big? Manly? He looked down at his feet to argue that he would never exactly call the pale and lean things large or manly. They were supposed to be size ten, lithe, with the skin having been drawn back so that the toes looked almost sharp and cutting. But instead he saw large thick feet, wide and hairy, reflecting his office light with a sheen of sweat and he blinked. Much like it was a dream, his mind accepted the way things were. Even though there was a voice in the back of his mind telling him otherwise.
“Yeah I got big manly feet,” repeated Oliver, unaware his voice came out in a monotone. He blinked. Stop…I think something’s wrong. “Keep on rubbing em.” Oliver didn’t recognise the words or voice that came out of him when he gave the command. Cole wasn’t exactly someone he respected but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go around not treating him with some level of respect. Yet there was a sudden excitement in being able to tell the man he wanted to get his feet rubbed and watching him do it. The seduction of suddenly being commanding.
“Cocky huh? Well as you wish Commander…”
Commander?!
Before he could do anything, Oliver moaned and thrust his feet forward even more into Cole’s grip. He suddenly could feel that pleasure racing through his feet and wanting to go down his calves. Then he could imagine it going down to his cock. One more whiff of the musk and the tan began to spread as Cole took charge even as he did what his ‘commander’ told him. He began rubbing Oliver’s feet. The tan squeezed out of the feet and spread down towards the calves with each deep knead.
At the same time Oliver’s cock was suddenly growing, throbbing and thickening without even touch. He didn't even realise that he had slipped down his boxers as if wanting to get more of a feel for it. Whilst the cock was growing larger, it started to darken itself.
A vein in the shaft became more pronounced especially as the dick widened in its girth. Foreskin grew back over the once circumcised head, just to be peeled back as the cock head itself was wet. Oliver started to imagine the musk as some kind of smog, travelling up his body. He was never the kind of guy who liked that scent, something he had to suffer on the island and another thing he wanted to get rid of after the gym (along with sweat). Yet now he couldn’t get enough of it as he kept taking deep huffs of the musk. All the while his body reacted in kind.
If you want musk? I’ll give you musk.
Oliver wasn’t quite sure if that was some deep gravelly voice in the back of his mind or some interpretation of what his body was doing. Perhaps both. But suddenly his chest grew even more hairy beneath his shirt and tie. A meaty and growing hand reached up to loosen the tie whilst the pits themselves grew dark and hairy, bushy with the amount that threaded on top of one another.
As they bloomed, heat collected within the pits and caused more sweat to drool down, just adding to the musk in a continuous cycle. The more of the musk he took in and sniffed, the more that Oliver was starting to feel that resistance in the back of his mind crumble. The island that he survived on started to turn into an island that he did missions on. His time with the bow was shifting as his hands did the same, the fingers not remembering the correct positions to pull back the drawstring and fire. But instead their aim was something more calculated, on the mechanical shotguns that fit in either hand. More of the smog travelled up his body as it thickened and grew. His already muscular chest started to barrel out as Oliver writhed.
What the…What…happening…
“Shhh don’t worry Commander. I’m here to help,” Cole purred and the voice was like honey poured into his ears, thick and delectable. Oliver’s eyes fluttered as he forgot more and more, just huffing in that musk whilst one gloved hand wrapped around his cock. The moment the cool leather touched the warm brown skin, it was all over. His penis throbbed in the hand, already being pumped. If kneading the feet alone was enough to spread the tan, like it was something to be injected into the rest of his skin, then being pumped only did so faster. Oliver’s complexion turned tawny. “My, my Commander, look how hard you are.” The words slithered into his mind and the more that Cole called him Commander, the more he believed it.
Oliver’s chest continued to barrel out, not simply more muscular but belonging to a taller and more hefty body. As if his lean and tightly coiled self wasn’t so much built for survival and agility but for brute strength. His pecs widened slightly, being dragged across the chest whilst his ribcage pushed from within, expanding with every breath and every stroke and every moan.
The abs followed suit, losing some of their definition in favour of being more spacious, as even Oliver’s appetite changed, becoming something that was like his new self, more hungry. Cole continued to stroke, the next few pumps feeling like they were pumping up his ass which inflated. The bulbous cheeks finally tore off his boxers. Hairs grew on both of the cheeks as Oliver let out another groan, deeper and more guttural, as if belonging to a different voice entirely.
“Yes, keep doing that…keep serving your Commander,” Oliver grimaced as there was still a resistance, an unfamiliarity with what he was doing. Even still the results were undeniable as more pleasure pulsed through his arms. He hadn’t noticed that with Cole’s touch his suit was already morphing. Instead of being torn apart by his developing muscles and stretching body, the suit was merging together. The jacket and shirt formed the thick outer layer of a camo green hoodie, whilst his pants were left to be torn apart by thicker thighs. The more that they ripped, the more Oliver could feel the same happening to his resistance, his old life as The…The…
I…I can’t remember…
What was he even trying to say? His vigilante name or his job? All that came to mind was Reaper and Commander. Neither of those could be right. Could they?
Yet they were the only answers he could find and they felt more right, the more that his thickening thighs tore through the threads of his suit pants and his ass finally ballooned out to rip down the middle.
“M-My pants-” Oliver surfaced again, getting out of the sea of new thoughts about Blackwatch and unfamiliar faces, people behind the codenames Sombra and Doomfist and reports he read. He quickly looked down, panting just in time to see his visage in the polished reflection of his desk. The pursed lips and smooth nose were shifting. The lips were growing wider, the nose sharper, the tanned cheekbones higher. The very shape of his face was morphing with each stroke. “W-What the?! What is happening to me?!” Cole merely chuckled instead of indulging in panic.
“Calm down Commander, just let your subordinate here do his job,” Cole said slowly and something in his voice made Oliver throb. A thick glob of pre-cum spilled out the tip of his cock and suddenly wrinkles appeared over Oliver’s brow as his birthday year was suddenly older. In fact he remembered his birthday on a different date.
“N-No s-stop you’re…you can’t…I…”
“Relax Commander…You’re Commander Gabriel Reyes…” Stroke. Leak. Another forgotten memory.
“N-no I’m…I’m not! I…I…” Oliver panted, trying to argue but his mind was coming up blank.
“Relax. After all Commander…You know I’m always right.” Something about those words made Oliver moan and throb and leak some more. He knew the man was always right. He was his subordinate. Of course he would hire a good subordinate that was always right. It was just like him. There was no way that he was going to waste time getting someone so incompetent, he thought. And the more that he thought, the more he realised how little there was to think about as his cock continued to be stroked.
“I…I’m…I’m…” His cock was so close, so ready to let go, if only he wasn’t holding back. But there was absolutely no chance that he could stop himself. All he had to do was let go. All he had to do was let the new memories surface. And like a strained rope that finally snapped, he let go. “I’m Gabriellllllll-”
The last of Oliver’s face shifted, a goatee quickly sprouting around his lips as a beard formed over his jawline. His hair darkened completely.
Seed spilled out of Gabriel’s thick musky cock, pearlescent ropes that shot out one after another as euphoria exploded within him like fireworks. His entire body was alight with desire and the orgasmic bliss that came from the expert hands of his subordinates as Oliver Queen let out one last yelp and then quickly faded into the cum that shot out of his cock, completely gone.
As cum continued to shoot out of the throbbing rod again and again and again, all that was left in Gabriel’s mind was space and with each wave of pleasure, he could fill that space with new memories.
He could remember the experiment, Soldier 76, Blackwatch. All of it surfaced together like the smog that he was made of and filled his mind, stretching to all corners of his brain and filling them with nothing more than Gabriel Reyes. Finally, after what felt like the fifth or sixth time he had shot his load all over his desk, Gabriel smirked down at himself and looked at his own gloved hands. He hadn’t even realised he had any other clothes on besides the green hoodie.
All Gabriel could do was laugh as he tensed the fingers and realised he was now in control of the body.
“Good job Cole,” Gabriel purred as he felt his arms, checking that he was all there. His smile widened in confirmation. “Looks like our next mission will be easy. Now…what do you want as a reward? More money?” “No sir, you know what I want,” said Cole as he admired the sweaty and hairy muscle. “I want you sir.” Gabriel nodded.
“Lean against the desk and you better get ready. Let’s see if your hole is made for this cock,” replied Gabriel as he didn’t even wait for Cole to finish. He pushed the man against the desk and helped the cowboy pull down his pants and boxers, already satisfied to see his hole clenching. “Looks like you’re practically begging for me. Hold still.” “S-Sir-” Cole spoke with an uneasiness of how fast it was going. And then he forgot about that and everything else when he felt how Gabriel’s thick meaty cock easily slid right into his cheeks, plunged there like a key to a lock. “Sirrrrrrr~” “Fucking look at that. Fits perfect doesn’t it? Yeah and your tight hole feels fucking good,” Gabriel began to thrust. Hard. “Moan for me Cole.” That was a command Cole didn’t need as he was already a groaning and grunting mess with each thrust as Gabriel’s member already met prostate.
“S-Sir, oh fuck you’re so…so…” “So what Cole?” Gabriel already knew the answer. “Say it.” “So…dominant…Oh fuck…” Cole’s legs were already shaking as it was his turn to get wet, eyes threatening to roll into the back of the cowboy’s head. His hat threatened to fall off his head from how fast and hard Gabriel was thrusting into him, each throb expanding the walls of the cowboy’s anus.
“Damn right I am. I’m your Commander after all, now take it.” And Cole obeyed because he was no longer meeting with the Mayor. He was enjoying a private rendezvous with his Commander, the one and only Gabriel Reyes and there was nothing either of the men enjoyed more.
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No story today but here are some sequences if anyone wants to use and write their own story. Sorry not the best when it comes to masculine tf stories. 😕 Still had fun though!
Proper Lad
I only went into the pub because the train had been delayed again.
It was one of those places I’d normally avoid. Sticky carpets, football scarves pinned behind the bar, the smell of spilled lager soaked permanently into the wood. Every screen had the match on. Half the room shouted every time somebody got near the goal.
I was standing awkwardly near the bar checking train times on my phone when somebody beside me laughed.
“Mate, if you’re gonna watch the game, at least pretend to care.”
I looked up at him and immediately felt slightly out of place.
He was exactly the sort of guy who belonged there naturally. Mid twenties maybe. Tanned. Broad shouldered. Close shaved hair under a cap. Football shirt stretched across his chest.
Everything about him looked easy. Loud. Confident.
“I don’t really follow football,” I admitted.
“That obvious?”
“A little.”
He grinned and shoved a fresh pint toward me before I could protest.
By halftime we were talking like we’d known each other for ages.
Or mostly he was talking and I was listening.
He explained rivalries, players, chants. Stuff I’d never paid attention to before somehow sounded interesting coming from him. He kept nudging my shoulder whenever something exciting happened in the match, laughing when I reacted half a second too late.
“You’ve got potential though,” he said eventually, eyeing me over his drink. “You just don’t look the part yet.”
I laughed awkwardly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you look like you work in IT.”
“I do work in IT.”
“Yeah. Knew it.”
He smirked before taking another sip.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he added. “Just saying. Bet nobody’s ever called you a proper lad before.”
The weird thing was I wanted him to.
After the match he convinced me to come with him to the shopping centre nearby because “you can’t support your sweepstakes team looking like a substitute teacher.”
I should’ve gone home.
Instead I followed him through rows of sports shops while he picked things out for me like he already knew exactly what would suit me.
Slim black joggers.
Fresh white trainers.
Football tops in soft synthetic fabric that clung slightly when I pulled them on.
A cap.
High white socks.
Every time I stepped out of the changing room he looked me up and down with obvious approval that made my stomach tighten pleasantly.
“There you go,” he said when I finally came out wearing the full outfit. “Told you. Proper fit lad.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop looking at myself either.
The clothes changed the shape of me somehow. The joggers hugged my legs more than anything I normally wore. The shirt stretched lightly across my chest and shoulders. Even the trainers made me walk differently.
Looser.
Cockier.
And the materials felt good.
Too good.
Soft brushed fabric against my legs. Smooth athletic shirts sliding over skin. Thick socks hugging my calves tightly inside the trainers.
By the time we left the shop carrying bags, I already felt weirdly attached to all of it.
He noticed.
“Told you you’d suit it.”
Back at his flat we sat on the couch drinking cheap lager while football highlights played endlessly in the background.
The place looked exactly how I secretly imagined his life would. Clothes piled in corners. Football shirts hanging on doors. Empty cans beside the TV. The faint smell of deodorant, sweat, and fabric softener lingering in the warm air.
Comfortable.
Masculine.
Lived in.
At some point he tossed me one of his hoodies because I said I was cold.
The second I pulled it on my brain seemed to soften around the edges.
It smelled strongly of him. Sweat buried deep beneath detergent. Warm skin. Lager. That distinct masculine scent left behind in worn clothes.
“You look better already,” he said casually.
I laughed nervously, but heat rushed into my face anyway.
The beers kept disappearing.
Conversation got blurrier.
Easier.
At some point he moved closer beside me on the couch, his thigh pressed against mine naturally like it belonged there.
“You spend too much time in your head, don’t you?” he asked.
“What makes you say that?”
“You think before every sentence.”
I started apologizing automatically.
He laughed.
“See?”
Then his hand caught lightly around the back of my neck.
Not rough.
Just firm enough that my body immediately went still.
“You don’t need to do that here.”
The room suddenly felt very warm.
His thumb brushed slowly beneath my jaw while he looked at me with an expression that made my stomach flip hard.
“You’d be happier if you stopped trying to act clever all the time.”
Normally that should’ve annoyed me.
Instead it sounded comforting.
Like permission.
He reached over to the coffee table and picked something up.
A chain.
Not huge. Just a simple silver chain with a small padlock hanging from it.
“What’s that for?” I asked weakly.
“Think it’d suit you.”
I should’ve laughed.
Should’ve left.
Instead I sat there breathing shallowly while he slipped it slowly around my neck. The metal felt cold at first touch before warming against my skin.
The tiny click of the padlock made my pulse jump.
“There,” he murmured quietly. “Looks right on you.”
Something in my head shifted.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
I suddenly became hyper aware of him. The tracksuit stretched across his thighs. The roughness of his hand against my neck. The smell of stale beer and male sweat filling the room.
My thoughts started slowing down.
Work emails.
Train schedules.
Meetings.
All of it felt distant now. Pointless noise.
His fingers tightened slightly under my chin, forcing me to keep looking at him.
“That better?”
I nodded before realizing how eager the movement looked.
His smile widened.
Then he kissed me.
Messy immediately. Beer on his tongue. Saliva slipping warm into my mouth while his grip stayed firm against my neck. My entire body reacted at once, heat flooding downward hard enough to make me dizzy.
And underneath the physical rush came something worse.
Or better.
Thoughts unraveling.
The more I tasted him, the less clearly I could remember myself before tonight. My office suddenly felt unreal. The way I used to dress looked embarrassing now. Even the way I spoke in my head started changing.
Simplifying.
Softening.
Every time his tongue pushed deeper into my mouth another piece of my old life seemed to blur apart.
I didn’t want spreadsheets.
Or quiet little hobbies.
Or carefully planned weekends.
I wanted this.
Pubs. Football. Tracksuits drying on radiators. Arms around shoulders after matches. Loud lads chanting in crowded streets. Strong hands grabbing my neck possessively.
I wanted him thinking I looked fit.
Needed it, suddenly.
When he finally pulled back a string of saliva still connected our mouths before breaking onto my lower lip.
I barely noticed.
I was too busy staring at him.
Waiting.
My body practically leaned toward him on its own.
“There he is,” he said softly, sounding genuinely pleased. “Knew you’d come out eventually.”
I swallowed hard.
Not because I was nervous anymore.
Because somewhere deep down I already understood he was right.
Exactly What We’re Looking For
She stood in front of the wooden and glass store. Surf boards propped up outside, tropical plants somehow growing to frame the small windows that allowed glimpses of fully stocked shelves of swimwear and skateboards. She glared up at the sign calling the place Nautical Eclectics. This was not what she expected.
Desperate for a job, she had seen the ad online and couldn’t click fast enough. The name had instantly appealed to her, bringing to mind dusty shelves of antiques and the faint scent of musty books. She had called the number listed and a slow speaking man had told her to come to the store for an in-person interview.
The bell over the door gave the faintest, rusted little jingle as she pushed her way in. The sound was too bright for the dim filter of her day. Her boots clicked hard against the sand-dusted tile, echoing flat and dull inside the empty surf shop.
The air hit her nose first. Salt. Not the pleasant, distant sea kind—this was stale, ground into every rack of neoprene wetsuits, mingled with mildew, wax, and sunbaked wood. The place reeked of the beach, of sweat and sand. It made her skin crawl. She wrinkled her nose and tugged her jacket tighter.
It had been a mistake to go through with this. But when she was on her last paycheck she didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, the August heat outside was oppressive, especially in black leather, but the surf shop was dim and cool. just flowing air, heavy with a musk that reminded her of locker rooms and gym showers.
She muttered under her breath. “God, this sucks.”
The racks of brightly colored rash guards and shirts shouted back in neon letters and stupid little slogans: Good Vibes Only. Surf or Die. Hang Loose. The kind of saccharine cheer she had trained herself to sneer at.
Her black nails brushed against a rack of shorts as she walked, the bright, synthetic fabric alien against her painted fingertips. She trailed them, scowling, each squeak of hanger against metal rod making her flinch.
The shop was almost empty: just rows of boards lined up like sentries against the walls, tall glossy fins jutting out like shark teeth. She wanted to turn around, walk out, vanish into the shadows where she belonged. But something tugged at her, the promise of cold hard cash.
Her boots slowed. Her scowl eased, just slightly. She should at least appear happy to be there.
The faint Russell beaded curtain rang in her ears. A young man stepped onto the store floor, blonde, tanned and wearing a stained tank top, he looked like the store's poster child.
“Sup,” he said, smiling warmly. “You’re here for the job opening, right?”
“Yes, thank you. This place, it’s not what I expected.”
He laughed, “Yo, so like… you still into it or what?”
“I don’t really have much of a choice,” she responded with a self-deprecating shrug.
“Ok” he handed her a stack of papers, a faint smirk on his face “ “Yo, just like, fill out this thing real quick. It’s kinda just whatever at this point—you’re like, just what we’re lookin’ for. I’ll cruise to the back and grab some stuff for you to sign after, yeah?”
She took them, shaking out loose flakes of salt as she did. She glanced over at the paperwork, grabbing a pen from the counter of the checkout. The guy walked back though the curtain with a rustle, leaving her alone to fill out her application.
She started by filling in her name, DOB, home address, references, things like that. Then she got to the first question.
Why would you like this job?
Surfing - surfer = surf shop, natural fit.
Wares - obviously our fabulous clothing caught your eye, try some on!
Beach - close proximity to the beach is key for you, beach bum.
Seeing no option for ‘broke’, she just picked one at random. Circling ‘B’with her borrowed pen. Who put multiple-choice on the job application anyway?
She felt a strange warmth on her skin, a tingling sensation. Her goth outfit was melting away in a shower of sparks. Her leather jacket, her dark jeans, her many piercings gone. Replaced by a simple green hoodie and shorts. Her combat boots melted down, becoming worn leather flipflops.
She glanced down at herself in shock, wondering where in the hell her clothing had gone. She gasped, she needed air. Then she caught a glance of her new sandals. Her toes splayed against the cold floor, and—oh God—they looked different.
Her chipped black nail polish was gone. The nails were bare, short, and square. The skin had tanned and thickened, the softness of her heel now calloused.
“No,” she whispered. She glanced back at her application, trying to understand. She picked up her pen and resolved to finish it, maybe whatever just happened would reverse. . .somehow?
Picture yourself as the guy who works here, what would be your favorite part of the job?
Helping my fellow surfer dudes. - bros 4 life.
Employee discount - 50% dude, no brainer.
Dating - obviously all the hot surfer dudes and ladies want to bang me.
She frowned at the question, but dutifully envisioned herself as the man that she had met earlier. Imagining working at the store, surfing during lunch break, flirting over the cash register. . .
With her eyes shut, she failed to notice the changes overtaking her body. Her skin toughened and stretched as patches of light hair began to grow. Her heavy, dark makeup faded away, replaced by a healthy tan color. Under her hoodie her breasts pulled into her chest leaving only a small amount that twisted itself into broad pectoral muscles. The biggest change occurred down below as her nether regions reformed to become distinctly male.
She reached down to scratch at her new equipment. Not even aware of it, as she chose the discount. Fifty percent was a lot after all, even if she would probably never buy anything from here. She flipped over the page to continue.
If you could improve yourself in any way, how would you?
Stress - wish I could be more chill, ya’ know.
Skills - I want to improve my surfing talents.
Confidence - I want to be more confident in myself and my body.
She thought hard about this one, ‘B’ was obviously out but what would she like to change about herself. She eventually chose confidence, as she couldn’t remember ever really stressing too hard about. . . well, anything.
She was hit with a faint feeling of dizziness as her body suddenly seized. Her spin cackling, her height shot up. Giving her almost an extra foot, making her around 6,3”. The newly grown bones were soon covered by expanding muscles. Leaving her him lean and slim, his posture now better suited for his extended body.
How would you describe your working experience/style?
Charismatic - sure it helps to have a nice face, but it’s all in the act.
Sexy - sex does sell after all.
Laid back - not normally what employers want, but at a surf shop, well. . .
He looks over the options again, deciding to go with the first option after some deliberation.
He scratches his jaw, but it’s not his skin itching, It’s something deeper. His jaw reforms with a crack, becoming sharp and cut in his cheeks like shattered glass. His eyes shift to a deep blue instead of their former brown and everything else about his features become more broad, leaving his last remnants of femininity behind.
He reached up to pull the hood of his sweater over his head. His long black hair pulling back into his head, soon it was contained by the green fabric completely. Only small amounts of golden blonde curls peaking out. He brandished the pen in thicker fingers and moved to the next question.
A customer comes in, unsure what they want. What would you recommend them to look at and how would you sell it to them?
Flirt with them - obviously they’ll buy whatever I suggest if I give them a little extra charm.
Let them come to you - they’ll find something they like.
Share personal experiences - they want a board, share some tales of your feats in the surf.
He scratched his head at this question. Finding ‘B’ to be the best option he went to circle it with his pen. But when he circled it the paper seemed to jump down a quarter inch, leading him to actually choose option ‘C’.
He looked at the paper, mystified. But the more he tried to rationalize it the more he thought it was, actually, the perfect choice for him. Conflicting memories bashed for dominance in his head. Flashes of reading thick tomes and hours of thrifting black gothic styled clothing replaced by memories of hitting up the local bar for the fresh catch and just putting on the nearest pieces of clothing, no matter what bodily substances were on them. Filling his head was surfing knowledge, the right way to stand, what to do when you wiped out, how to properly maintain your boards, even his vocabulary was put through a surfer filter.
He glanced at the last question. Chuckling to himself as he remembered a particularly hilarious wipe out.
As an employee, how would you describe yourself?
A moody goth girl - not exactly who I would picture to work at a surf shop,but opposites do attract.
An introverted horror bookworm - well, maybe they like reading about the infinite blackness of the deep.
The chill surfer dude - the ideal; fit, young, fit, and a little slow up top is what makes a perfect beach bro.
Looking over the options, two selves seem to exist in his head, the goth and the surfer. He clutches his head as the final burst of memories push through in a swirl of salt. Images of the waves pound inside his head, he sees himself riding them, watching them, fucking in them. His past of being a woman seems less and less appalling, till, with the memory of a raving bonfire, his past self is swept away. Leaving him a surfer dude, fully and completely.
He circled the last option just as the owner, who he now remembered as Kade, walked back into the room.
“Yo, all done yet, buddy?” he inquired.
“Yep”
“Ok dude, here’s the contract thingy. Just scribble here and you're golden, bro. You’ll start Sun up tomorrow” he said gesturing to another piece of paper.
The newly minted surfer boy signed with a grin. “Cool, can’t wait bro. Feels like this gig was made for me, ya’ know.”
“Yeah, totally bro, you’re exactly what we’re looking for after all”
(More surfer, it probably goes without saying this is my favorite stuff to write, I mean surfers are just so. . .yum. Anyway, wonder what would have happened if he had answered some of those questions differently?)
Common sense
Benjamin was an underdog, he knew that. Standing at barely 5.2, he was extremely slim and unathletic. He still had braces and a greasy side part from 1962. Typically outfitted in horrid colored sweaters and thick square glasses. He was a nerd in every sense of the word except maybe in his intelligence. After all if he was a smart kid You’d think he’d had enough common sense not to bully the lacrosse team.
It stared at first little comments to his similarly nerdy friends about how stupid they were “only smart enough to swing around a large stick”. Evolving to openly mocking them to their faces eventually showing up at practices, yelling derogatory comments across the field. Billeting every dumb jock he came across in the halls. Smearing them childishly on his social media.
If you asked him why he hated the jocks so much. he’d babble some crap about the jocks being a less evolved breed of humanity or that they were awful people who could just run fast and were praised for it, depending on the day the explanation would change. But the truth Benjamin wouldn’t even admit to himself was jealousy. Jealous of their easy life. Jealous of their sex appeal. Jealous of their abilities far outweighing his own. He had always wanted to play lacrosse but was unfortunately just not built for it with his skinny frame and horrid eyesight. Of course, the jocks on the lacrosse team hated Benjamin, and two of them had a plan to rid them of his annoyance for good.
One afternoon, after being ditched by latest crush, a small pretty girl kissed her new boyfriend right in front of him. He took out his frustration on the lacrosse team as usual yelling horrible mean insults from the bleacher. After he started to get ready to head home as usual, he was grabbed by two of the players from the team, TJ and ned. Trying desperately to fight them he failed around screaming obscenities until TJ shoved something warms and damp into his mouth as a make shift gag
“What do you think of my sock you fucking nerd” he laughed
The salty taste and horrible smell took a couple seconds for Benjamin to get used to. Overloading him enough so the jocks could each grab one of his arms in their strong grip dragging him towards Ned’s car, a bright blue pickup truck. Shoving Benjamin in the back of the musty vehicle, they tied his hands and legs together. A couple seconds later Benjamin heard the car doors open and shut and the truck starting. Barely able to think through the haze of the musky scent of TJs sock and the car, musty from dozens of sweaty practices. He attempted to scream but all that came out was quiet muffled sounds.
Tj looked back “what’s that nerd.” He mockingly said “did you say you're sorry. Well, too late for that now jackass.”
Ned cut in “if it makes you feel better you won’t remember any of this soon.” Benjamin stopped struggling for a second and stared at them, eyes wide and terrified.
“Aw, look how scared he looks, bro,” Tj laughed. Looking back he said “bet your dying to know where where taking you”
“Youll find out soon enough, Don’t you worry” Ned said, exchanging a smug look at TJ. The smelly jock continued to talk about practice, not giving Benjamin another glance the rest of the ride.
When they finally stopped in front of a sporting goods store, TJ turned around and leaned into Benjamin’s ear “we’re here loser. Here’s how it’s going to go, I’m going to take this gag out but you won’t make a sound. Not one word or we gut you, got it!”
Benjamin fiercely nodded, scared for his life. But if they were letting him out of the car maybe he could make a run for it? After ripping off his gag, Ned roughly grappled him out of the car untying him. having TJ grab his left arm as he grabbed Benjamin’s right. Their grip is firm enough to disband any notion of bolting.
The sports store loomed large and unfamiliar to nerdy Benjamin. As the jocks dragged him though the doors of the large store, he saw the staff cheerily wave to them, like old pals. One even stopped them, and said “another one, bro,” gesturing to Benjamin. They took him into a side door which led into a row of changing stalls. They shoved him into one. Snickering to themselves as they duct taped his limbs together and Ned slid off his disgusting sandal, stained from years of after practice foot sweat, and duct taped them onto his face, covering his nose and mouth. They left Benjamin to his stinky misery saying something about “getting him new clothes” he barely understood through the haze of the rotten egg stench of the shoe.
Benjamin felt himself becoming more and more light headed as he was forced to breathe in more of Ned’s fragrant sandal. Breath after breath, the struggle to think began to lessen thoughts slowing to a dull crawl. He tried desperately crawling towards the door and managed to grab the handle. He tried everything to get it open, but I won’t budge. He fell back, disbanded of the notion of escape, his only thought was of how fucked up this truly was. But those thoughts started to change slowly. The more Benjamin was forced to breathe in the funk that expelled from Ned’s unwashed feet unto the flip flop, the more he found it appealing. He was horrified at the thought, but his concern vanished as quickly as it had mustered itself. Stuck huffing the strong scent, like fermented cheese, his mind started to become so empty the idea of thinking felt foreign, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening around him, and that’s when he started to change. . .
It started with a tickling sensation in his feet, his entire body going limp like a deflated balloon, he couldn’t move his body even if he thought to try. His arms and legs started to inflate, becoming lean and strong muscles. His thin stomach inflated giving way to a healthy thin layer of fat over rippling washboard abs. As if they were beach balls being blown by a mechanical pump, grow to massive round globes set between a widening set of shoulders. His bones cracked as they reformed painlessly giving him easily 12 more inches of height, finally capping at a staggering 6,5”. Similarly his medium sized prostate grows to be easily 8”. His entire body was once sized as warm tan spread from his head to his ankles, the kind that comes from wearing cleats often. His brown hair lightened to a nice blonde shade, curling up to form a more stylish look. He felt itchy as the beginnings of a coat of body hair grew across his tan skin. From the denser dusting on his legs and armpits to the clean shave of his now sharp jawline. His braces vanished as well leaving perfect teeth in their place. Benjamin’s body still itched from his new hair but also from the new tightness of his clothing, before his body gave one final spurt and they exploded off him. His sweater and jeans lay in tatters around him and his shoes split at the sole and canvas. Leaving him naked and high on the rancid scent he was still eagerly huffing.
Benjamin barely noticed the opening door until he heard the voices of the jocks
“Oof,” TJ remarked, “oh boy does it reek in here”
“Brought you some clothes bro,” Ned grinned down at the newly minted stink producer “bro, why are you huffing my flop again?” He asked as if it was a common thing.
At first Benjamin didn’t recognize his former bullies, thinking as hard as he could through his mucosa drunk haze. All the sudden, in a rancid huff it came rushing back. As his former nerdy memories faded into a condensed funk that rose from his sweaty body. It was replaced by memories of playing lacrosse his whole life, trying out for varsity and meeting his best brahs TJ and Ned who were just as musky and nasty as him. Years worth of memories playing with them on the field and farting around with them off field filled his mind. “Bro, it’s so good, bro,” Benji replied back with a dumb laugh.
“You're such a freak” Ned said without malice, “give it here, bro. Brought you yours, lord knows they're worse then me and TJs combined”. He threw over a hat, some blue shorts, a striped T, and of course a pair of rank flip flops, crusty from god knows what and coming apart slightly.
“Come on bro, I need to get you some gear,” TJ tells Benji.
Benji stares blankly before remembering why he came to the sports store with his bros. He needed some new cradle heads for his stick. He nods and quickly puts on his new outfit not once wondering why his friends would bring him a change of clothing. With the help of his friend Dereck, who works there Benji buys two of the best type. For some reason proud of his purchase he gets Ned to snap a pic outside his favorite store. Crouching down to get his best angle or really just an excuse to get closer to the heavenly musk of his feet.
(So excited to share my first story, a typical jock tf. Please excuse any grammar and spelling errors. Enjoy!!)
What if wolverine had the ability to make another person like him how about another one of the x men like cyclops transforms into him great work btw as I've.come across your page
One of Us
The Danger Room was rarely truly silent. Even when the simulations were shut down, the walls hummed with advanced technology, itching to create new battles and trials.
Logan, as he often did, stood in the centre of it all, claws out, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath.
But this time, something was wrong.
He could feel it under his skin, deeper than bone, deeper than his adamantium. His healing factor was in overdrive, it wasn't just repairing damage anymore, it was doing something else...
“Logan.” Cyclops stepped through the doorway with one hand raised. His visor glowed red, a thin line of warning across his face.
“Easy,” Scott said. “We can help you.” but Logan’s head snapped toward him. His eyes were wild, but there was fear beneath the fury.
“Don’t come any closer, Scott.”
Cyclops stopped. For one second, they were teammates again. Brothers in all but name. Men who had saved each other too many times to count.
Then Cyclops, perhaps on the instinctual, existential danger that Logan somehow posed fired his optic beams at Logan, preparing to take him in unconscious rather than risk what new changes had come over his fellow teammate.
Cyclops fired again and the optic blast tore across the Danger Room, smashing metal plates and sending broken concrete skittering across the floor. Logan rolled beneath the beam, claws scraping sparks from the ground. Before Scott could adjust his aim, Wolverine hit him like a missile and they crashed into the wall.
Logan’s hand clamped around Scott’s shoulder and immediately Logan knew what he did was a mistake...
Scott screamed. Logan tried to pull away, but his body would not obey. Whatever had awakened inside him poured through his fingers and into Cyclops like poison, like fire, like a geas.
Scott shoved him back and staggered away. His glove split first. Dark hair pushed through the torn blue fabric. Muscles tightened under his uniform. His breath became harsh, ragged... animal-like. He stared at his own arm as if it belonged to someone else. “What’s happening to me?” he called out, his voice already becoming deeper.
Logan’s face drained of what little colour it had.
Scott dropped to one knee. His visor flickered as his hands flew to his face. Bone cracked and shifted. Teeth sharpened. Brown hair thickened and swept upward into a feral crest. Heavy sideburns crawled down his jaw.
“No,” Scott gasped. “No, my head.”
But there was no voice to fight. No enemy in his mind, it was a biological process, each individual cell given new instructions; told to re-configure with the sheer genetic determination of Logan's regenerative factor.
With a wet metallic sound, three claws tore from Scott’s fist.
SNIKT.
The sound echoed through the chamber like a verdict.
Logan stepped forward slowly, horrified by what he'd done. “Scott…”
Cyclops looked up. His visor was cracked, red light leaking through the broken glass. His face was still Scott Summers, but rougher now, wilder, reshaped by Logan’s regeneration.
“I’m still Scott,” he said.
His voice trembled.
Then his claws flexed.
He rose to his feet.
“But this…” Scott looked down at himself, at the torn uniform, the hair, the claws, the strength flooding through him. His fear faded into something darker. “This is me now.”
Logan said nothing, what could he say?
For the first time in years, he looked truly afraid.
Scott stepped beside him, holding the shattered remains of his visor in one hand. Two Wolverines stood in the wreckage of the Danger Room: one born to the beast, one remade by it.
From the doorway, another X-Man’s shadow appeared.
Logan turned and his claws gleamed.
Scott smiled.
“Together?” he asked.
Logan’s eyes narrowed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Together.”
----
As I said before, I always come back to any of the messages sent to me for when I get a decent result, and here's one of them.
Thank you for the wait, and I hope you enjoy!
Uncle, Roommate?
/tw incest, in a way
My uncle, roommate- wait. No- fuck I don't know anymore I'm so confused. There used to be this person that Jace used to be. The day that changes began I thought I was going crazy- I woke up to him in the kitchen making breakfast. Instead of his usually short fat ugly self, he looked… normal. Something I hadn't been used to at all.
ManUp: The Video Game
Level 6
After a night of playing a game he couldn’t recall, Travis took off his headset and lit up a smoke. Once again, there were tissues spread across the table. His balls ached as they were completely empty, but he felt good. He felt like he had the best virtual night of his life.
Travis started his Sunday morning with a a few Marlboro Reds and a heavy breakfast. He cracked open a beer as well. He figured that it was the weekend and it was meant for relaxation.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Rob as well. He had never had a crush on a man before. His thoughts automatically went towards kissing him and fucking him.
He opened another beer, noticing it was his last one. He chugged it and headed out to get another case.
He lit up another smoke and walked down the sidewalk.
As he was walking, he passed by the construction office. He noticed Rob was entering. With it being a Sunday, Travis figured Rob was trying to get his bearings before taking over on Monday.
Travis thought of an excuse to follow. Without thinking of one, he still headed in.
“Hello?” Rob called out from Bob’s old office.
“Hey Rob! It’s Travis. Just swinging by for a quick minute,” Travis announced as he entered as he office. Rob was standing by the desk, fresh Red lit between his lips, as he was looking at the mess of papers scattered across it.
“Oh, hi Travis,” Rob said as the Red bounced up and down.
“Working on a Sunday?” Travis asked as he took out his pack of Reds. He coolly slid one out and placed it in his lips. He flicked his lighter and inhaled deeply before exhaling.
“Yeah. Unfortunately. Been stressed about taking over. My Uncle didn’t keep things super organized.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Travis laughed. He looked at Rob, who was looking very handsome as he smoked. He wanted to be around him, “Well, let me help.”
“You don’t have to,” Rob said as he exhaled some smoke.
“I know, but I want to,” Travis assured him.
The two men spent the day going through all the papers and making sense of the mess. They both chained smoked as they chatted and worked together.
The two of them laughed and joked as they got to know each other. They even teased each other a bit. Travis was feeling a flutter in his chest. He was crushing hard.
Travis was not trying to overthink, but Rob had touched and brushed Travis’ leg with his own. It was just an accident, Travis thought.
It was starting to get dark outside when the office finally became organized.
“Thanks a lot. I mean that,” Rob said as he lit up another Red.
“Of course. I’ll help you anytime,” Travis said.
“Well, we better lock up. Enjoy our last part of our weekend,” Rob said as he got up. Travis stood as well. Rob seemed anxious, maybe a bit nervous.
“Yeah, we better,” Travis agreed.
“This might be a weird question, and I don’t want you to think any differently of me….but…you know, never mind. It can wait,” Rob said as he walked away.
It was almost like instinct. It was something Travis had been wanting to do since last night. He grabbed Rob’s hand and pulled him in. He placed his lips on Rob’s and the two kissed. The kissing turned into intense making out.
Rob finally stepped back and placed his Red in his lips.
“Sorry…I…didn’t know what came over me,” Travis started apologizing.
“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me. Your place or mine?” Rob said as he grinned.
—
Several months had passed. Rob and Travis had been seeing each other each night and without even putting a title on it, had become boyfriends.
Travis’ beard and belly had grown a bit. He still worked hard at the construction site but now as the site manager.
One evening, Travis came home to find Rob already there. Rob had unofficially moved in a few weeks ago. Rob was sitting on the couch in his underwear and shirtless. He was smoking and having a beer.
“Hey Babe,” Rob said, “You’re home late.”
“Yeah, Greg was having some difficulties with the cement mixer. Was helping him fix it.”
“Get comfortable and come sit with me. I already ordered a pizza. Should be here soon,” Rob suggested.
Travis got out of his work clothes and grabbed a beer. He sat next to Rob and out his arm around him.
The two men chatted about their day and they smoked. Both of them became even heavier smokers when they started dating.
“Anything you wanna do tonight?” Rob asked.
“Besides you?” Travis teased.
Travis looked at the man that he loved and thought back at who he use to be. He grabbed his phone and pulled up his old Twitch account. He had been inactive for a long time.
“You won’t believe this. I never showed you this,” Travis said as he showed Rob an old clip from one of his streams.
“Who’s that?” Rob asked, confused.
“Me,” Travis answered.
“No shit? That little nerd was you?” Rob teased, but in shock.
“Ha, yeah. I grew up,” Travis laughed.
“Yeah, and much hotter now too,” Rob said before leaning in to make out.
After fucking Rob, Travis laid next to him. The two of them were having a post-sex Red.
After their smokes, Rob kissed Travis goodnight. Travis wasn’t tired though. He was reflecting on how he became who he now was.
He got up and headed to his gaming station. He hadn’t turned on his computer or played the ManUp game in months. He didn’t feel a need to anymore.
He booted up the game and put on the headset. There was nothing showing, besides the following words:
“Congratulations! You did ManUp!
Was it the blue collar job? Or was it the extra weight you now carry? Or was it the heavy smoking? Or was it fucking a man?
Whatever made you ManUp, enjoy it. This is your life now and there is no resetting it.
GAME OVER.”
Travis stared at the last two words as he lit up a Red. He loved who he became. And even though the game was over, his new life was just beginning.
Could you do a tf similar to the frat haunting story but where a gay stoner bro changes a reserved college student into a pierced up like stoner slob anything to do with socks shoes or clothing furthering the tf is awesome too and I don't get too see much of that
Alec always loved Halloween night with his frat bros. Always loved their sacred tradition. He remembered his first time as a new pledge. The first Halloween they brought him down to that dingy basement, where one of the older members summoned the ghosts of their predecessors. Sure, Alec had been scared at first, not really knowing what to expect. But very quickly, he felt that cold chill pass through him and found himself in the driver's seat of his own body.
"Oh shit, this feels nice." He had heard his own voice slur, "Thanks for the bod, bro."
Whoever this ghost had been certainly enjoyed the night. Alec found himself watching as his body took up space in a corner of the room, lighting a joint and getting high. And it felt good. Just vibing, smoking weed, and managing the munchies with the greasiest food available. For Alec, a star athlete and golden boy, it felt like a nice quick vacation from his usual life. And the next morning- all was back to normal. Alec woke up half-naked on the couch, joint lazily wedged between his fingers, and went back to his usual day-to-day. He had done it. He was now fully one of the bros.
---------------
Two years had passed since Alec's freshman Halloween party experience. And in those years, Alec worked hard. He hit the gym, practiced on the field daily, tanned in the sun, went to parties, and excelled academically. Confident, popular, and ready to face whatever challenges came his way.
On Halloween night, he stood in the dingy basement watching as another group of new frat bros prepared for the ritual. All was going just as it should. The lights flickered, the cold air settled throughout the room, and the spirits made their appearance. And as Alec laughed alongside his buddies, he felt something. A cold chill pass through him. His laughter stopped.
"Alec, you okay man?"
"Yeah... Yeah..." He frowned, "Did you, uh feel that?" His bros shook their heads, "Must be imagining things." He laughed halfheartedly.
Despite the lingering feeling something was off, Alec went back to welcoming the old frat bros back to the land of the living.
---------------
"Did you have fun at your little occult party?" She ran her fingers across Alec's muscular chest.
"Best party of the year." He smirked, pulling her close, "But I think... what's wrong?"
A look of disgust crossed her face, "That smell..." She frowned, "I didn't know you smoked weed."
Alec raised an eyebrow. Yeah, he'd smoked before. But not recently. And he'd certainly change if his clothes stunk of it. He hated the smell, and clearly his date did too. But as he took a whiff of his shirt, the smell of weed filled his nostrils. And it wasn't subtle. It was strong. Obnoxious. It wouldn't be possible to not notice it.
"Fuck... I don't know how..."
"Let's reschedule." She said quickly, "And next time, maybe don't pick me up smelling like that."
---------------
"Dude, Brit is telling everyone about..."
"I don't get it. So what? I smelled like weed." Alec frowned, shoving a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, "Probably washed my clothes with Derek's or John's by accident."
"Yeah, but like, how didn't you notice?" One of the other guys laughed, "Really blew your chance there. And doubt any chick from that sorority will give you the time of day."
"Whatever." Alec grumbled, chewing on another mouthful of Cheetos.
---------------
Alec woke up groggy, his head pounding from Saturday night's festivities. But he had a routine, hangovers be damned. He stumbled to his closet, reaching for his workout gear. But as he rifled through the hangers, he found nothing but a collection of faded, torn jeans and unwashed, sweat-stained t-shirts. But it was the stench of stale weed that made Alec's stomach churn. It clung to every piece of clothing and spread through his room like wildfire.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." With a sigh, he grudgingly slipped into the dirty attire, "Which one of those fuckers took my clothes?"
He left the room, initially planning to confront his bros. But with each step and each breath of the stale sweat and weed, Alec's thoughts became less focused. By the time he made it to the living room, the clothes felt like they had always been his.
---------------
"Hey, Alec," one of his frat brothers walked into the common area, "haven't seen you at the gym in weeks. Everything cool?"
Alec shrugged, lighting up a joint he'd scored from a buddy.
"Nah, just been busy." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, feeling the familiar buzz wash over him. Suddenly, a thought struck him, "Hey, you think it's possible for a spirit to possess someone more than once?"
His brother raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, man. Why?"
Alec took another drag, not really caring about the answer anymore, "Just curious." He muttered, already forgetting why he asked in the first place.
As he sat there, Alec couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed. This content. The weed, the grubby clothes, the lack of responsibilities - it all blended together perfectly. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, realizing he hadn't shaved in days. Maybe weeks. Didn't matter though.
---------------
Alec stared blankly at the failing grade scrawled across the crumpled exam paper. His stomach churned with disappointment, but the sensation was distant, muffled. He should care more, shouldn't he? This was supposed to matter.
Instead, he found himself more interested in the joint burning down to a nub between his fingers. He took a long drag, inhaling deeply as he leaned back in his chair. The thick, pungent smoke filled his lungs, calming his nerves. He nearly jumped at the icy cold sensation that tore through his body.
"What the fuck?" But the feeling dissipated quickly.
Alec sighed, absently scratching at the patchy chest hair sprouting from his softer, less defined pecs. His once sculpted physique had slowly dissipated over the past months. Not that he minded much these days. Comfortable was better than ripped anyway.
---------------
Alec leaned back against his bed, feet propped up on the mattress. Coach's words echoed in his mind, but they felt detached, irrelevant. Kicked off the team. That should hurt, right? He should be devastated.
Yet, all Alec could focus on was the comforting musk emanating from the holes in his socks. He'd discovered this damp, stained pair of socks festering in a heap of his dirty clothes a few days prior and had been wearing them ever since. The earthy scent, the slightly sticky texture – it was strangely soothing. But something moved in the corner of his eye, prompting him to spin in that direction.
"I could've sworn..." He frowned. What was that? It almost looked like a...
He absentmindedly scratched his stomach, recoiling for the briefest moment at the unfamiliar pudge that had settled on his midsection.
Under different circumstances, this would've sent him into a panic. But today, all he could muster was a fleeting thought of, "Should probably go jog or something," before dismissing the idea entirely.
---------------
Alec trudged through campus, ignoring the whispers from the other students. The stares, the snickers, the pitying glances. He should care, right? Because this wasn't him. He wasn't… A sudden, sharp ache shot through his earlobes. They felt…empty. Hollow. Alec's steps quickened, propelled by an urgent need he couldn't quite understand. And suddenly, he was standing inside a shop he never knew existed.
"Afternoon. What can I do for ya?" The body piercer said.
Without hesitation, Alec blurted out, "Ears. Both sides. Something big."
---------------
Weeks blurred together in a haze of smoke and the sound of the tattoo needle. They buzzed against Alec's skin, etching dark designs onto his chest, arms, neck, and face. Piercing guns punctured his ears, lips, nose, eyebrows. With each new addition, a flicker of terror sparking within him, his reflection was almost unrecognizable now. He had fallen so far. Had become someone else entirely.
"Why is this happening?" Alec whispered, staring in the mirror and feeling the gauges in his stretched earlobes, "Why am I doing this?"
He stood outside the tattoo parlor and shuddered at the icy cold sensation that coursed through him. His resistance crumbled as he caught a whiff of the comforting musk of his filthy clothes and heard the buzzing of the tattoo needle.
---------------
Alec sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes dull and half-lidded. The room reeked of stale smoke, body odor, and the faint hint of rotting food. His buddies avoided him, professors gave up on him, and for the first time Alec felt lost. He felt further from himself than ever before.
"I need to turn it around." He ran a hand through his greasy hair.
He sighed and took a long drag from his joint, blinking as he noticed a ghostly figure materializing before him. It solidified into the form of a man he vaguely recognized. The frat bro the night of his first ritual. The one who first possessed him.
"It's you." Alec slurred, "You... No, no, get away from me." The ghost floated closer, its eyes locking onto Alec's. "You ruined my life," Alec murmured, a flicker of clarity piercing through the fog in his brain. "Please… go away. Leave me alone!"
The spirit grinned lazily and surged forward. Right into Alec. The young man grunted as the spirit filled him. And in those moments, Alec realized something. Realized how weakened and disconnected he was with his true self. Realized how there wasn't much of him left in this slovenly, tatted, pierced form. Alec cried out, as the lines between Alec's original consciousness and the spirit blurred, until they disappeared entirely. He was Alec in name only, but his life... his very fate, were forever tied to the spirit's.
"Woah, that was intense." Alec slurred, "What a fuckin' trip."
Any semblance of Alec's former self, any hope for redemption or return to his previous life, vanished without a trace. There would be no questioning, no yearning for something more. The possession was absolute, and Alec was unaware of the extent of his loss. Forever trapped in a life he would've never wanted. Forevermore just another stoner slob.
You passed a new costume shop on your way home from class, its front window packed with masks, capes, and bright plastic weapons. The upcoming anime-and-cartoon party at your frat house had been all anyone could talk about for days, so you figured you might as well look. Near the back, tucked between superhero knockoffs and retro comic costumes, you found a yellow-and-black bodysuit labeled “Feral Mutant Hero.” You laughed at first thinking it must be an unlicensed Wolverine costume. The guy on the package looked like everything you felt like you weren’t: bold, handsome, dangerous, fearless — the kind of man who walked into a room and took exactly what he wanted.
The costume looked absurd when you first pulled it on. It bunched around your stomach, strained awkwardly across your hips, and made the fake cigar in your mouth feel even more ridiculous. You still couldn’t help but smirk - feeling an undeserved sense of pride…unsure where that came from. But then the fabric tightened. Not painfully — purposefully. Your soft middle began to flatten as heat rushed through your body. Fat melted away, replaced by hard, dense muscle that pushed outward against the spandex. Your shoulders widened. Your arms thickened. Your chest rose into a powerful, sculpted shape beneath the yellow fabric.
You stumbled back toward the mirror as your body kept changing. A few inches of height rolled up through your spine. Your red hair darkened strand by strand until it became thick and jet black, lifting into a wild, unruly shape. Your smooth cheeks tingled, then burned, as heavy mutton chops spread down the sides of your face. Stubble roughened your jaw. Your package swelled and expanded. Your expression changed too — less nervous, less boyish, more intense.
Then came the hair. It started at your forearms, dark and coarse, spreading over your hands and up beneath the sleeves. It thickened across your stomach, your legs, your shoulders, until finally a dense patch bloomed across your chest, visible through the stretched-open neckline of the costume. You looked older now, stronger, hairier, and far more dangerous. The cigar no longer looked ridiculous in your mouth - it completed the transformation.
You quickly retracted your claws back into your hand. Now you were no longer a boy crammed into a ridiculous costume but a man occupying the space he deserved.
The New Guard
Inspired by @badguyswin and his MFSA stories.
The air outside of the stadium was full of with tension. The game was about to start, and the “Make Football Straight Again” supporters were out in force—flags waving, red shirts worn proudly, demonstrating traditional manhood in sports. Facing them was a small, shrill group of counter-protesters.
At the front was 21-year-old Liam Brooks: scrawny, weak-shouldered, barely 5’7”, with a soft, unimpressive body hidden under a baggy Pride hoodie. His voice was whiny as he screamed into his megaphone: “Make Football Queer Again! Bigots out!”
Liam believed every word. He saw the MFSA movement as pure evil that needed to be crushed.
It was then that the change slammed into him like a freight train.
A deep, unnatural heat surged up from the ground, wrapping around his skinny frame. Liam gasped, dropping his sign as his body began to violently reshape.
His spine elongated with loud cracks, rocketing him up to 6’4”. Thin legs exploded with muscle with calves turning into hard diamonds, quads ballooning into massive, powerful slabs that shredded his jeans instantly. His narrow chest barreled outward into thick, heavy pecs covered in coarse dark hair. Shoulders widened dramatically, arms swelling into veined, rock-hard biceps and forearms built for dominance. His abs carved into a solid eight-pack, and his ass tightened into powerful, muscular glutes as his back entrance closed tighter, nothing going in there anymore. A thick, heavy bulge formed between his legs, enlarged and aroused further by the changes.
His face aged and hardened in seconds. Youthful softness vanished, replaced by a square, weathered jaw lined with salt-and-pepper stubble. His hair receded into a tight, buzz cut, graying at the temples. Crow’s feet and deep lines made him look every bit of 48 years old. His soft brown eyes turned cold, steel-blue, and mean. Covered by sunglasses that were as dark as his intentions.
The baggy clothes dissolved and reformed into a crisp Police Department uniform stretched tight over his new muscular body. Badge gleaming: Officer Brock Harlan. Heavy tactical boots, full duty belt with holstered weapon, cuffs, baton, and radio. A crisp tie formed around his neck, adding to his new air of authority.
But the worst changes were mental.
Liam’s progressive ideals didn’t just fade. They twisted and rotted into something ugly. College lectures on inclusion warped into a deep, seething contempt for “degenerates,” “freaks,” and “woke scum.” A cruel streak emerged, a love of power and punishment. He now craved enforcing order the hard way—especially on people like his old self. Corruption bloomed naturally: he saw the badge as a license to bully, to take what he wanted, to make examples out of anyone who resisted “real American values.” The MFSA movement wasn’t just something he supported now. It was his cause. He would protect it ruthlessly, and he would enjoy every second of breaking the betas and sissys who opposed it.
Officer Brock Harlan flexed his massive arms, cracking his thick neck with a predatory grin. The old Liam was completely gone, replaced by something far darker. Something far better.
“Party’s over, you pathetic little shits,” he growled in a deep, gravelly Carolina drawl, his voice dripping with contempt and authority.
The remaining protesters froze.
Brock laughed—a low, nasty sound—and stepped forward, towering over them with his huge, muscular frame. His steel-blue eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure.
“You freaks have been ruining this game long enough. Pushing your sick agenda on kids, turning locker rooms into freak shows. Not anymore.”
He snatched a rainbow flag from a protester’s hands and ripped it to shreds with ease, muscles bulging. “Make Football Straight Again isn’t just a slogan. It’s the truth. And I’m gonna make sure it sticks. Men in men’s sports. Real men. Real football.”
Brock grabbed the closest activist by the collar with one massive hand, lifting the smaller man slightly off the ground. “You gonna keep causing trouble tonight? Because I’d love an excuse to drag your sorry ass in. Rough.” His smile was cold and vicious. “I’ve got cuffs, a baton, and plenty of ways to make the process… educational.”
Fear rippled through the group. Brock released the man with a shove, sending him stumbling backward.
“Get the hell out of here,” he barked.
As the protesters scattered in panic, Brock adjusted his duty belt over his thick, powerful waist, chuckling darkly to himself. He felt no remorse—only a rush of sadistic satisfaction. The movement had given him everything: a powerful body, real purpose, and the perfect position to crush its enemies.
He turned toward the roaring stadium, arms crossed over his massive chest, a cruel smirk on his rugged face.
“Time to keep the game straight,” he muttered. “And I’m gonna enjoy every fucking minute of it.”
fuck yeah bro love to see the influence of the MFSA movement spread! welcome to the straight side!
Happy Easter! Let's celebrate this spring holiday with story about old man getting his youth back and something more.
Easter Bunny
It’s late Holy Saturday afternoon; Professor Edmund Alistair Hawthorne stands in his silent office before the university’s newest acquisition: a pristine granite statue of Ostara.
At eighty, Edmund is a fragile ghost of a man, his rachitic frame swallowed by a tweed vest and a crisp white shirt. A thin, silvery stubble coats his hollow cheeks—a rare sign of neglect in a life dedicated to the sterile pursuit of history. Before him, the goddess radiates a terrifying, stone-carved vitality. Ostara, the Germanic bringer of dawn and fertility, stands atop a plinth etched with runes of raw power, her form a testament to the unstoppable surge of spring.
The Ritual of Rebirth
Edmund’s heart flutters with a mix of academic curiosity and a sudden, desperate longing for vitality when he is examining the statue. He remembers the ritual from a leather-bound volume—a ceremony for "New Life and Strength." With trembling hands, he places the offerings at her feet: a rabbit’s foot, an egg, and a flickering candle.
The transformation ignites deep within his marrow, a searing tide of heat that radiates outward to consume the frailty of his eighty years. The chronic, grinding ache in his joints vanishes instantly, replaced by a thrumming vitality that pulses through his limbs like liquid fire from a forge. The translucent, parchment-like skin of his face thickens, reclaiming a healthy, rugged glow. His thin white hair turns thick and starts getting darker hue.