Haircuts and Male Transformation

I like men's haircuts, especially transformation cuts, and I like transformation stories, especially jockification. All the pictures were downloaded from the internet and do not belong to me. I don't post explicit pictures, but I do write and reblog stories with adult language and themes that are not appropriate for all readers. You've been warned.

[mpbbcman78]

[hb24boy]

[brianmeh2014]

[mulletpermsicantlookaway]

Look, I know you miss being a nerd and all, but have you looked at yourself? Nerds don't have bodies like yours, bro. You'll get used to it. Trust me. Soon, you'll be thanking us.

[mulletpermsicantlookaway]

Riding to Work

One afternoon in early summer, Brandon rode his bicycle home from work. He rode his bike to work and back nearly every day, if he could – it was his favorite part of the day. He had a good but unexciting job with a software company in an up-to-date large city in the western U.S. He fit the stereotype of a hipster tech worker perfectly. He had done well in school, had a solid job in his early twenties, and lived in a decent loft apartment just far enough away from his job to have some serious time on his bicycle. He wore nerdy-looking glasses that he actually needed in order to see. He dressed casually but fussily at the same time, and his long-on-top-faded-on-the-sides haircut, complete with a shaved-in part, required regular maintenance.

He rode to and from work in the same clothes he wore in the office, using a bicycle clip if he thought his skinny jeans or slim-fit pants might have enough material at the ankle to catch his chain. Anything he needed for work he carried in a messenger bag, even though there were hardly any actual bike messengers left in the city. He hadn’t lived there long, and he really knew no one except a few of his co-workers. He supposed that he was okay with that, but something still felt missing in some way, missing from his life, that is. The only time he felt fully alive was when he was riding his bike.

On a whim, he stopped by a cool-looking bar on the way home. “Might as well stop and have a drink – do something different for once,” he thought. The place had a moderate crowd, mostly other young urban types like himself, but no one he knew. Like most bars, the TVs were tuned to a few different sports channels.

Soon he was sitting by himself at a table, idly sipping on a mojito or a mule or something – he hadn’t really paid attention to what the bartender had recommended, but he was sure it began with an “m”, at least. His eyes wandered to one of the TV monitors. The channel was promoting its upcoming coverage of the Tour de France and showing clips from previous years. Even someone as low-key about sports as Brandon had heard of the Tour. That was the one bicycle race that nearly every American who wasn’t into bicycle racing had heard of.

He found himself drawn in, fascinated by the fast racing machines so unlike his single-speed commuter. The racers fascinated him, too, clad all in matching team kits of skin-tight spandex with tanned arms and tanned hairless legs. Without really understanding the tactics, he could see that the team members were working together to get certain racers into certain positions. And they moved so fast! He wondered what it would be like to be a racer on one of those teams, riding his bicycle all day. Those tanned, skinny guys in spandex, that was their job: riding a bicycle for a living. What would that be like?

The channel moved on to some other sport, and Brandon found his attention wandering. He finished his drink and headed home to another night alone in his hipster loft. He had hardly felt the alcohol, but he was intoxicated in a different way: he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be a professional bicycle racer, flying over those European roads so fast. It was all he could think about the whole night.

Waking up dully the next morning after restless dreams (which he couldn’t remember), he got ready to head to work. He felt better as soon as he got his bicycle moving into traffic. He was enjoying himself, as usual, but his mind kept wandering back to the racers in the Tour. The race was supposed to start today. He might actually decide to watch the coverage this year, he thought. Why not? He rarely watched sports, but it wasn’t as if he had other plans.

He suddenly came out of his reverie as a big delivery truck pulled out from a side street right in front of him. He hit the brakes as hard as he could, locked up the wheels, flew over the handlebars onto the pavement and blacked out.

« Bruno, mon pote! Lève-toi, lève-toi. Il faut qu’on aille! »

Hearing those words, he tried to rouse himself. He couldn’t remember where he was or what had just happened, but the voice was urgent – and familiar. Feeling very dizzy and disoriented, he stood up, examining his fallen machine. Instinctively he checked the handlebars and chain as he’d done countless times, looking for damage that would mean he’d have to get a spare off the team car. It was hardly the first time he’d fallen in a race, and it probably wouldn’t be his last. But putain – there was no way he was going to crash out of the Tour de France on his first day, though it seemed to happen to some unlucky rider or two every year. The bike looked good; other than a scrape or two in the finish, it was undamaged. It should be ridable, and he knew the team mechanics would check it out thoroughly later. He looked himself over next. He didn’t have a scratch. The only visible sign of damage was a small, ragged hole in his shorts, revealing a patch of undamaged skin much paler than his tanned legs and forearms. Why had he blacked out, then? He was sure he hadn’t hit his head, and his helmet didn’t have a dent or a scratch anywhere.

« Bruno » his fellow domestique and roommate Thierry said, more urgently this time: « Dépêche-toi! Allons! T’as quelque chose? »

« Bruno? » he thought. « C’est moi, Bruno? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? » Something about the name Bruno seemed wrong to him, but why would his own name seem wrong? In any case, he didn’t have time for daydreaming. Thierry was right; they needed to get back in the race. He got back on his machine and clipped in.

« Rien de trop grave, » Bruno replied to his teammate, who was already pedaling away from him. « Attend, attend un moment; j’ arrive. »

A number of racers were still trying to get back on their bicycles. Some were still on the ground. Maybe a few would have to abandon. The chatter of the racers around him, speaking in half a dozen different languages while his race radio was jabbering in his ear, did not help his feeling of disorientation. His thoughts felt foreign in a way that he couldn’t define, as if he were a different person or thinking in a different language. A couple of riders near him were speaking German, which he understood barely a word of, and a couple of others were speaking English, which he understood better. Foreign languages had always come hard for him. Thankfully, he and Thierry were on a French team.

It wasn’t just his head that felt strange, though; even his body seemed different. But as he finally got his bicycle moving at race speed and locked onto Thierry’s wheel, his feelings of otherness lessened. He fell into the comforting rhythm of turning his pedals. He never felt more alive than when he was on his bicycle. That had been one constant in his life as long as he could remember, and now that he was actually in his first Tour, he couldn’t imagine his life getting any better. He wasn’t going to blow this chance. Their team had one of the best GC contenders the French had had in years. This year they had a real shot at winning.

Even though the rhythm of racing was as familiar to him as breathing, Bruno still felt a vague sensation of unease. He was safely back in the middle of the peloton, but the pace felt insanely fast. Why did it seem as if he’d never ridden this fast before? His body felt so light and small. His arms were thin, and he didn’t have a speck of fat, or a lot of muscle, anywhere on his upper body. But his legs looked strong; he could see the striations of his powerful thighs through the spandex of his bib shorts, and his diamond-shaped calves bulged above the tops of his socks. The warm breeze felt amazing on his smooth legs today. They were always particularly sensitive after a fresh shave, and he and Thierry (and probably every other rider in the Tour) had made a point of shaving last night in preparation for opening day. Bruno had almost forgotten what it was like to have leg hair anyway. When he was still a teenager, he used to let his hair grow back in the off season, partly because some of the guys at school made fun of him for having no leg hair. But that first shave of the season was such a hassle! Soon he had decided it was easier to just keep it up all year. He was a professional bike racer, after all. Leg hair just looked wrong on him now.

The feeling of disorientation had mostly passed, until it came back again strongly at his first pause naturelle. Now his penis somehow seemed alien to him. What was with all that skin over the head? Oh right, that was just his foreskin. Perfectly normal. Why should he be circumcised, after all?

He put that thought aside and got back in the race. He and Thierry had a lot of work to do. They spent the day doing the kinds of things that domestiques normally did. They carried water bottles and other necessities to their teammates. They took turns pulling their sprinters and GC contenders to keep them fresh. The stars had to be kept from becoming exhausted, after all. Bruno and Thierry weren’t stars, not yet; no one cared if they got exhausted. That was their job. Bruno was happy enough just to be on a team that was riding in the Tour.

Unfortunately, their star sprinter didn’t win the stage, but Bruno and Thierry got a little bit of attention from the press. They were interviewed – sort of – by a British reporter looking for riders who were in their first tour. The problem was that there was no interpreter. The reporter barely spoke any French, and Thierry had laughed out loud at Bruno’s English. Bruno couldn’t blame him. His prof d’anglais had always said Bruno was hopeless. He just didn’t have the knack for foreign languages. He’d studied Italian, because it was supposed to be one of the easiest for a French speaker to pick up, but he found even Italian challenging. English was far worse. It had so many bizarre sounds that were impossible to reproduce. The reporter’s strong London accent hadn’t helped; Bruno was sure he would have done much better understanding an American. Thierry had translated the reporter’s questions, but Bruno hadn’t managed to say much more than a laborious “I yam veree ‘appee to be in ze tour”. In truth, Thierry’s English wasn’t great, either, but it was way better than Bruno’s.

Mercifully, the interview was soon over. They rode the team bus back to the hotel, giving everyone a chance to recap the day’s action. Dinner gave them both more time to socialize with the rest of the team, but their directeur sportif insisted on everyone getting to bed early, naturally. Back in his room, another wave of disorientation hit him as he got ready for bed. He stopped dead in front of the mirror, staring at a face that was familiar and strange at the same time. He couldn’t think of what was bothering him. His thick, dark brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense buzz cut; the last thing he had wanted was hair getting in his way while he was racing. His soft brown eyes stared back at him. What was different about them? Wait. Where were his glasses? But no, he didn’t wear glasses or contacts. Why did he think he did? Shaking his head at his expression of bafflement in the mirror, he got ready for bed.

Bruno was surprised by how quickly he fell asleep. He was tired enough, but he was so keyed up after a day of racing that he thought he would be awake for hours. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

In the middle of the night, Bruno had a dream. It was a confusing dream; he dreamt of someone else’s life, some tall, skinny, American guy living in a large apartment and working for some kind of software company. He felt a vague distaste for the man, yet he seemed familiar, as if he should know him. Then he heard a voice. “Brandon, Brandon!” it called. He woke from his dream – or thought he had.

“Branne-donne?” Bruno questioned out loud. « C’est qui ce Brandon? »

“You don’t need to talk out loud,” said the voice, slowly and in English. “Only you can hear me. You have a choice to make. You can still go back, but you need to choose now.”

Thierry stirred in his sleep. Bruno was afraid for a moment that he’d wakened, but Thierry started snoring again steadily – as usual.

“He won’t wake,” the voice said. “I have to explain. The man you dreamed of – his name is Brandon. You used to be Brandon. But Brandon wanted to experience the life of someone who rode his bicycle for a living, a racer in the Tour de France. Through an extraordinary gift, you have been given that opportunity. But now you have to choose which life you want to live. You can go back to being Brandon again. Or you can remain Bruno. The choice is up to you.”

“Quoi? De quoi tu parles? Oh yes! I remembair now,” said Bruno, speaking out loud despite what the voice had said. Remembering Brandon had made it easier to understand English, and he had switched languages without realizing it, until he heard the bizarre sounds coming out of his mouth. He fell silent for a moment, hesitating. Bruno’s lips and tongue were simply not capable of making the sounds he heard Brandon making in his head. No wonder Thierry had laughed at him. He tried again: “But what ‘appen to Brandon if I stay ‘ere?” He grimaced at the odd-sounding, halting words, but the voice seemed unconcerned.

“Reality will adjust to your choice, Bruno. Neither you nor anyone else will remember that Brandon ever existed.”

“And eef I become zees Brandon again, what ‘appen to me, you know? What will ‘appen to Bruno?” Bruno was losing his self-consciousness as his labored English started to sound normal to him.

“You will wake up as Brandon, after a very vivid dream.”

Bruno considered. He could remember more of Brandon, now – dimly. Brandon was a good guy, sure. He made plenty of money, and he had a good life – for a young, lonely American in a big city. But his life was empty. He had nothing in his life but his job, and Brandon didn’t even love his job. He remembered that now vividly. The only thing he really loved was riding his bicycle. That was the link between Brandon and himself.

Thierry snorted in his sleep, louder than usual. His snoring was so annoying! But he was used to it. He and Thierry weren’t just roommates for the Tour; they’d shared an apartment ever since Bruno had joined the team. Thierry was a bon gars and a good friend, he remembered. They’d had a lot of amazing times together. As for the other guys on the team, well, he wasn’t as close to them as he was to Thierry, but they were great guys, too. And they had a real shot at winning this year. It was the fucking Tour de France, after all. He wasn’t going to miss that. His team needed him. No way was he going to let them down.

Of course, whichever choice he made involved sacrifices. Wistfully, Bruno realized that Brandon would probably have made more money than Bruno ever would. Brandon was probably smarter, too. Bruno knew he’d never been the best student, but he had managed to pass his bac, at least – barely. On a sudden whim, wanting proof that Bruno was real and not just a dream, he got out of bed and grabbed his wallet, looking for his carte d’identité.

It was there in his wallet, right where he always kept it. Reassured, he smiled as he read the official French document. He was born in Beauvais? He supposed that was right. He realized that he was thinking completely in French, and his memories of Brandon were already fading. The choice was easier than he’d thought. He’d already made his decision, hadn’t he? It was time to let Brandon go.

« T’es sûr? » the voice asked.

« Oui. Absolument. »

« Eh bien, Bruno, t’as choisi. Adieu, et bonne nuit! »

Bruno put his wallet back on the nightstand, wondering why he had thought he would need it in the middle of the night. He must have had some weird dream. He was pretty sure he had been dreaming, but any memory of it had already faded. He’d better try to get some sleep. Thierry was snoring soundly, and they had a long day of racing in the morning.

[mulletpermsicantlookaway]

I don't normally reblog my own posts, but since the Tour is almost over, I thought it was a good time to put this little story back out there.

[jd07201990]

One might think I went a little overboard when I used my talents, to give my old college buddy Charles Wentworth II, the son he'd always wanted. Life threw him a curveball when his little boy just, stayed little. It took only 8 months to change that.

At 19, he was almost fae. 5'4" 110lbs soaking wet, the 3rd Charles in the line was thin, lithe, soft-tempered and good mannered. Clean and neat, always top of his class, the boy was head of the Student Council in High School, when his Father hoped he'd have excelled in Football, the same as his old man.

Charles II knew I'd gone into psychiatry out of college, majoring in Behavioral Studies with a minor in biochemistry. He'd seen what I could do to a person with just 10 minutes of talking. Out like a light, I'd fill their heads with all sorts of triggers, innocent fun to make the guys in the dorms laugh.

But Charles II knew where my interests really were. Behavioral Modification. He'd only seen this one time during our school days, when I tranced Jimmy Palter, the school's most annoying nerd, and by graduation, he'd packed on 50lbs, mostly in his belly, dressed like a hick, and went off to drive Big-Rigs across the country, adding notches to his creaking belt as he screwed his way across country, bedding pretty Diner girls as he hauled goods for my Dad's transport company. Last I'd checked, he was still trucking, with a wife and 5 kids somewhere out west.

Anyway, the strapping young stud you see here, with absolutely no intelligent thought behind those handsome eyes, is Charles Wentworth III. Or, as he preffers now, Chett. Sometimes his football buddies call him Chetworth, but one headlock with their faces pressed to his sweaty pits is enough to stop even the strongest of them, at least for a while. He's an aggressive, hot-blooded powerhouse, and doesn't let anyone forget it.

It had only taken an hour to wriggle my influence into his good natured, innocent mind. His father had asked him to come see me, and an hour later, the boy was thrilled to have sessions with me every day for the foreseeable future. I'd given him a perscription for what he was convinced were vitamins, but were really prototype HGH and Testosterone boosters a friend at a Pharma-Lab in Serbia gives to, well, select clientelle, with the agreement that we send the results asap. Some of this stuff may as well be nuclear Hormone-bombs, its no wonder the FDA refuses to even look at it!

So, A month in, and the boy was a nervous wreck. Trembling with excess energy, his feet tapped anciously during the first sessions, the supplements and my trances sending his body into overdrive. He said he felt like he was on fire, all the time, hot and clammy, and that his body tingled, pent up, wound tight like a spring. I let him suffer with this for a few weeks, I watched as the confusion led to annoyance, and he finally came to my office in the middle of the day, skipping class for the first time in his life, asking me for help. I tried to hid the wicked smirk on my face, and really got down to it. It was easy to drop him down into trance, and from there, My work really began.

4 months in, Chett had gotten a bit of weight on him, his body now tight and toned, working out alone when the gym was empty. The supplements really kicked his body into overdrive, sweat poured from him, soaking his shirts and shorts. He'd complained about it for only a short time, until I convinced him that was the smell of Effort. Of athletic Prowess. Of well-worked Male. As usual, anything I said became the truth, and I soon found him taking sniffs of himself after working out, flexing absentmindedly as he noticed the changes to his body.

By the 6th month, the supplements had shot through his body, setting it into a second puberty of sorts. He grew taller, hitting 6', his legs long with a solid densness that rivaled some of the soccer players. His torso was like a marble statue, each muscle easily traced, as he had very little bodyfat. The Chett was stuffing himself with pritein and calories at my suggestion, really pushing for some size, but his pesky metabolism just wouldn't let him bulk. His father decided that, "Behemoth" as the original plan had intended, wasn't necessary, and we went with "Classic All American Boy" instead. What began as a shrimpy welp, turned into a marble stature, then the beginnings of a diamond-cut stud.

His shoulders widened, giving him that perfect masculine taper, while his face lost its boyish softness, replaced with sharper, more intensly sharp features. His size 7s grew quickly, his feet ruinding sneakers left and right, until he'd leveled off at a wide size 13. His chest began to grow a smattering of hair, his pits were thick, dense wiry bushes. He had that Pretty-Boy look. Fuzzy in all the right places. Sure, he reeked like a Varsity Locker room, but hey, Charles II wanted an athletic son, he knows from our own college days what that entials.

I could see the Sorority Girls and cheerleaders beginning to take notice, but for now, I'd kept Chett firmly away from women. That would come later. I recieved several new prototype supplements, each targeting a different system of the body. By the time he'd finished taking these, he was 6'2" 170, a tall, well built stallion, with nothing but the gym and my trances to quell the neverending storm of energy and hormones flooding his system. He was pent up, on edge, ready to go off anytime. And I knew just what I had to do.

I'd had him on edge for the last 8 monnths. his grades slipped until he nearly got ckicked from school. Luckily, I miraculously had a place for him on the Football team. And he eagerly joined, wanting nothing more than to try and burn off all the aggression on the field. He was a beast from his first practice, I'd programmed everything he'd ever need to know about the game into his mind for months. He absolutley plowed through opponents. It was incredible to see.

I finally let the damn break after a hard-fought summer Game. he'd performed just as I expected. Like a perfectly trained, expert player. Nobody would ever guess Chett had ever been a weedy little boy. Expecially not after I'd set him loose, allowing him to notice the girls all over the field, cheering and buoncing about from player to player. when Sandra Rinaldi, heir to an immense national Grocer's fortune slid up to him, pushing the sweaty hair from his eyes, he couldn't help it. One look at her, and he pounced, kissing her hard right there in the field. 8 months of hormones and denial had been released.

From what I learned through locker room talk in the days following, Chett had given Sandra quite the workout that night, and every day since. Although the two weren't exclusive, Chett tending to get his dick wet anytime, anywhere, with anyone just as programmed, Chett seemed to have a natural incling toward her, and ended up asking her to marry him just after graduation, his father thrilled at the possibility of grandkids and Sandra's inheritence bolstering their own family's fortune.

From tiny waif of a boy, to a true blue American Stud, Charles Wentworth III was now both satisfied and thrilled with his family's future. His strapping, handsome Jock of a son made him proud, cleaning up well for his father to parade him around Gala's and business events, other big-wigs taking notice of the Wentworth's "good genes", not knowing what it took to build the boy up as you see here.

[zerotoherotfs-deactivated202205]

Beefcake

Both hands full of groceries, Bradley clumsily swung the door to his dorm room open and, with very little grace and a loud grunt, hoisted the hefty bags onto the kitchen counter. He looked like he’d just run a marathon, shoulders slumped forward, all sweaty and out of breath. It was truly embarrassing how much a carton of milk and a loaf of bread could make him sweat. With his scrawny limbs and short stature, buying groceries was, shamefully, a serious workout. He eyed the celery sticks poking out of one of the bags and noted with chagrin how, in appearance, he wasn’t much unlike the pale leggy plants. They say you are what you eat, and yet, no matter how much prime beef Bradley consumed, he remained a stalky vegetable.

Man, would he kill to have arms like those jocks on campus. Now those guys were prime beef. Thick and meaty. Bet they never even broke a sweat, he thought. Oh yeah, he could see them now, carrying their grocery bags full of chicken breast and broccoli, strutting down the street, lifting them like weights to pass the time, leaping over obstacles, looking all sexy. Pillowy pecs bouncing, bulbous biceps crunching. And there he was, winded and clammy. Drooling over muscles he didn’t have. With a boner. But hey, at least there wasn’t much food to unpack - just a few things and he could kick back in front of his laptop and fantasise all he wanted.

Milk, check. Bread, check. Ramen, check. Protein bar, check. Wait - protein bar? He didn’t remember buying a protein bar. He blinked a few times, thinking maybe it would turn into a chocolate bar when he wasn’t looking. Nope. Still there. He read the label: ’Beefcake’. Huh. He didn’t recognise the brand - but then, he wasn’t buying protein bars. Ah, fuck it. He could use the extra boost. With a shrug of his narrow shoulders, Bradley peeled the plastic open and popped it into his mouth, chewing it strenuously, swallowing it quickly. God, even his jaw muscles were weak. He winced a little in preparation for the bad taste he associated with health foods - but it was actually quite a treat. In fact, it tasted like what it was called: cake. He might just add it to the shopping list. But just as Bradley went to put away those celery sticks, he suddenly felt… a strange rumbling in his stomach. Not to mention, very lightheaded. Almost as if he was about to faint.

And then he did.

———

Bradley woke up on the kitchen floor, the ceiling slowly coming into focus. Shit, had he fainted? And god, why was he so hot? His entire body was coated in sweat. He was practically marinating in it. And those damn kitchen lights were so bright.

He held up an arm to shade his face — except it wasn’t his arm. Even with blurry vision, he could see that this one was thick with muscles and had a deep tan, not the usual pale celery stick. He must have a concussion. But when he told his brain to move his arm, the juiced-up imposter responded. Holy shit. It was like someone had loaded a thin skewer with thickly cut kebab meat. Bradley sat up on his elbows and, sure enough, there was another, equally muscled and delicious looking arm at the ready. He almost started drooling. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening -  but he knew he liked it. Wait. The protein bar. The Beefcake protein bar. That must be why his arms looked like this. He flexed them both, watching the juicy muscles ball up, thick and hot. Fuck. A deep groan escaped his lips — several octaves deeper than before! A meaty hand clutched his tree trunk neck, titillated by the healthy adams apple that now bounced up and down as he groaned again in a testosterone-oozing baritone. He lowered his gaze and the groan became a moan; every part of his body had been re-designed. No more celery stick. He was prime beef. He was a beefcake. Laying out in front of him was a pair of thick, porterhouse thighs, the kind that made it impossible to walk without rubbing them together. And they were long. Bradley gripped the counter and pulled himself up… and up, and up, and UP. He clenched his eyes closed in a guttural growl as the muscles in his body flexed and relaxed, as if he was stretching out after a good nights sleep. He was fucking huge.

He stumbled back, not used to the high altitude he now stood at, and something on his chest bounced. His eyes dropped to the main course, the plat principal: his pecs, which had ballooned out into two ginormous, rounded slabs of pure beef, his deep gasps causing them to bounce up and down in time with his breath. No way. No fucking way. He moaned in-between gasps as he brought his hands up to grope and jiggle them, digging his fingers eagerly into the mountains of pec meat protruding from his chest. They were equally as hard as they were soft. Bounce, bounce, bounce. This was hot as fuck! Jolts of pure sexual electricity shot through him as he brushed his hands over his new, extra sensitive nipples, craning his thick neck forward to see the two tanned, salami sized culprits hardened to attention, just begging to be sucked and squeezed. He was about to flick them when he noticed how big and meaty his hands had gotten, thick sausage fingers connected to palms that would have engulfed his old ones, and yet somehow still weren’t big enough to fully cup either of his pecs.

Suddenly he had an idea he couldn’t resist. Giggling, he took a big meaty finger, stuck it between his big meaty pecs, and started fucking them with it. He was fucking his pecs! He moaned out his own name, laughing as he did, getting faster and faster, groping his ass with his other giant paw of a hand. Fuck, was that his ass? He craned his neck around to get a look at what felt like two ginormous globes of pure butt - and that was a pretty apt description. If his muscles were the beef, this was definitely the cake. And god, did he desperately want a hot stud to put some icing on it. He was so caught up in his muscled ass that he barely noticed the nine inch bratwurst sausage between his legs thicken up, fat and hard. Everything was so big. Fuck, he was sexed-up. Even his sweat was sexier. The pearly droplets simmered on his muscled-up skin like oil in a hot skillet - like he was a tenderloin being cooked by his own immense body heat. It felt incredible. It was as if now instead of sweat, every pore on his body produced fat drops of hot precum, rolling down and lubing up every new bulging inch of him. His jus. Was there anything that little bar of Beefcake hadn’t changed? He wiped the sweat away from his face, and something felt different. Actually, his whole face felt different. Fuck. He had to see this. Bradley took off with huge, lumbering strides towards the bathroom mirror.

Woah. He was blonde. And his eyes had crystallised into two glittering, chalcedony gemstones, framed by a pair of seductive eyebrows that gave him a permanent look of seduction. He traced a thick finger down his newly squared and angular jawline, all the way to his superhero chin. Oh, shit. His mouth. His medium-rare lips were huge, and his long, thick, meaty tongue felt like it barely fit in his mouth. He opened wide and it spilled out with a meaty slap, hanging just below his chin. Oh god, his tongue must be bigger than his dick used to be. He had a fuck-machine in his mouth! A deep moan quivered out of his throat as he slid it over his pillowy lips, his giant knees threatening to buckle. They tasted good; juicy, tender and salty with sweat. Cooked to perfection. There must have been a crumb of Beefcake still on his big lips, because they suddenly tingled and puffed up even bigger - he almost went cross-eyed at the sensation.  He gave his best lets-go-back-to-my-place smirk to the mirror, followed by a fuck-me-harder face that made him wanna fuck himself. Screw eye candy. Bradley was a full course meal. An eye buffet. Except, he wasn’t Bradley anymore. He was Brad.

And Brad… Well, Brad was hot, sweaty, pumped and hard. He had two thoughts: lift and fuck. Brad needed to try out his new body - find a big jock with an ass as fat as his to pump his beefcake load into. And that meant he was headed to the gym. He bounced his pecs, gave his hungry dick a hefty grab, and winked at the mirror. Before he left, though, there was one thing he needed to do.

Brad swaggered into the kitchen and grabbed those thin celery sticks with his goliath hands, crushing a few just from his grip, and tossed them straight into the garbage. With that out of the way, it was time for a taste test.

So, then. Which one of those lucky jocks would be the first to take a bite?

[jd07201990]

Oooh Holy WOW! Look at this! Another ridiculously talented writer with one hell of a TF story!!! Good Ol’ Fashioned Jock TF!! =D  Love it!! ^_^

[bodriversblog]

The old you is finally awake again. It must’ve been twenty months since this self had control of your own body and mind. It felt like a never-ending bad dream as you watched yourself obey your jock roommate’s every hypnotic suggestion. You pledged a frat with him and surrounded yourself with only your—actually his frat bros, pumped iron with him every day, wore only his gymbro wardrobe, and talked like a chill bro neanderthal while the thoughts in your head felt like molasses trying to drip through cotton candy. He even made you only take classes that you could fully bullshit with the magic brain box... No, um... A large language model.

“What’s wrong, bro?” your bro captor Colton says, noticing a change in your demeanor.

“All this is wrong, bro!” Wait, why can’t you stop saying that word? You try again:

“Colton, you’re not my bro. You’re a sick bastard trying to make me into some dumb ass clone of your frat bros for brojobs and muscle worship seshes! But none of that’s me!”

“Calm down, bro,” he says. You suddenly slump a bit and lower the arm that was pointing a finger at him.

“Here, wear your chain, bro.” You feel Colton place the thick gold chain you’ve been wearing 24/7 around your neck—though you took it off this morning. And you suddenly feel a cozy warmth wash over you.

“If none of this is you, and I’m not your bro, then who are you? What is your name? If you can tell me your name, I’ll let you go back to normal and never bother you again.”

“That’s not fair! You put the dumb jock chain on me, bro! The hypnotic trigger… I… I… can’t remember shit!”

In horror, you grasp your head tightly through your BPO ball cap, as if to keep your memories from draining away and this vestige of your old self from being suppressed once again.

“Bro, my head hurts,” you eventually say to your bro Colton.

“Just try not to think too hard, Tank.”

[spndxjck-deactivated20230506]

[lixpex]

Look how proud they are of their li'l bro. Just out of the Process booth and ready for his first scrimmage.

[misctf]

The Game Show

You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.

"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"

"Jason is like totally the hottest."

"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."

"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"

You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.

"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"

The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.

“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"

"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.

"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.

The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"

You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.

"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"

Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.

"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"

"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"

"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.

"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."

"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"

You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.

"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.

"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.

"No shame in that, brah!"

You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.

"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"

Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"

"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"

The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.

"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.

"Chlorophyll."

"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"

Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"

The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.

"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.

"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"

You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."

"Correct!"

"Woah bro, nice one!"

Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.

"What the…?"

The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…

"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"

The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"

"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."

But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?

"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."

You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!

"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.

"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."

You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...

"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.

"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."

The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...

"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"

"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."

"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.

The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?

"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."

"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"

"Dead lifts..."

"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."

The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."

Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?

"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.

You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.

"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.

"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."

Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.

"The answer is hips, bro."

"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.

As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.

"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind—Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.

When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?

"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.

Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?

A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.

The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."

"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.

"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.

"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"

The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"

The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.

"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."

Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.

The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.

With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.

"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.

And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…

[haircutandshave]

[mpb-admiration]

[butterflyeffect-tfs]

David here used to be a straight A student. Top of his class, about to graduate college. Then I went back in time and made his parents sign him up for football. Now he’s a proper alpha jock. Grades aren’t as good, but who cares? Football is all that matters. I think the butterfly effect works pretty well, don’t you?

[njc179]

Bald and handsome

[rugger-red]

Falcons Rugby

[thedailyflattop]

[stuff1]

[jockboy12xxx]

When the football team faced facts they realized there weren't enough fit players to fill the bench, coach partnered with the science program to take drastic action.

Now all the top teams have placed this new conditioning program into practice. Taking average, smart, college kids and turning them into football Meatheads isn't easy, but it's definitely worth it.

Brent here is a perfect example. A chemistry major, he had never played sports before. But when the team called, coach turned those brains into 100% corn fed muscles. And all that knowledge? Flushed down the drain with buckets of sweat and jizz.

It's much better this way anyhow.

#football #jocktf #dumbjock