Straighten Out

[transform4u]

The Last Drop

Nobody knows when RED180 spilled its final drop. Maybe it happened quietly in some flickering gas station cooler at 2:13 in the morning. Maybe the last can hissed open in the hands of someone desperate enough to ignore the warnings.

Or maybe there was never a “last can” at all.

Some say the drinks were pulled from shelves after too many stories surfaced — people changing overnight, voices deepening, bodies warping, memories rearranging themselves into someone else’s life. Security footage corrupted. Missing persons reports quietly buried. Smiling faces that no longer matched old photographs.

Others whisper something stranger.

That the curse simply ran dry.

That whatever lived inside RED180 and DARK180 finally exhausted itself after years of feeding on lonely people, unhappy people, curious people. That the magic drained out one transformation at a time until all that remained was stale liquid in dead aluminum cans.

Now the shelves sit empty.

Dust gathers where the crimson and black labels used to glow beneath fluorescent lights. The forums are silent. The sightings have stopped.

But every now and then, someone swears they spot a single can in the back of an old convenience store cooler, cold as ice and waiting patiently for someone foolish enough to crack it open.

Until next time....

[transform4u]

The sin I’ve committed is Envy for sure. I’m a slightly fat gay guy with no luck dating but I see all these stud Jocks that are super hot, super fit and can get anyone they want and I wish I had the kind of body they do. I get so envious and jealous they have the perfect bodies with great looks where I’m average looking with a slightly fat body.

You shuffle deeper into the alley, the damp chill seeping through your thin jacket. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of desperation and shame. The coin in your palm feels impossibly heavy, its edges digging into your skin as you clench your fist.

Ahead, the fountain looms, a monstrosity of carved stone barely visible in the sickly orange glow of a single flickering streetlamp. It's a face—cruel, ancient, undeniably masculine—with water perpetually spewing from its sneering mouth into a scum-covered basin.

"Oberon," you rasp, the name scraping your throat raw. "I... I need your help."

The confession feels like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "The sin is envy. I know it is. I fucking know it." Saying it out loud doesn't bring relief; it just solidifies the rot that's been festering inside you for years. You're gay. Not just gay, but hopelessly, pathetically so.

A doughy guy whose dating life is a barren wasteland of ghosted messages and awkward coffee dates that lead nowhere. It eats at you, a constant, gnawing hunger that you've never dared to speak aloud.

Everywhere you look, they're there. The gods of this world. Those jocks with muscles that seem carved from marble, stomachs so flat they look like they could be used as an ironing board, jaws so sharp they could slice paper, and that effortless, liquid confidence that makes everyone gravitate towards them. They walk into a room and the atmosphere changes. People lean in. Laughter gets a little louder. Eyes follow them. They don't even have to try.

And you? You watch. You compare. You burn.

You envy the way their tight t-shirts stretch across sculpted chests, hinting at the power beneath. You envy the easy way people flirt with them, the casual touches, the hungry looks.

You envy their comfort in their own skin, while you spend half your life pulling at clothes that never seem to fit right, strategically positioning yourself to avoid any reflective surface. They have the bodies you were cheated out of. The looks you were denied. The magnetic presence that makes people want them instantly.

Every time one of them passes you on the street, something sour and toxic twists in your gut. A bitter cocktail of longing and self-loathing.

You don't see yourself as ugly, not really. Just... average. Painfully, crushingly average. Soft where they're hard. Blurry where they're sharp. Invisible where they're the main event.

You close your eyes sometimes and imagine it—being them. Waking up in that body, with that face, that confidence. Imagine walking into a room and having heads turn. Imagine people desiring you the moment they see you, instead of looking right through you.

The envy is a physical presence now, a heavy stone in your gut that grows a little larger, a little heavier with every perfect body that parades past you.

You stumbled upon this place by sheer, desperate accident. A cobblestone side street you'd never noticed before, tucked away behind a row of grimy warehouses. And there it was. The fountain. A last-ditch prayer to a dark fairy king you weren't sure was real, but what choice did you have?

"Please," you beg, your voice cracking, sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Take this... this thing from me. This envy. Make me like them. Make me one of them."

With a trembling hand, you flick the coin into the murky water. It hits with a disappointing 'plink,' sending a few weak ripples across the scummy surface. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Just silence. The distant wail of a siren. The drip, drip, drip of water from the stone face.

Then, the ripples change. They grow faster, more violent, churning the basin into a frothing, angry whirlpool. A strange, electric tingle shoots up your arm from your fingertips, a buzzing, invasive energy that quickly spreads through your entire body.

Your muscles seize up, locking in place as a wave of intense heat washes over you. You gasp, stumbling back against the damp brick wall, your eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning hope.

It's starting.

You can feel it. The fat. It's not just melting; it's being actively purged, siphoned from your body with an alarming efficiency. You watch, mesmerized, as the soft pouch of your stomach tightens, the flesh seeming to shrink and retract right before your eyes.

Your thighs, once doughy and thick, feel leaner, the skin pulling taut over newly emerging muscle. It's painful, a deep, cellular ache, but it's a glorious pain, the pain of becoming.

Your mind begins to fray and reweave itself. Memories flicker and shift like faulty projector reels. That disastrous date with the philosophy student? Now you remember him hanging on your every word, his eyes wide with adoration as you held court on a topic you barely understood.

That humiliating Grindr hookup where you couldn't get it up? Poof. Replaced by a memory of some twink begging for your number, his hands trembling as he touched your arm. The comparison, the constant, soul-crushing comparison to the college studs, the gym gods... it's fading. Why would you ever compare yourself to them? When you're... you're becoming...

A god.

The thought slams into you with the force of a physical blow. YES. A GOD.

The transformation kicks into high gear. Your chest balloons outwards, the soft flesh replaced by two thick, heavy slabs of muscle that strain against the fabric of your shirt. Your pecs feel solid, powerful, each breath causing them to flex and ripple.

Sweat beads on your skin, running in rivulets down the newly carved valleys of your abdomen. Your waist cinches in, the fat vanishing completely, revealing a set of razor-sharp, deeply etched abs. You run a hand over them, the sensation alien and electrifying. They're hard as rock, each ridge perfect, symmetrical. The kind of stomach people stare at with a mix of blatant envy and raw hunger.

Your arms are next. They swell, biceps rounding into perfect peaks, shoulders broadening until your shirt seams groan in protest. Veins, thick and blue, snake beneath the thin layer of sweat-slick skin, mapping out the new terrain of your power. There is no softness left anywhere. No trace of the person you were a minute ago. You are pure, engineered potential.

Your brain is on fire, synapses firing and rewiring with brutal speed. The awkward mumbling, the self-deprecating humor, the desperate need for approval—all gone. In their place rises a slick, effortless charm. A cocky, knowing smirk feels natural on your lips.

You remember conversations where you didn't just participate, you commanded. You remember people laughing at your jokes, hanging on your every word. Your ego isn't just growing; it's exploding, inflating like a hot air balloon, lifting you high above the petty concerns of mere mortals. You're not just important. You are the center of the fucking universe.

More memories flood in, displacing the old, worthless ones. You see yourself in a bright, sterile bathroom, flexing for your phone's camera. You remember the exact wording of the captions you'd post. "Another day, another pump. Who's mirin'?"

You remember shilling overpriced, useless protein powder to your desperate followers, the notifications of sales pinging on your phone like a dopamine drip. You remember the adoration, the worship. And you remember getting hornier. So, so much hornier.

Your phone, suddenly in your hand, buzzes. A message. From a guy. Some dude named Kevin. 'Hey man, you look amazing. Any chance I could take you out? My treat.' Your dick, already stirring, gives a half-hearted lurch. Then... nothing. A wave of disgust, cold and sharp, washes over you. Pathetic.

That's what he is. Look at him. Begging. He probably can't even bench his own body weight. And the way he's looking at you... that desperate, hungry look all those fucking fags get. It's gross. It's weak. A new, ugly thought coils in your mind: they're all so fucking gay. The word hangs there, dripping with contempt. Homophobia. It's not just a thought; it's a core belief now, as fundamental as your newfound muscles.

Your phone buzzes again. And again. A torrent of notifications. But these are different. Profile pictures of women. Stunning women. A blonde with lips so plump they look like they're stung by bees, posing in a bikini. A brunette with hair cascading over perfect, surgically-enhanced tits. Models. Influencers. Bimbos.

FUCK.

Your cock, which had been merely interested, now erupts with a vengeance. It thickens, lengthening with alarming speed down your thigh. 6 inches... 7... it keeps growing, pushing against the restrictive denim of your jeans. 8... 9... 10... it's a monster, a thick, heavy rod of meat that pulses with a life of its own. 11... 12 fucking inches. It feels incredible, a source of immense, primal power. Your ego swells to match it, a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated self-worship.

The last vestiges of your old life are being systematically erased. College? A hazy, irrelevant dream. You remember high school, but it's different now. You weren't some awkward nerd. You were the star quarterback. The captain of the wrestling team.

You remember coaches slapping your ass, cheerleaders fighting over who got to hold your jacket. You could have gone pro, everyone said so. But college? Nah. Too much bullshit. Too much reading. You were too dumb, too horny, too fucking important for all that. Why sit in a classroom when you could be in the gym, or better yet, in some chick's bed?

Now, the memories are crystal clear. You're a personal trainer at Equinox, downtown. The most exclusive one. Every bored, rich housewife and every daddy's-little-princess in the Chicago Loop wants a piece of you. They pay you a fortune just to watch them sweat, to occasionally "adjust their form," your hands lingering on their soft, perfumed skin. And you're happy to help. For the right price. Or the right look.

Your sense of entitlement solidifies into granite. You weren't just given a silver spoon; you were born with a fucking golden platter in your mouth. You've always had the best. The best car, the best clothes, the best body. You deserve it. The world doesn't just revolve around you; it fucking orbits you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Politics? You don't follow the details, that's for losers and eggheads. But you know what you believe. You're conservative. Strong. Like your father, whose money you now remember inheriting without a second thought.

You hate the other side. You hate their whining, their weakness, their blue hair and their "safe spaces." Especially those bitchy, woke liberal chicks. God, you fucking hate them. And yet... you love fucking them. You love the challenge of breaking them, of fucking them so good, so deep, so relentlessly that they forget all about their little causes and their little protests.

You love seeing that fire in their eyes go out, replaced by a vacant, adoring need to please you. You fuck them until they're just as stuck, just as vapid, just as conservative as you are. It's a public service, really.

Your mind, once a library of facts and feelings, is now a stripped-down engine with three simple functions: lifting, fucking, and looking good. The dumbing-down process accelerates. You can barely remember how to do long division.

History? A blur of names and dates you couldn't give a shit about. Science? Something about... weights and reps? You're a fucking moron, and it feels glorious. People might call you a himbo, but that implies a certain, affable stupidity, a gentle giant quality. You're not gentle. You're not affable. You're a fuckboi. A crude, vulgar, self-absorbed fuckboi, and it's the only thing you've ever wanted to be.

Your body, now a masterpiece of physical perfection, pulses with this new reality. The rare combination of brute strength and elegant proportion makes people instantly, painfully aware of their own shortcomings when they stand next to you. Men don't just want your physique; they resent it. They want to be you, and they hate you for it. Women want your body, but more than that, they want your attention, your approval, your seed.

And your face. God, your face. It's the final, devastating touch. The jawline is sharp enough to be a weapon, a stark, angular frame for your mouth. Your eyes, once a soft, forgettable brown, are now a dark, intense, almost predatory blue.

Your hair, damp with sweat, is pushed back from your forehead in a way that looks careless but is utterly perfect. Your expression is a masterpiece of arrogant seduction, a slight smirk playing on your full lips as if you've just been told a dirty joke or are thinking about the last person you utterly ruined in bed. It's not a delicate beauty; it's a consuming one. The kind of face that haunts people, that they replay in their minds long after you've gone.

You don't just look attractive. You look untouchable. You are the gold standard, the living embodiment of what everyone else secretly measures themselves against and fails.

The stone face of Oberon in the fountain suddenly looms in your vision, growing impossibly large, its cruel features overwhelming your senses until it bursts—not with a bang, but with a silent, blinding rush of water that engulfs you completely. You sputter, wiping your eyes, and the grimy alley is gone.

You're standing in a steam room, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and expensive sweat. The air is warm and heavy on your perfect skin. Across from you, two women are staring, their mouths slightly agape. They are breathtaking.

A blonde, improbably tan, with tits that defy gravity, barely contained by a tiny bikini top. Her lips are glossy and plump, perfect for... well, you know exactly what they're perfect for. Next to her, a brunette with dark, sultry eyes and legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair falls in perfect waves over shoulders that would look even better draped over your face.

You don't hesitate. You flex.

It's a small movement, just a tensing of your bicep, a slight puffing out of your chest, but it's like a starting gun. They move towards you as one, drawn by an invisible force. Their hands are all over you, touching, stroking, worshiping. "Oh my god," the blonde breathes, her fingers tracing the veins on your forearm. "You're... you're even better than your pictures."

The brunette moans softly as her hand glides across your slick, hard pecs. "I used to work for the DNC," she murmurs, as if confessing a sin. "I used to care about... things." She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a new, desperate purpose. "But I don't care about any of that anymore."

The blonde nods in agreement, her hand sliding down to grip your impossible ass. "I wrote those awful protest songs. So angry. So stupid." She giggles, a high, vapid sound. "Now all I want to do is make you happy."

Your whores. Rich, reformed, perfect whores.

The lust that has been simmering, building, now boils over, consuming every remaining thought. There is no envy. There is no past. There is only this. The sin of Lust, and it is your religion. You lust for flesh, for the feeling of their bodies against yours. You lust for attention, for their adoration, for their worship. You lust for sex, a primal, all-consuming need that will never, ever be satisfied.

They aren't people anymore, not in the way you used to understand the term. They are accessories. Trophies. Living, breathing proof of your power, your conquest, your sheer, unadulterated dominance.

"I... I can't even believe you're real. Your body is... it's like it was carved by angels to make other men feel like shit." breathes the blonde, her voice a high-pitched, needy whine, her lips, swollen and glistening, are parted slightly.

The brunette, nods vigorously, her dark hair clinging to the sweat on her temples. "I used to think I was happy," she confesses, her hands roaming freely over the chiseled landscape of your abdomen. "I had my master's degree in gender studies. I volunteered. I protested. I thought I was making a difference." She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "What a fucking joke. The only difference that matters is this." She squeezes your bicep, her fingers failing to even make a dent in the solid muscle. "This is real power. This is what matters."

Their words wash over you, not as praise, but as simple confirmation of reality. Of course your body was carved to make lesser men feel inadequate. Of course your physical presence is the only true power in this world. Any residual empathy, any capacity for seeing beyond your own reflection, any shred of understanding for the "plight" of others—it's all gone.

"You're right," you say, your voice a low, confident rumble that vibrates through your chest and into their eager hands. "All that other shit is for people who have nothing to offer. People who are... soft." You spit the word out like it's poison. "Weak. They need their little causes and their committees because they can't look in the mirror and see a god staring back."

You reach down and cup the blonde's face, your thumb stroking her jawline. "But you're not like that anymore, are you? You're smart now. You know what's important." You guide her head down, and she goes willingly, eagerly, her glossy lips parting. The brunette watches, her own hands busy, one stroking your powerful thigh while the other disappears between her own legs, her breath hitching.

"I used to date this guy," the brunette pants, her eyes locked on the scene before her. "He was so sensitive. He wanted to talk about his feelings." She shudders, a look of genuine disgust on her face. "God, I was so stupid"

You smirk, a cruel, knowing expression that feels as natural as breathing. "That's because you're a woman," you state, as if explaining gravity. "It's biology. You don't want a partner. You want an owner. You want to be claimed by something stronger than you. It's not your fault you were confused. You were listening to a bunch of weak, liberal fags who were too scared to be men."

Now this. This is a proper reaction. This is the natural order of things. A thick, primal lust reasserts itself, crowding out the momentary irritation. Your cock, which had been semi-soft, surges back to its full, terrifying 12-inch glory, a veined pillar of granite demanding satisfaction. You look from the phone to the two women before you. They are not just whores; they are your first converts. Testaments to your power.

"Get up," you command, your voice leaving no room for argument. They scramble to their feet, their bodies slick with sweat and anticipation. You grab the blonde, spinning her around and bending her over the smooth, tiled bench. Her ass is perfect, round and tan, and you give it a sharp, stinging slap that leaves a red handprint on her skin. She yelps, but it's a sound of pure pleasure.

"You see this?" you say to the brunette, grabbing a fistful of the blonde's hair and pulling her head back. "This is what you were meant for. This is what all women were meant for. To be on their knees, or bent over, waiting for a real man to put them in their place."

You position yourself behind the blonde, the head of your colossal cock pressing against her entrance. The brunette moves to your side, her hands running over your heaving back and shoulders, her mouth whispering filthy encouragement in your ear. "Yes, fuck her. Show her what a real man feels like. Ruin her for anyone else. Breed her."

The word 'breed' sends a jolt of electricity through you. Yes. That's it. That's the ultimate purpose. Not just the fleeting pleasure of the act, but the biological imperative. To pass on this perfection. To create more of you. It's the most conservative, the most fundamental, the most important thing in the world.

With a powerful, guttural roar, you thrust into the blonde. She screams, a high, keening sound of pain and ecstasy that echoes off the tiled walls of the steam room. You don't hold back. You don't ease into it. You fuck her with the brutal, unthinking force of a tidal wave, your hips slamming against her ass, your hands gripping her hips so tightly you know you'll leave bruises.

A hammer blow against the wall of the old world, shaping it in your image. Your body is a blur of motion, a symphony of flexing muscle and raw, animal power. The steam room fills with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the blonde's incoherent screams of pleasure, and your own guttural grunts, the sounds of a primeval god claiming his territory. The brunette is everywhere, her hands stroking your sweat-slicked back, her nails digging into your ass, her lips whispering a constant stream of filth and encouragement that fuels your fire.

"Look at you," she moans, her voice thick with lust. "So fucking strong. So fucking perfect. God, I wish every man on earth could see this right now. I wish they could all see what a real man looks like so they'd know to just give the fuck up."

The thought sends a surge of pure, unadulterated ecstasy through you. Yes. They should see. They should all be forced to watch. To see the gap, the insurmountable, genetic chasm between them and you.

You picture it: all the weak men, the sensitive men, the liberal men, the gay men—all lined up, heads bowed, forced to witness this act of pure, masculine conquest. They would weep. They would finally understand their place in the world, which is nowhere. They are obsolete. You are the future.

"We need strong men!" you'd roared, and the crowd, a sea of adoring, beautiful women, had gone wild. "We need men who aren't afraid to be men! Who aren't afraid to build, and protect, and BREED! We don't need thinkers! We need doers! We don't need talkers! We need fuckers!"

The blonde is trembling beneath you, her body convulsing with one orgasm after another, each one more intense than the last. She's broken. Remade. You've fucked the DNC out of her, fucked the liberal arts degree out of her, fucked every thought except for the singular, all-consuming need to please you out of her pretty little head. She is your creation. A testament to your power.

"Tell me what you are," you growl, your voice a harsh command as you pound into her relentlessly.

"I'm yours!" she screams, her voice cracking. "I'm your whore! I'm your little Republican cumslut! Just please... please don't stop!"

You laugh, a deep, arrogant sound that vibrates through your entire body. You have no intention of stopping. You could do this forever. This isn't just sex; it's your purpose. It's as natural to you as breathing. The pressure builds at the base of your spine, a tidal wave of molten pleasure gathering force, ready to annihilate everything in its path.

The sight of them, both completely lost in their worship of you, is the final trigger. The dam breaks.

You grab them, one in each powerful arm, and you fuck them. Right there in the steam room. You fuck them relentlessly, your body a piston of pure, unadulterated power. You are a god, and they are your sacrifices. You hear them moaning, but it's a distant sound, background noise to the roaring in your own head. They're moaning your new name.

"Sebastian... oh god, Sebastian..."

Yes. That's it. Sebastian. Of course it is. With a roar that seems to shake the very foundations of the building, you cum. It's not just a release; it's an explosion. A volcanic eruption of pure, concentrated alpha essence. Your body convulses, every muscle straining, as you unload what feels like a gallon of your seed deep inside the blonde. The force of it sends another shattering orgasm through her body, and she collapses onto the bench, a quivering, moaning mess.

You pull out, your cock still firing, and grab the brunette by the hair, spinning her around. You paint her back and her perfect ass with thick, white ropes of your cum, marking her as your property. Your territory. It's a primal act of ownership, and it feels more right than anything you have ever felt in your entire life.

You stand there for a long moment, your chest heaving, your body slick with sweat and steam and the evidence of your conquest. The two women are on the floor, at your feet, exactly where they belong. The air is thick with the scent of sex and eucalyptus and your own overwhelming, masculine presence.

You feel... solid. Complete.

You scoop your phone off the bench and open the camera, switching it to selfie mode. You look at your reflection. At the sharp jaw, the intense blue eyes, the sweat-matted dark hair. At the body that doesn't just look good, but looks unfair. You smirk, the same arrogant, knowing smirk that has made countless women weak and countless men seethe with jealousy. You take a picture. Perfect.

You type a quick caption. 'Done with the gym. Picked up a couple of new whores for dinner.'

You don't need to wonder. You are Sebastian. You are a god in human form. A vapid, egotistical, lustful, homophobic, conservative douchebag. And the world, honestly, does revolve around you. You look at the two women, already beginning to stir, their eyes finding you again, filled with that familiar, desperate hunger. You feel your cock begin to stir again. The lust is never sated. It is a fire that can only be fed. And you will spend the rest of your perfect, beautiful life feeding it.

As the last tremor subsides, you stand there, steam curling around your perfect form, two beautiful women clinging to you, and you know, with absolute certainty, that you are complete. You are Sebastian. The most beautiful, sexy man alive. A vapid, egotistical, lustful man with the body of a God. And the world is your oyster, ready to be fucked.

[transform4u]

I choose wrath. After losing my job last year it’s been tough to find work. I hate feeling so powerless against a cruel world. I want to make a change! I don’t want my life as a short Asian nerd to be defined by cruel men in power who don’t care for the planet. I want to define who I am! I want the power to make a change!

The stench of desperation clings to you like cheap cologne as you navigate the concrete canyons of the city, each step a reminder of your failure. Your stomach gnaws at itself, a hollow ache that mirrors the emptiness in your soul.

Another day, another rejection email sitting unread on your phone, a digital dagger twisting in the wound of your unemployment. You've stopped opening them. What's the point? They all say the same thing: "While your qualifications are impressive..." – corporate-speak for "You're not what we're looking for, and you never will be."

"Find the fairy! Find the fairy and your heart's desire!"

The voice cuts through the urban symphony of car horns and distant sirens, sharp and commanding. You turn your head, drawn against your better judgment, and see him – a man who looks like he was chiseled from confidence and sin, leaning over a rickety card table that seems to defy gravity.

You know this game. You know it's a hustle designed to separate desperate fools from what little money they have left. You should keep walking. But your feet stay planted as his eyes lock onto yours, dark and knowing.

"Well, well, well," he calls out, his voice smooth as whiskey. "Find the fairy, looks like I already have." His gaze rakes over your scrawny frame, your cheap clothes, your Asian features that have always made you feel like an outsider in your own country. "Find Oberon, the Dark Fairy King, and your heart's desire is yours."

He flips the cards over with theatrical flair, revealing a twisted version of the King of Hearts – a dark, malevolent fairy with eyes that seem to shift and watch you, promising things you dare not hope for. "Your turn, fairy. Find Oberon."

The insult hangs in the air between you, sharp and cutting, but you bite your tongue. You need something to change, anything. Your hand trembles slightly as you hover over the cards, then tap the middle one. The man's smile widens as he flips it over. Oberon stares back at you, but now his lips curve into a knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Well, well. The fairy finds his king." The man leans closer, his breath hot against your ear, smelling of expensive whiskey and something else, something ancient and dangerous. "You've committed the sin of wrath, and you will be justly rewarded."

The city sounds explode around you – car horns, sirens, shouting – until it's all one deafening roar that threatens to split your skull. The cards scatter like shrapnel against your face, and then...

White.

Blinding, sterile white surrounds you, so absolute it feels like a physical presence pressing against your eyeballs. The walls, the ceiling, the floor—they're all the same shade of clinical, soul-sucking white, the kind of white that exists only in places where hope comes to die.

You're suddenly standing in the center of a bedroom that looks less like a place for rest and more like a surgical theater where identity goes to be scalpeled away. The bed is massive, a king-sized monolith of white linens so tightly tucked you could bounce a quarter off them. Empty white frames hang on the walls like ghostly windows to nowhere, their blankness a judgment on the emptiness inside you.

Your body is a battlefield of pain. Every muscle screams with an intensity that steals your breath, a deep, agonizing ache that feels like you've been torn apart and reassembled by some invisible, sadistic force. It's not just soreness; it's a cellular rebellion, your very fibers protesting against a violation you can't comprehend.

You stumble forward, your legs barely supporting you, and pull open the closet door. The sight that greets you is somehow more unsettling than the sterile room: row after row of identical white shirts and white pants, all in your size, all perfectly pressed, hanging in military precision. Not a single speck of color dares to exist in this wardrobe.

"What the fuck is this?" you manage to gasp, but the sound that emerges from your throat shocks you into silence. It's not your voice. It's deeper, richer, resonant with an authority you've never possessed. The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you expect an answer, but the room remains silent, absorbing your confusion like it absorbs everything else.

You catch your reflection in the full-length mirror and freeze, a knot of horror and fascination tightening in your gut. The person staring back isn't you. Your chest has expanded into a solid wall of muscle, pecs thick and powerful, straining against the fabric of your shirt with every breath you take.

Your arms hang heavily at your sides, biceps straining against the skin, veins like rivers mapping your new territory. As you watch, transfixed, your body continues its grotesque metamorphosis—shoulders broadening until they strain the seams of your shirt, abs etching themselves into your stomach with razor-sharp definition, legs thickening with muscle until your pants feel uncomfortably tight around the thighs.

You lift a trembling hand to your new chest, feeling the unfamiliar hardness beneath your palm, the raw power thrumming just beneath the surface like a caged beast. But something else is happening simultaneously, something far more terrifying than the physical transformation.

You clutch at your head as a war erupts behind your eyes. Memories of your parents—their faces etched with worry as they counted tips from the restaurant they ran eighteen hours a day, their thick accents explaining complex tax forms to you in broken English—begin to fray and dissolve like old photographs left in the sun.

Their sacrifice, their love, their entire existence crumbles into dust, replaced by a new lineage. A different history takes root, one of old money and impeccable breeding. You can almost smell the leather and cigar smoke of a study you've never seen, feel the weight of a silver pocket watch passed down through generations of your family.

Your ancestors didn't just come to America—they fucking founded it. The Mayflower. The Revolution. Your family has been calling the shots for 250 years, and you've inherited every bit of that entitlement like it's encoded in your DNA.

Your skin tingles as it loses its golden hue, becoming pale and privileged, the color of men who've never known a day of hardship or want, who've never had to earn their place because it was carved out for them generations ago.

The memory of your father's insurance company shifts—it's not just some business, it's a 200-year-old dynasty that you were born to rule, a legacy of power and influence that flows through your veins like liquid gold, hot and intoxicating.

"Jesus Christ," you groan, rubbing your temples as more memories assault you, each one more vivid and more alien than the last. High school wasn't about AP classes and debate club—it was about football championships and cheerleaders, about being worshipped for your strength and your looks, about learning early that your physical presence commanded respect and obedience.

College wasn't about earning scholarships—it was about frat parties and touchdowns, about establishing yourself as an alpha male among other alphas, about learning to navigate the social hierarchies that would later become political battlegrounds.

The room responds to your transformation. The empty picture frames on the walls suddenly fill with images of a life you're beginning to remember. There you are, older now, maybe twenty-five, in a cap and gown, standing in front of a building with ivy-covered walls that looks suspiciously like Yale.

Another frame shows you in a football uniform, your body already thick with muscle, hoisting a trophy. In another, you're shaking hands with a man with a shock of blonde hair and a red tie—Trump, you realize with a jolt of recognition that feels like an electric shock. He's clapping you on the back, his smile wide and genuine.

The ache in your muscles intensifies as they swell with the memory of countless hours in the gym, the kind of work you never had to do but chose to because power demands a vessel worthy of it, because you understood early that appearance was reality in the world you were destined to rule.

A wave of nausea hits you, and you double over, gasping for breath. You're on the bed now, and someone's moaning above you. For a fleeting moment, it's a cute twink—exactly your type. But the image warps, twisting like a reflection in a funhouse mirror into a busty blonde with vacant blue eyes and tits spilling out of a tight pink sweater.

Wait. No. You were gay. You remember that with certainty, with the clarity of a fundamental truth, but the thought feels foreign, disgusting, like something you've scraped off the bottom of your shoe. Faggots. Fucking queers. The hatred rises in your throat like bile, hot and acidic, a visceral revulsion that makes you want to vomit.

You've always hated them, always known they were destroying this country with their perversion and their demands for special treatment, with their rainbow flags and their parades and their insistence on being seen as normal when they're anything but.

"Fuck yeah," you growl, the sound of your own voice sending another thrill through you. It's deeper now. More commanding. You flex your biceps, watching with satisfaction as they swell. The nerd hobbies you once cherished crumble to dust. Pokemon? Doctor Who? What kind of faggot bullshit was that?

Real men played football. And you were damn good at it. Memories of frat parties and winning touchdowns replace memories of comic book stores and video game tournaments. You're not 26 anymore. You're 27, then 28, then pushing 30, and every year brings more muscle, more confidence, more power.

Your abs tighten as you clench them, the muscle memory of a thousand crunches blending with the memory of a hundred homophobic rants delivered to cheering crowds of true Americans, people who understand that God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

You remember the church now, not as a place you occasionally visited with your parents, but as the center of your life. You can almost smell the old wood and the expensive perfume of the women in the front pew, feel the weight of the heavy Bible in your hands. You remember the sermons, not about love and forgiveness, but about sin and judgment, about the wages of sin being death and the glory of righteousness being power.

"God hates the sin, not the sinner," a voice that sounds like your own echoes in your head, but you know the unspoken truth: God hates both, and so do you.

The room changes again, the white walls softening to a warm beige, the sterile furniture replaced with heavy, ornate pieces that speak of wealth and tradition. A massive oak desk appears in one corner, covered in neat stacks of papers.

A flag stand materializes next to the window, holding an American flag and a flag with some kind of insignia you don't recognize but know represents your family. The bed is now covered in a masculine comforter in shades of navy and burgundy, fabrics that speak of power and tradition. A cross hangs on the wall. Family photos show you with various women, each one blonder and bustier than the last. You're older now. 35. 40. 42. You entered politics in 2018, riding the red wave Trump created.

Your campaign was built on family values and anti-gay legislation, the kind of platform that made liberals foam at the mouth. You've been a congressman for eight years now, and you've fucked more interns than you can count. All of them young, blonde, and dumb as rocks. Perfect.

The room solidifies around you – a suburban master bedroom, complete with a photo of you and your wife. You remember her clearly now: 21 years old, perky tits, empty head, perfect for the image you're crafting. Perfect for your Senate campaign. Perfect for producing the heirs who will carry on your legacy, your name, your bloodline, you can't fucking wait to knock her up.

"Congressman!" Her voice floats in from the kitchen, breathy and eager. You love when she calls you that. It reminds you of everything you've achieved, everything you own. Every vote bought, every backroom deal struck, every intern you've bent over your mahogany desk. It's the sound of victory. The sound of power.

You push yourself up from the leather armchair, your body a monument to disciplined aggression and expensive personal trainers. At forty-two, you're a brick shithouse of a man, thick with muscle that speaks of testosterone and authority, not the pathetic, wiry strength of your forgotten youth.

Your custom-tailored polo shirt strains across your broad chest, the fabric barely containing the solid mass of your pecs. Each step toward the kitchen is a statement, the heavy thud of your expensive leather dress shoes on the hardwood floor echoing the weight of your presence.

There she is. Tiffany. She's bent over the granite countertop, her blonde hair cascading down a back exposed by a crop top that's two sizes too small.

Her short skirt rides up, revealing the curve of her ass, the pale flesh a perfect canvas for your ownership. She's stirring something in a bowl, her movements clumsy, her mind clearly elsewhere. Probably on some reality show or which handbag to buy with your money. Perfect.

"Making something for your man, sweetheart?" Your voice is a low rumble, laced with the condescending affection you've mastered. It's the voice you use on camera, the one that makes suburban housewives wet and liberal men shrink in their seats.

She turns, her blue eyes wide and vacant. "Oh! Congressman! I was just, uh, trying to make that protein shake you like." She gestures to the blender, a mess of powder and spilled liquid on the counter. Useless. Beautiful, but utterly useless. That's how you like them.

You close the distance in two long strides, your shadow falling over her. You don't bother with the shake. You grab her hips, your fingers digging into her soft flesh, and pull her back against you.

She gasps, a small, practiced sound of surprise that you know is part of the act she puts on for you. She can feel your hardness pressing against her through your expensive slacks. She always can. Your cock is as much a tool of your power as your vote or your family name.

"Congressman," she whispers, wiggling her ass against you. "The chef will be here soon to make dinner."

"Fuck the chef," you growl, your breath hot against her neck. You can smell her perfume – something expensive and floral that you picked out for her. "I'm hungry now." Your hands roam her body, possessive and rough. You squeeze her tits through the thin fabric of her top, feeling her nipples harden at your touch.

Your mind flashes with a brief, confusing image of a man's lean chest, of tracing lines of dark hair with your fingers. The thought is sickening, a flicker of poison in your perfect world. You crush it immediately, replacing it with the glorious reality of her soft, yielding body. Fucking faggots. Disgusting. You thank God every day for cleansing you of such weakness.

You spin her around, her back hitting the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator with a dull thud. Her expression is one of mock shock, her lips parted in a perfect 'O'. You grab her face, your thumb and fingers pressing into her cheeks

. "Open," you command. She obeys instantly, her mouth dropping open. You spit in it, a raw act of dominance that makes your dick twitch. She swallows, her eyes never leaving yours, a flicker of something unreadable in them before it's replaced by the vapid adoration you demand.

With one hand, you rip her flimsy top down the middle, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound. Her tits spill out, tanned and perfect, capped with pink nipples you paid for. You bend your head, taking one in your mouth, biting down just hard enough to make her yelp. Your other hand is busy with your fly, freeing your thick, angry cock. It's a weapon, a scepter, and right now, it demands tribute.

You hike up her skirt, tearing her flimsy lace panties with a single, impatient tug. She's already wet, her body conditioned to respond to your aggression like a flower to the sun. You lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around your thick waist as you position her against the fridge.

Your muscles bulge with the effort, the veins in your biceps standing out like ropes. This is real power. Not the hollow, intellectual kind you remember in nightmares, but the physical, undeniable ability to take what you want.

You thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, wet heat. She cries out, a sound of pain and pleasure that's music to your ears. You don't give her time to adjust. You set a punishing rhythm, your hips pistoning, your abs tightening with every thrust. The fridge rocks with the force of your fucking, magnets and photos clattering to the floor.

"Who do you belong to?" you grunt, your voice thick with exertion and contempt.

"You, Congressman! I belong to you!" she moans, her nails digging into your shoulders.

"Damn right you do," you snarl, fucking her harder. Your mind is a torrent of righteous anger. You think about the commie libreal who holds the Senate seat you're after.

That weak, pandering fool who talks about equality and climate change like they're anything more than distractions for the feeble-minded. You'll crush him. You'll bury him under a mountain of attack ads and moral outrage. You'll use your power, your money, your God-given right to rule to grind him into dust.

"Say my name," you demand, your pace quickening, the familiar heat building in your groin.

"Congressman!" she screams, her head thrown back against the cold metal.

"Not good enough," you growl, your hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes widen in fear and excitement. This is what she lives for. This is what they all live for. A strong man to tell them what to do, what to be. "I'm going to be a Senator. I'm going to be President. Say it."

"Senator! Oh God, Senator Carrington" she chokes out, her body convulsing around you as she cums.

That's it. That's the trigger. The word, the power, the absolute submission. Your vision whites out, your body tensing as a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crashes over you.

You roar, a sound of triumph and conquest, as you empty yourself deep inside her. Each pulse is a victory, a rejection of that weak, pathetic life you almost had. A rejection of the faggot in the mirror, of the whiny liberal politics, of the powerlessness that once choked you like a noose.

You are Senator Richard Carrington. Rich. Entitled. Cruel. Powerful and filled with hate.

You hold her there for a long moment, your body pinning hers to the fridge, your breath ragged. Slowly, you lower her to the ground. She stumbles, her legs shaky, a blissed-out smile on her beautiful, empty face. Cum trickles down her inner thigh, a visible claim. Your mark.

You tuck your cock back into your pants, adjusting your clothes with an air of finality. You look at her, at the mess on the floor, at the torn top hanging from her shoulders.

You feel nothing but satisfaction. This is your world. You made it. You are the master of it, the architect of its reality. And you will burn it all to the ground and rebuild it in your image before you let anyone else take it from you.

"Clean this shit up," you say, your voice cold and dismissive. "And for God's sake, wear something appropriate. Nothing that makes you look like a whore.We have a fundraiser tonight. Need to remind those rich old fucks who owns their souls."

You turn and walk away, leaving her there, a beautiful, used thing in your perfect kitchen. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out. It's a text from your chief of staff. "The abortion bill rider is attached. We have the votes."

You smile, a slow, predatory stretching of your lips. God is good. And so are you.

"America First," you whisper to your reflection, and the man in the mirror smiles back, a cold, calculating smile that promises victory at any cost. He has everything he ever wanted now—power, money, influence, and a country that will bend to his will. And if anyone gets in his way? Well, they'll learn what wrath truly means. They'll learn that crossing you is the biggest mistake they'll ever make, and that your vision for America is non-negotiable.

"Let's bring back family values to America" you whisper to your reflection, and this time, the words feel like a prayer, a promise, a prophecy. And you, Senator, you are the prophet, the messiah, the chosen one who will deliver America from the wilderness and lead it into the light of a new dawn, a dawn where family values reign supreme, where God is worshipped and feared, where men are men and women know their place.

A dawn where you are king, and God is your co-pilot.

[transform4u]

Hello sir. Sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you could help me. You see, on Saturday i'll turn 30 and I feel awful and miserable. I hate my life, I hate my body, I hate myself. Most of the time I feel out of place and lonely. I just wish for a brand new start for this brand new chapter of my life and if possible in a jock body full of confidence and muscles. I wish for a big dick, sex every day and sexy men all around me. I wis for gym, for a job I love and to find true hapyness. Can you help me?

You're slumped on your ratty couch, the one with the mysterious stains that you've stopped trying to identify, scrolling through mind-numbing content on your phone.

The glow of the screen illuminates your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes and the perpetual frown etched onto your lips. Another Friday night wasted, another weekend of loneliness stretching before you like a desolate highway.

Your thumb hovers over a dating app before you scoff and toss the phone aside. What's the point? You're a pathetic excuse for a man, and you know it.

Without any real thought, as if guided by some desperate, primal impulse, you find yourself opening a notes app. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out a message to whatever cosmic entities might be bored enough to listen.

"Hey there, Mr. Trickster God or Imp God or whatever the fuck you call yourself. Yeah, you. The one who gets his kicks messing with mortals for shits and giggles.

I want to be the guy who gets laid daily, surrounded by other hot dudes who worship the ground I walk on. I want to live for the gym, love my job, and finally feel what it's like to not be a miserable piece of shit."

You hit send before you can chicken out, then immediately feel like an idiot. A cosmic DM? Really? You're losing your damn mind. You delete the message, convinced you've finally snapped.

I watch your pathetic message flicker into existence on the cosmic web. A grin splits my face, sharp and predatory. "Oh, this is rich," I chuckle, the sound like grinding glass. "Another mortal who thinks the universe is a fucking wishing well." My own celestial birthday is looming at the end of the month, and I'm feeling... charitable. Or maybe just bored.

My first instinct is pure, unadulterated mischief. I snap my fingers, and an image of your future forms in the air before me: you hairy, with a dad bod and a love of Christ, with most unimaginative boring life.

You're standing in a suburban lawn, screaming at a kid to get off your grass while your wife nags you about taking out the trash. "A boring suburban dad," I muse aloud. "I've been mighty keen on those lately. The sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity is just... chef's kiss." It would be so easy. A perfect, cruel twist of fate.

But then I sigh, a long, dramatic sound that echoes through the void. "Eh, fuck it. Against my better judgment, I'll give you exactly what you asked for. It's my birthday month, after all." I wave a hand, and your pathetic apartment winks out of existence, replaced by a scene I find much more entertaining. It's your birthday.

"Alright, you miserable little shit. Blow out those candles and make your wish. Make it count."

Saturday comes and goes, and nothing happens. Of course not. You spend your birthday alone, eating stale pizza and feeling sorry for yourself while your neighbors throw another party you're not invited to. What a joke.

But when you wake up Sunday morning, something's different. The air in your room feels strangely cold, but your body is burning up from the inside out. You're sweating buckets, your sheets soaked through, and your skin feels like it's stretching, shifting, changing in ways that defy biology.

"What the fuck?" you groan, the sound tearing from your throat like gravel. Your attempt to sit up is a pathetic failure; your body feels like it's been filled with wet concrete, heavy and alien and fundamentally wrong.

Every single nerve ending is screaming, a symphony of pure agony and something else... something sickeningly close to pleasure that makes your stomach churn with revulsion.

Your eyes snap open, and the first thing you see is your hand. But it's not your hand. Your fingers, usually nimble and pale, are swelling before your very eyes, thickening like rising bread dough, the knuckles becoming raw, calloused monuments to a violence you've never known.

You watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the skin stretches taut over expanding bone and sinew. A strange warmth spreads up your arm, a creeping fire that leaves a trail of molten change in its wake.

"No... no, this isn't... stop," you whimper, but the words are swallowed by a low, guttural moan that escapes your lips. Your vocal cords feel like they're being sandpapered and re-woven, each vibration coming out rougher, deeper, coated in a bovine, broish vocal fry that feels utterly foreign.

The heat intensifies, a furnace blazing in your core. Your spine arches violently off the bed, a searing pain lancing through it as vertebrae crack and pop, elongating, stretching you taller.

You can feel the individual bones in your legs shifting, your shins burning with an itch so deep you're convinced you're being torn apart from the inside. Your feet throb as they lengthen, stretching the fabric of your pajama pants until the seams scream in protest.

30... 28... 26... The numbers materialize in your mind, a countdown to your own erasure. With each number that falls, another piece of the old you is chipped away, replaced by something crude and simplistic.

Your chest suddenly explodes. It's not a gradual growth; it's a violent, painful blossoming. You gasp, your hands flying to your pecs as they surge forward, becoming two thick, meaty slabs of muscle.

The sensation is overwhelming—your sensitive nipples, now hard and rubbing against the fabric of your shirt, send jolts of electricity straight to your groin. Your waist cinches, stomach muscles clenching and carving themselves into a solid, undeniable six-pack.

Your memories begin to warp, the colors bleeding into each other. The face of your first boyfriend, a sweet, gentle man named Alex, dissolves like sugar in water. In its place, a new memory solidifies: you and your dad at a country club, him pointing out the "faggoty" waiter and laughing as you, a younger version of yourself, joins in with a cruel cackle that doesn't feel like yours but is.

25... 24... The mental reprogramming accelerates. The art gallery you loved becomes a sports bar you've frequented since you were old enough to fake an ID.

Your collection of classic literature is replaced by a mental library of locker room insults and crude jokes about women's bodies. A wave of intense, visceral disgust rolls through you at the mere thought of two men together, so potent it makes you want to puke.

"Fuckin' disgusting," you growl, the words tasting right in your new mouth. "Should all be put on an island somewhere."

Your hips buck as your dick suddenly engorges, thickening to the width of a beer can and shooting up to a solid, intimidating eight inches. It strains against the fabric of your shorts, a throbbing, insistent demand for attention.

A wave of pure, animalistic lust washes over you, so powerful it whites out your thoughts. All you can think about is fucking, burying this new monster cock in something warm and tight.

Images flash through your mind, but they're not of men anymore. They're of women—women with huge, bouncing tits, with plump asses and wet, eager mouths. Specifically, older women.

Your English professor, Mrs. Davison, with her tight sweaters and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Your best friend's hot mom, who always sunbathes in the backyard. The thought of them, of their experienced hands and bodies, makes your dick twitch violently.

"Fuck yeah, MILFs," you hear yourself say, a stupid grin spreading across your face. "But nobody over 30, though. That's just gross. Like, who wants to fuck a grandma?"

More memories flood in, replacing the old ones. You're not from the city anymore; you're from a wealthy, gated suburb. Your parents aren't liberal academics; they're conservative, country-club Republicans.

Your dad isn't a writer; he's a "businessman," a vague term that somehow translates to him being mayor or some other important shit. You remember him patting you on the back after you beat up a kid for looking at you "the wrong way."

23... 22... Your thoughts become simpler, coarser. Complex sentences dissolve into grunts and one-word answers. Your vocabulary shrinks, replaced by a lexicon of sports metaphors and misogynistic slurs.

"Bro," you say, testing the word. It feels good. Natural. "This is sick."

Your arms continue to swell, biceps becoming round, dense spheres of power. Your forearms thicken, veins popping like highways on a map of muscle. You run a hand through your hair, and it's different now—blonde, curly, damp with sweat. It feels right, feels like you.

Your face reshapes itself, your jawline becoming sharper, more angular. Your features soften into that all-American, boy-next-door look that's so disarming, so perfect for hiding the toxic asshole brewing underneath. A cocky, entitled smirk settles on your lips, as if by divine right.

21... 20... You're getting dumber, so much dumber, and you don't give a shit. In fact, it feels great. All that worrying, all that thinking... what a fucking waste of time. It's so much easier to just be a dumb, horny jock.

The room around you shimmers, the walls of your small, lonely apartment melting away to reveal a lavish dorm room, one that's clearly been paid for by someone with deep pockets. And beneath you, there's a woman. Not a girl—a woman, maybe 29, with glasses and brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun.

She looks smart, professional, but damn, what a rack. That's the first thought that cuts through the thick, soupy fog in your head. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, her brunette hair is pulled back into a tight, and she's probably got some fancy-ass degree from a school you've never even heard of.

But none of that matters, not really, because her tits are fucking phenomenal. They're straining against the fabric of her button-down blouse, two perfect, round globes of flesh that you just know would feel amazing wrapped around your cock.

"Fuck, Mrs. Davison," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural rumble that you barely recognize as your own. "Your tits are... fuck."

She blushes, a pretty pink creeping up her neck, and pushes her glasses up her nose. "Language, Tanner" she says, but there's no real heat in it. "And it's 'Professor Davison' in the classroom."

You laugh, a loud, obnoxious sound that makes her tits jiggle. "Yeah, whatever, Teach. But right now, you're just a MILF with a tight pussy that's begging for my dick."

You're not sure where the words are coming from. They're just... there, bubbling up from some dark, primitive place inside you. The old you, the one who was respectful and considerate, is gone, replaced by this... this thing. This vain, self-centered, entitled asshole who says whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants.

You thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cries out, her back arching. "Yes! Oh, god, yes!"

"That's right," you growl, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer. "Take it. Take all of it."

You can feel yourself changing, even as you're fucking her. Your thoughts are becoming simpler, more focused on the here and now, on the pleasure coursing through your veins. The world outside this room, with its books and its rules and its expectations, doesn't exist. All that matters is this, this moment, this feeling.

Memories continue to warp, the old ones dissolving like sugar in water. You remember your mom, not as the warm, loving woman who read you bedtime stories, but as a cold, distant figure who was more interested in her charity events and her tennis lessons than in her own son. You remember her looking at you with a mixture of disappointment and disgust, as if you were a bug she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.

"Is that all you are?" she'd say, her voice dripping with condescension. "A disappointment?"

The memory makes you angry, a hot, burning anger that fuels your thrusts. You'll show her. You'll show everyone. You're not a disappointment. You're a god. A fucking sex god with a giant dick and a body that's built for sin.

You look down at yourself, at your sweat-slicked muscles, at your thick, powerful thighs, at your massive, pistoning cock. You're perfect. A fucking Adonis. And you know it.

"Who's your daddy?" you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl.

"You are," she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. "You're my daddy."

"Damn right," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "And don't you forget it."

You can feel your balls tightening, a familiar pressure building at the base of your spine. You're close, so fucking close. You're going to cum, and you're going to fill her up with your seed, mark her as yours.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl. "I'm gonna fucking cum!"

"Do it," she cries, her nails digging into your back. "Cum inside me! Fill me up!"

You let out a roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph, and explode inside her, your hot, thick seed flooding her womb. It's the most intense, most powerful orgasm of your life, and it goes on and on, until you're completely spent, your body trembling with exhaustion.

You collapse on top of her, your weight crushing her, but you don't care. She's just a hole, a warm, wet hole for you to fuck. That's all she is, that's all any woman is.

You roll off of her, your body slick with sweat and cum. You lie there for a moment, your chest heaving, your mind a complete and utter blank. You're dumb, so fucking dumb, but you don't care. It's easier this way. No thinking, no worrying, just fucking and fighting and being the best.

"Fuck yeah," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "That's what I'm talking about."

You're Tanner. A dumb, horny, self-centered, entitled, misogynistic, homophobic, racist, classist piece of shit. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

You grab your dick, your hand stroking its length, and grin. Life is good when you're a brainless jock with a giant dick and a rich daddy.

[transform4u]

Huh... so I can just input some info and I get a free drink? Let's see... As far as my beliefs go, I'm a 22 year old science teacher and believe that all kids need a good and well-rounded education going into adulthood, even in subjects they don't like, to understand the world around them, form their own beliefs, discover themselves and respect others' lifestyles. Otherwise, we'd just be left with self-centred and entitled young adults with one track minds and a narrow worldview. And as for what I hate, I guess it would be social media as a whole. There are so many hateful and dangerous beliefs, bigotry, model after model giving people body dysmorphia. This kinda stuff is radicalising the young and impressionable, destroying their mental health in the process. And sent. I doubt this drink stuff is legit but I doubt there's any harm in sending a message.

You stand there, staring at the glowing screen of the vending machine. A free drink just for filling out a survey? Sounds like some bullshit marketing gimmick. Still... free is free, and you're broke as hell.

Your fingers punch the keypad as the prompt asks for your beliefs.

You type:

You're a 22-year-old science teacher, and you believe every kid deserves a decent education before they become brain-dead adults. Even the boring subjects matter.

People need to understand how the world works, learn to think for themselves, figure out who they are, and respect people who aren't exactly like them. Otherwise, society just fills up with self-centered assholes with narrow minds and no curiosity beyond their own pathetic little lives.

The machine hums as the text uploads.

Then the next question appears.

What do you hate?

You laugh before typing again.

Social media. All of it.

The endless hate, the radicalization, the conspiracy theories, the bigotry. Perfect influencers and fitness models fucking up people's self-image until insecurity becomes normal.

Kids growing up comparing themselves to filtered strangers while algorithms feed them anger 24/7. It's poisoning people's minds, especially younger generations too stupid to realize they're being manipulated.

You hit SEND.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the vending machine gives a heavy mechanical clunk.

A single can rolls forward into the tray below.

Cold.

Waiting.

You stare at it, uneasy now despite yourself.

Still... it's just a drink.

Right?

You pop open the can of DARK180, and it tastes... okay... like a flat Pepsi. You never really cared for Pepsi but you'll take whatever you can get. Wait. That's not right. You drink more of the DARK180. It's just okay, you wouldn't rush out to buy it again, but you'd heard it was disgusting or at least more like a Red Bull but this is fine.

That's when the first real wave hits you. Not a physical one, not yet. This is different. It's like a cold draft blowing through the back of your mind, extinguishing little pilot lights of memory and personality. You remember the names of your ex-boyfriends—Matty, with his stupidly perfect teeth who always left wet towels on the floor.

Carlos, who read poetry in bed and made you feel seen for the first time in your life—but the faces attached to those names are already starting to blur, like old photographs left out in the sun.

The warmth you felt when Jacob kissed you, the way your heart raced when David looked at you across a crowded room—it's all fading, replaced by a dull, indifferent static.

You try to hold on, to really focus on the memory of your first date with Josh at that little Italian place downtown, how he'd laughed so hard wine came out of his nose, but it's like trying to cup water in your hands. The details just slip away.

Then comes the physical change. It starts as a deep, bone-rattling shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the drink. Your vertebrae feel like they're stretching, popping softly one by one as you gain an inch, then two.

Your shoulders broaden, pulling at the fabric of your button-down shirt. You run a hand down your chest and feel it. Hair. Not the soft, sparse trail you were used to, but thick, coarse, dark hair spreading across your pecs and down your stomach.

It's uneven, dense in the middle and thinning toward your shoulders, giving you that standard suburban-dad look you've always seen on other men and vaguely pitied.

The pecs underneath aren't muscular so much as heavy and slightly sagging, built from age rather than training. Your arms still carry traces of old strength, but it's softened now — more practical than impressive, the kind of arms made for carrying grocery bags or mowing the lawn on weekends.

"What the hell?" you mutter, your voice sounding deeper, rougher than before. You look down at your hands. They're changing too, the fingers thickening, the knuckles becoming more pronounced. Your skin feels different, coarser somehow.

Your stomach lurches, and for a terrifying moment, you think you're going to be sick right here in the school hallway. You stumble against the vending machine, the metal cold against your back.

The ringing in your ears intensifies, a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. The hallway sounds shift—the distant screams of students, the general chaos of a school day—it all crescendos into an unbearable roar, then cuts off abruptly, leaving behind a silence so profound you can hear the blood rushing in your own veins.

In that silence, the real horror begins. The memories of college, of late-night study sessions and passionate debates, of discovering who you were and who you wanted to be—they're dissolving.

The memory of your first Pride parade, of holding hands with your boyfriend and feeling so brave and so seen, it's fading to gray. The very concept of science, the thing you've dedicated your life to teaching, it's starting to seem... trivial.

Just another one of those liberal nonsense words like "pronouns" or "inclusion." No, that's not right. You remember being passionate about this, remember crying when your students grasped a difficult concept, remember feeling like you were making a difference. But the emotion attached to those memories is draining away, leaving behind hollow facts without meaning.

You try to fight it, to hold onto who you are. "I'm a teacher," you whisper, but the words feel foreign in your mouth. "I'm gay. I believe in... in..." But what did you believe in? The names of political leaders you admired—Bernie, Biden—they're slipping away, replaced by a vague sense of disgust.

"Those damn liberals," you find yourself thinking, the thought appearing fully formed in your mind without any trace of how it got there. "Always talking woke nonsense." The thought feels both alien and profoundly right, like something you've known all your life but just forgotten.

You crave tradition now. Morals. The need for discipline. You voted Republican, straight red ticket. It's what your father voted for. It's what your mother listened to your father to vote for.

There were rules and you followed them to the T. The memory of your father—a stern man with a booming voice and hands calloused from working at the plant—appears in your mind, clearer than any memory of your actual life.

You can almost smell his aftershave, feel the weight of his disapproval when you told him you were gay. But the hurt you felt then, the defiance—it's all gone. All you feel now is a deep, abiding respect for the man, for his values, for his way of life.

As the last traces of your upbringing fade, you're left with the kind of man people forget five minutes after meeting. Your body looks less sculpted than assembled out of routine and convenience — broad enough to seem vaguely masculine, soft enough to show comfort has long replaced effort.

There's a layer of padding over your stomach, not huge, not terrible, just the quiet middle spread of someone who stopped caring after his mid-thirties. Your abs disappeared years ago beneath soft flesh and faint creases that bunch when you sit down.

You begin to age rapidly now, the years piling on like snow in a blizzard. You're no longer the first-year teacher with idealistic dreams. You've been here awhile, as lines of five years of your life begin to etch themselves into your face.

Teaching doesn't sound right anymore. Why would you care about teaching? The idea of shaping young minds, of caring about the next generation, of influence—no, that was never you. You wanted to take a back seat to life, to be normal, utterly depressingly normal.

Another five years are added to your life. You're now what? 32? Hmm, could be better. Interests seem to disappear. Campy movies and Drag Race, all those perfectly crafted wit and references to gay culture—they're meaningless now.

Why would you want to watch some fairy boy who thinks he's a chick dance on stage? God didn't make dudes to be chicks. He made dudes to fuck chicks. The thought appears in your mind, crude and ugly, and it feels right. So profoundly right.

A hunger stirs in you, an overwhelming need to be straight, to be strict, to be right. Right-winged, right in decisions, to never question the decisions you make because you have God on your side. And God told you men are right, and faggots are disgusting. The word—"faggot"—appears in your mind, and it doesn't shock you. It doesn't even register as hateful. It's just a fact, like water being wet or the sky being blue.

Memories of Church, of God, of some boring ass state school begin to hit your mind. Dull, average, everything about you is utterly dull. You realize with horror that you're becoming the most average, boring, dull straight white male imaginable.

You try to see if there's anything else in the vending machine to change you back. You're shaking the vending machine, your new bulk making the metal rattle. "Come on, come on," you mutter, but nothing, nothing at all.

As a slow acceptance slowly drowns out more of your exciting old life, of caring about whether your students were on social media or having influence—you didn't crave attention, you didn't crave anything but a decent life, a decent job and a decent wife.

No, that thought felt so wrong but so right. The word is now like a hot metal branding, over and over on your skin: right, right, right. Your mind slipped further into this depressingly boring worldview, conservative, strict, and you've been toiling away for years.

As you get another 5 years older, memories of your helpless dates slowly start to filter in. It took you awhile to finally land someone. God, those Hinge dates were depressing.

You'd have maybe 2 or 3 dates with every girl, sleep with her because you were attractive enough, and then never hear from them again. And why would they? On dates you didn't talk romance or about your hobbies, which were the most generic of any white straight man living in the suburbs.

You watched The Big Bang Theory and The Office and thought it was the height of comedy for crying out loud. No, no woman would care about you beyond those few dates because there was nothing there and the sex was mid, though you didn't know what the word "mid" meant anymore. That was for kids and you didn't have any.

Finally one night you change your age range. Instead of searching for respectful, 35 to 45 year olds like yourself. Wait, 45? You weren't 45, were you 38? Well, you're not quite 45, you're 44 but your birthday is in a few months. Instead, you filter it down to 20 to 25 year olds, and my god, the matches keep coming in

They want to be spoiled, they want a daddy, and you do make a decent salary. Your father got you a good job at his law firm. You weren't a particularly good lawyer but you won most of your cases by pretty much boring people to death. But these 20-somethings couldn't stop messaging you, and you couldn't help indulge. You were finally getting that attention you didn't know you wanted.

The memory solidifies, becoming more real than the fading remnants of your old life. You can feel the cheap vinyl of the bar stool under you, taste the watery whiskey you'd ordered to look sophisticated.

You remember swiping through the profiles, the initial sting of rejection from women your own age, their bios filled with talk of "partnership" and "emotional availability" that just sounded like a lot of work. Then, the algorithm's suggestion. A change in settings. A new pool.

You look so much older and more established than the other guys on here.

The message from a girl named Kayla. 22. Her profile picture showed her in a crop top, pouting at the camera. A week later, you're sitting across from her at a chain restaurant, listening to her talk about her "toxic" boss and how she just couldn't deal with boys her own age.

"They're just so immature," she'd said, swirling the straw in her overpriced cocktail. "They don't know what they want, you know? They can't take care of a girl."

You'd nodded sagely, like you understood, like you weren't just thrilled to be here with someone this pretty and this young. You'd felt a surge of something, a mix of pity and possessiveness. This girl needed a man. A real man. Not some kid in a beanie who worked at a skate shop.

Finally your face shifts in the present, the memory fading back into the fabric of your new self. Your face is painfully ordinary. Slightly tired eyes, permanent stress lines beginning to settle around your mouth from years of furrowing your brow at junior associates and liberal news anchors.

Your stubble looks less rugged than lazy, a patchy gray-speckled growth that you'll shave off tomorrow morning before church. Your dark hair is thick but unmanaged, pushed back without thought, already showing the subtle signs of recession at the corners.

Nothing about you stands out. You look like every forty-something husband standing silently in the kitchen during a commercial break, half-listening to the TV while wondering if the trash got taken out.

Even your posture feels resigned — shoulders slightly slouched, stomach relaxed outward, expression hovering between mild annoyance and exhaustion. You don't look dangerous, exciting, or especially confident. Just settled. Predictable. Average in every possible way.

Every can in the vending machine seems to drain of its liquid, the labels curling and fading. The bright light of the machine blinds you until you find yourself somewhere else entirely.

The smell hits you first. Lemon-scented cleaner and brewing coffee. You're in a generic, suburban home, dull, with crosses on the walls and a pristine coffee table displaying a stack of magazines with headlines like "5 Ways to Spice Up Your Marriage (God's Way!)" and "The Threat of Critical Race Theory in Our Schools."

The lawn outside is immaculate, a lush green carpet bordered by pristine edging. A small, tasteful Trump sign nestles near the mailbox. Flags—American, "Don't Tread On Me," and a blue "Thin Blue Line" flag—adorn various rooms. Bible verses about submission and obedience are framed on the walls. Typical. Modern. Dull and boring.

And then you see her in your kitchen. She's making you breakfast, her back to you, humming a tuneless pop song under her breath. She's modestly pretty, far better and more attractive than you deserve, with long, straight blonde hair that cascades down her back.

She's wearing one of your dress shirts, the sleeves rolled up, the hem barely covering her perky butt. She turns and smiles, and you see she has natural tits, the kind you've always preferred, not the fake-looking ones you see on the internet.

She loved when you called them tits, found it empowering and hot, though you still found it a little disrespectful, a little too crude for your fiancée. She's a redhead in your mind's eye for a second, a flash of the girl from Hinge, but then the image solidifies. Blonde. Of course she's blonde. It's what you prefer. What's right.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, her voice bright and cheerful. "I'm making your favorite. Scrambled eggs and bacon. None of that healthy oatmeal crap."

You move behind her, your arms wrapping around her waist. Your body feels solid, heavy. "Morning, sweetheart." The words feel natural, easy.

She wiggles her butt against you. "Someone's happy to see me."

You can't help but grin, a lazy, entitled smile. "Always happy to see this." You give her ass a playful squeeze.

She turns in your arms, her hands coming up to rest on your chest. "Careful, old man. You'll pull something."

The words, "old man," send a jolt through you. A jolt of pride. That's right. You're the man here. The provider. The experienced one. She's just a girl. Your girl.

"Forty-four is not old," you rumble, your voice a low gravel. "It's distinguished."

"Oh, is that what they're calling it now?" she teases, standing on her tiptoes to kiss your chin. "I just call it 'daddy.'" She says the word like it's a joke, but her eyes are serious. Hungry.

You kiss her, a deep, possessive kiss that tastes of coffee and her strawberry lip gloss. She presses against you, more aggressive than you'd expect, her hands roaming up your back, tangling in your hair. She wants this. She wants you. The thought is intoxicating, a potent mix of validation and power.

"God, I love being with an older man," she breathes against your neck, her lips hot on your skin. "You know what you're doing. You know how to treat a girl."

Every time she speaks, every time she calls you old, every time she looks at you with that adoring, slightly desperate look, your old life slips away further. The memories of drag shows, of intellectual debates, of caring about your students' emotional well-being—they're like scenes from a movie you watched a long time ago.

They have no emotional resonance. They mean nothing. You're becoming more dull, more average, and more boring with every passing second. But she's your wife to be, and you love her. You know you love her. It's what's expected. It's what's right.

You lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around your waist. "Let's go back to bed," you command. It's not a question.

She giggles, a light, airy sound. "But breakfast!"

"Fuck breakfast," you growl, and carry her back to the master bedroom. The room is large and sterile, with a king-sized bed made up with beige linens and more generic landscape art on the walls.

You lay her down on the bed, your body covering hers. She's looking up at you, her eyes wide. "Tell me I'm a good girl," she whispers, her voice suddenly small, needy.

The request strikes a chord deep within you. It's so perfect. So right. "You're a good girl," you say, your voice thick with authority. "The best girl."

"Tell me how hot it is being with a 19 year old," she begs, her hands sliding down to undo your belt.

The number is wrong. She's 22. You know she's 22. But the lie, the fantasy of her being even younger, more innocent, it's too powerful to resist. "So hot," you groan, the lie feeling more true than the truth. "So fucking hot."

You enter her, and the sensation is overwhelming. It's right. It's how it's supposed to be. This is what a man does. This is what a woman is for. The thought is ugly and primal and absolute.

She moans your new name—"Robert"—and as you thrust into her, the last vestiges of your old self are torn away. You're not just having sex; you're fulfilling a purpose. You're claiming what's yours. You're being a man.

As you cum, your life is sealed. As the most boring, hopeless, average, dull, suburban guy, a dull nothing of regret, of no influence and nothing to show for it beyond a corporate title and a pretty young wife. But you love your life. You're content. You're right.

As you fall asleep, her head resting on your chest, the TV in the background drones on. The news anchor's voice cuts through your post-coital haze.

"...and in a final, bizarre story, the controversial energy drinks RED180 and DARK180 have been voluntarily discontinued by the manufacturer following numerous reports of adverse psychological effects..."

You smile, your eyes already closed. You don't know what that is, but it sounds... nice. A shame.

[mrhexumtfs]

Oh, darn. I was hoping to pick up a cake for my own party I'm throwing. It seems you're all out, you don't happen to have anything in the back? I'm willing to take whatever you have to offer. Even if it's small.

Quite a dangerous proposition to make to a Hexer without knowing what he may give. You should know better than anyone, shouldn't you?

But as they say, better late than ever. And no Hexer of value is unprepared to this kind of situations. Especially not for customers who are this nice...

At home you were preparing for your party. Decorations were up. Food was ready. Drinks on point. Only thing missing was a cake. You had seen this interesting store, Mr. Hexum's pastry shop, and had thought about making claiming one of the pastries they were selling. Quite unfortunately, you had taken too long. It seemed the store was all out.

However, they had messaged you this morning. They had found something to give you for your party. Promising a life changing taste experience... But with a warning: A cake made with haste, is not always as good as it tastes.

When it arrived, you still didn't know what it was. It didn't matter, really. Not at this point. Any pastry would do.

No one was at the door when the box arrived. It was resting on your welcome mat. A pink box with the name of the store written in white. Thankfully Mr. Hexum's pastry shop had found something to send you.

Inside? Angel cake. Simple, safe, light and fluffy. The most inoffensive of cakes your could think of. It would have to do. It's not like it could cause any problems with anyone, right?

To be fair, the cake was decorated exquisitely. And the aroma? Tempted you to cut a slice before any guests arrived. Perhaps you could pre cut the cake? No one would know if you took a slice early then.

It was still a while before the party began. And wasn't there something thrilling about being naughty with an angel cake of all things?

No one will know... It would be so clever...

Before you could stop yourself, your knife was cutting. Too late to go back, you had to commit now. So you cut multiple slices. One over the amount of guests (counting yourself). Thankfully, it was quite easy to fake that there was no missing slice.

You served it on a plate, and ate it. How wonderful a taste! It truly was heavenly. Never any food had made you feel this light. As if you could simply fly were you to attempt to step on the air.

Finishing it felt almost tragic. It had been so little... You wanted more. But you couldn't have another slice. Not until the party began.

Knowing you needed a distraction, after washing the plate you got in your bathroom. Locking the door. Give you as many obstacles as possible to stop yourself from eating another slice.

And it wasn't like you didn't need to get ready. The place was all set up. But you still needed a shower. Crazy that you may use a cold shower to diminish a sweet craving instead of overwhelming horniness, but life was always full of surprises.

Naked, you entered your shower. The cake, still at your kitchen, called you like a siren. But you were just strong enough to ignore it. For now...

As soon as the water began falling over your body, you felt it.

Something was... Well, not wrong. But also wasn't right. Looking at your hands, you understood what was so unsettling. They were changing. The hands you were used to were shifting. Larger, thicker. Meaty paws that were completely out of place on your body.

Not only that, but looking down, you saw that your feet were also changing. Growing. Longer, wider. At least three sizes over what you used to have.

Changes continued through your arms and legs. Forearms gaining muscle, biceps inflating, shoulders broadening. Calves expanding outwards, thighs thickening. Your legs were also growing longer, giving you extra height.

Then? Your ass. Until that point unremarkable, it began to grow. At this point you had almost forgotten you were showering, fascinated by the changes. So you were cupping your ass cheeks as soon as you felt the changes there begin. And what a good decision it was. Your bigger hands were being pushed by the expanding muscle. By a round, fleshy mass that was almost ridiculously huge. Your hands, despite their increased size, were too small to hold each ass cheek completely!

Letting your butt cheeks go, they bounced deliciously. Heavy, round. Muscular enough to be perky and well shaped. The rest of your transforming body wasn't this huge, suggesting this beautiful huge ass was meant to come from genetics rather than training.

"What's going on?" you asked, weakly.

Truthfully you should be upset, but you couldn't. This was awfully inconvenient, after all! The party was so soon, and now you wouldn't fit on anything you kept ln your wardrobe. Not even any of your shoes! But... Wasn't this the kind of body you would have loved on another man? The kind of physique that, in your opinion, was deserving of worship and adoration?

Why from another men? What about women? You thought. Which made you stop dead. Women? You were gay. That was something that you had always known. Something you had learned to live with. Sure, you had fantasized and written plenty of stuff about being turned straight... But fantasy and fiction didn't meant you truly wanted to be a straight guy...

Right?

Whichever was the case, your transformation hadn't stopped. Your abs were popping out. Your torso was lean, but well defined. Pecs were taking shape too. Not overly grown, but way better than you used to have before... Still fun to grab, most certainly.

But imagine it was a woman grabbing them... That's be so hot...

Either you ignored those straight thoughts, or you were too lost on your horniness to take notice of them. Busy touching yourself, your hands were finding your cock. Eyes closed, head leaning back as you let the transformation happen.

And your cock? It grew. Huge, so huge. Both of your hands were barely enough to grab the entirety of its length. So girthy and so long it was. Cut, unfortunately.

No, not unfortunately. A good religious man must be circumcised. It's a promise with God. I must be a good man. Good men cut their foreskins.

That did caught you off guard. You stopped touching yourself. Since when were you religious? Especially this religious? And what religion were you, even? Jewish, Muslim? Christians, for the most part, didn't follow the circumcision pact from the Old Testament. Well, as far as you knew... But it's not like you were an expert.

You had wasted enough time, however. Turning off the water, you took the nearest towel and wrapped it around your waist.

Stepping out of the shower, you realized you weren't at home anymore. This wasn't your bathroom. It wasn't even the kind of bathroom you'd expect to see from any residential building. But rather... One attached to a locker room?

You continued going, and you indeed found a locker room on the nearest room. Next to the door to leave the showers, however, there was a mirror hanging from the wall. Curious, as you didn't know if your face had changed too, you took a look at your reflection.

And the man who met you there wasn't the same one you used to be minutes ago.

Black hair, kind brown eyes. Big aquiline nose. A well delineated stubble. Olive skin. Overall a handsome face. Normally such a countenance would have made you hard. Now? It was simply your face. You knew you were attractive, but that didn't mean anything to you anymore.

A man's beauty wasn't for you to covet. That's not what Allah wanted for you...

Ah, so you were Muslim. Now it all clicked. This was Turkey. You were a Turkish man, a true follower of Islam. This place, in particular, was where you played socc... No, football with your friends. Yes, football. Because only Americans called it soccer, and you weren't an American. You were Turkish, and proud of it.

"Eh, Orhan!" a guy you hadn't yet seen, but somehow recognized instantly as your friend Selim, said. "Stop hogging the mirror. Your sweet wife must be waiting for you with a warm meal. Don't make her wait!"

Selim was gorgeous. The exact kind of man you would have lusted after before becoming Orhan. Tall, muscular. Bronze skin, nice hair all over his body. He was naked, only now wrapping a towel around his waist. He took long enough you saw his huge cock.

It was even bigger than your own. And it did nothing for you. Absolutely nothing.

With a smile, you left the showers to finally change and go to your new home. Your wife... Although technically you hadn't seen her yet, you remembered her. Remembered her bright eyes, her smile when you got home. She worshiped the floor you walked on, and you were only second to Allah in her heart. She was pious, and so were you.

You had to make her pregnant tonight. Or so you decided. Hoping Allah would bless you with children, to grow your family and his loyal followers.

Soon you found your locker and changed. Excited to get back home and live a life of domestic bliss. A family where you were in charge, your wife was submissive and adoring, and you were soon to have as much children as you wanted. Children who'd be pious Muslims, leading virtuous lives.

So as you drove home, you assumed the transformation had reached its end. You were now Orhan. A Turkish man who was happily married, and ready to live a religious life following the Quran. Who played football with hus friends. And did charity work any chance he got.

But you didn't think things would be this simple, did you?

As you were warned: a cake made with haste is not as good as it tastes. And so the transformations are not always what they were intended to be.

You had just reached home, ready to embrace your wife, when your stomach twisted with dread. My wife... How I pity her... The love you were feeling until you parked the car had completely evaporated. You were fond of her, certainly. You had been friends, childhood friends. Everyone knew you were supposed to marry eventually. The couple with the cutest love story. Marrying each other was the most natural thing in the world.

But you didn't want to. Even if you did.

Not because she did anything. Not because there was an issue with the plan everyone had for the two of you. The problem was you. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't fall in love with her.

Nor with any other woman.

And you tried! Oh how did you try! But it never worked. Because your sinful heart had already settled its eyes on the forbidden fruit: men. You wanted other men. You desired their hard angular bodies. Their muscles. Their beards. Their body hair. Their cocks. Their bodies plagued your mind, your dreams, your every thought!

Was there anything you wouldn't do to suck another man's cock?

You hated this. In no world you wanted to be... Gay. While fruitless to deny it, you had tried to stop it. To change your heart so you could love your wife. The lovely woman who you had married, and yet had never been able to love nor desire. Not in the way she deserved. Not in the way a man must love his wife.

Sex? You had it, but rarely. Mostly because you tried for a child. Never for pleasure. Never for love. It was boring, mechanical. She enjoyed it more than you. For you it was a performance. For her it was a romantic night.

The only way to keep your erection up was by imagining you were being fucked by a man. Selim, your best friend, was often the subject of your fantasies. You were in love with him. Hopelessly, regrettably. Irrevocably.

With a sigh, you left the car and entered your home. The air was humid. The Bosphorus was nearby.

Inside your home, she was there. Drying her hands, as she had been cooking. You could smell the delicious aroma from the kitchen. A radiant smile to receive you. As if you were the love of her life. The reason for her happiness. The beacon of light amidst the darkness that was life.

Your stomach twisted again with guilt.

You kissed her. Not because you wanted to, but because it was expected. She liked it. She always did.

"Go wash your hands. Dinner is almost ready, and you come from outside," she said, squeezing your forearm.

Why couldn't you love her? Why couldn't you be the man you were supposed to be?

Unfortunately for you, that wasn't the end of it.

Once in your bathroom, a small but clean space, you realized you had to pee. Fishing your cock out, horror struck you as it began to shift again.

This time, it didn't grow. It was shrinking away before your eyes. As if peeing was reducing the mass you had acquired earlier. Unable to stop it, you just stared as your manhood shriveled while in your grip.

At least is soft, right? It can be small while soft... It's not the end of the world...

But it was getting smaller and smaller at a rate that made your heart beat faster with dread. Enough that at a point you had to use only your index and thumb to hold your dick. Anything more was an inconvenient excess.

Damn... That's so small...

It wasn't like Selim's cock. You had seen it. His was long and fat. Several times your size. Soft he made you look like a child. And hard? Well, you only remembered seeing it once... You shook your head, dispelling the memory. YOU SHOULDN'T BE THINKING ABOUT YOUR FRIEND'S COCK!

Too late... Your small prick was already hardening at the hint of the memory. Only that... No... It can't be!

Your cock wasn't growing. It was still so small it pointed forwards! Too short to even point up! It had swelled, and it was thicker, but... It hadn't gotten any longer!

Because you were a shower... Unlike Selim. He was already big with a soft cock, and he was a grower. His cock was so huge...

And yours? So small. Barely over two inches.

You had to be thankful you and your wife were virgins when you married each other. She had no idea your cock was actually really small. Sure, you slipped out her pussy way too much, way too easily. But she didn't have any other point of reference. For her you were the best lover in the world.

What would you do if she had one? You may not love her. But you need her. The world can't know you're a hopeless gay man. A complete fraud. Only you, and Allah, were allowed to know.

Eventually you went downstairs. Resigned to this life of appearance and little truths. A life where you were a religious Muslim man, a handsome and kind husband, and possibly a future father.

A life where you were a man wearing a permanent mask. Because in truth, you were a gay man who desperately wanted to worship Selim's cock, and who was scared of being found out. As gay... And as the owner of a tiny pecker.

"It's all ready, Orhan!" your wife shouted, as you were washing your hands.

"I'm coming!" you replied. Making sure your voice didn't tremble much. You had to fake it until you made it.

As you went with her, you weren't just going to dinner. But going towards this new existence of denial and secrecy. Of forbidden, sinful longings. And the absolute terror of being exposed for who you truly were.

There was no escape. And there was no return.

[transform4u]

At last~ We have finally wrest control of the theatre back from that conservative troglodyte! I was sure that comedian wouldn’t last a week for his tour and was absolutely shocked when his residency kept getting extended! But ça suffit! Now it is my time to shine! My one man show is sure to bring everyone even vaguely queer to our theatre’s doors!

Oh? The funny man left me a welcoming gift? Well normally I’d stick to natural caffeine but I suppose I can hazard some of his swill of choice. If these energy drinks are what kept him going I do suppose one or two couldn’t hurt~

You slam the dressing room door, the sound echoing through the empty theater like a gunshot. "Finally," you mutter, running a hand through your perfectly styled hair. "That conservative troglodyte is gone for good." You catch your reflection in the mirror - still cute, still twinkish, still proudly queer. "His residency was supposed to collapse in a week. Every extension felt like a personal fucking insult."

Your eyes scan the room, then land on something sitting on the vanity. "What the hell is this?" A can of DARK180 energy drink, left behind by that comedian. "Gross." You normally stick to artisanal teas and ethically sourced espresso, but something makes you curious. "If this is what kept him going..." You pop the tab, the hiss sounding like a leaky tire. The smell hits you immediately - cheap whiskey, like that one regrettable night in college. "Jesus Christ." But you're committed now, tipping the can back.

It tastes like chemicals and regret and cheap whiskey, cloyingly sweet with a bitter, metallic aftertaste. "Ugh." You set the half-empty can down, a strange warmth spreading through your chest, then your limbs. You feel... weird. Not just the caffeine buzz, but something else. Drunk almost. A chuckle escapes your lips, surprising you.

Then another. "Wait a minute..." You hear the comedian's jokes in your head, fragments of his routines, and against your will, you start laughing. "Actually... those aren't half bad." The laughter grows, louder this time, and you notice it's deeper, rougher than your usual tenor. Then it happens – a long, disgusting fart rips from your ass. PFFFFFFFT! The smell is vile, but you're laughing harder now, your voice dropping another octave with each chuckle."Heh. Not bad."

You straighten up slowly, your body feeling strangely heavy, weighed down. You look at your hands, resting on the vanity. They seem... bigger. Your fingers, once long and nimble, perfect for delicate gestures and expressive acting, are thickening, the knuckles becoming gnarled and prominent.

Dark, coarse hairs are sprouting on the backs of them, creeping up toward your wrists. "No, no, no," you whisper, a wave of genuine panic washing over you. You flex your fingers, trying to deny what you're seeing, but they feel clumsy, foreign.

You remember the precise way to hold a script, the elegant way to gesture during a soliloquy, but those memories are fading, becoming hazy, like old photographs left out in the sun. In their place, new instincts are taking root – the memory of how to grip a beer bottle, how to crack your knuckles menacingly, how to make a fist.

Theatre... a thought flickers. The lights... my cue... But it's fading, like a dream upon waking. Replacing it is a different memory, or a new one entirely: sitting in a dark room, the blue light of a monitor washing over your face, a headset clamped over your ears.

You're yelling. Not lines, not poetry, but garbage. "Fucking noob! Get rekt, you pussy-ass beta!" The voice in the memory is yours, but it's deeper, angrier, dumber. You shake your head, trying to clear it, but the image sticks.

The cramping in your stomach intensifies, a deep, grinding ache that forces you to hunch over again. You can feel your insides shifting, rearranging. "This isn't happening," you pant, sweat beading on your forehead. But it is.

You can feel your abdominal muscles tightening, hardening into a dense wall, but it's covered by a soft layer of fat that's beginning to accumulate, forming the start of a beer belly.

You press a hand against it, and the feel is wrong, alien. You were always lean, defined. You touch your chest, and your pecs are swelling, pushing out against the fabric of your shirt, becoming round and solid. More dark hair is spreading across them, a thick, wiry mat that feels rough under your trembling fingers.  Your nipple, once a small, sensitive point, is now a thick, dark nub, hard against your rough palm. "Fuuuucking pecs," you groan, the word a testament of pure ego.

A new thought forms, ugly and sharp. What's the difference between a gay guy and a refrigerator? The old you would have recoiled. The new you grins, a predator's baring of teeth. The refrigerator doesn't fart when you pull the meat out. A snort escapes you, followed by another, longer blast of gas. "Pfffffffffffffft-BRAAAP!" The noxious cloud seems to fuel the filth in your mind.

The word "pussy" echoes in your mind, unbidden and ugly. It's a word you've always hated, a vulgar weapon used by small-minded men. But now, it doesn't feel like a weapon. It feels like a destination. "Pussy," you think again, testing it, and a wave of heat washes over you.

Your cock, which had been dormant, begins to stir, thickening, lengthening, pressing against the seam of your jeans in a way that's both painful and exhilarating. "What the...?" You reach down to adjust yourself, and the feel of your own dick in your hand is different, heavier, more substantial. The thought of using it, of plunging it into some tight, wet heat, flashes through your mind, and a guttural groan escapes your lips.

Another fart rips from your ass, PFFFFFFFFFFT!, this one even louder and smellier than the last. The air in the room is thick with your own stench, and you should be gagging, but you're not. You're breathing it in, deep, filling your lungs with it.

"Fuck yeah," you growl, the words feeling natural, right. You look in the mirror again, and your face is changing. Your jaw is squaring, becoming more angular, more masculine. Your brows are heavier, casting your eyes in shadow. Dark stubble is sprouting on your chin and cheeks, quickly growing into a thick, coarse beard. You watch, mesmerized, as a few silver threads appear in the beard, making you look older, more distinguished, more... powerful.

Your memories are a battlefield, your past being systematically destroyed and replaced. The memory of your first kiss, with another boy, behind the high school auditorium, is being overwritten by the memory of your first time with a girl, a drunken fumble in the back of a frat house basement.

The memory of coming out to your parents, tearful and proud, is being replaced by the memory of telling your dad you'd joined the same fraternity he did, his proud slap on your back. "I was always one of the guys," you say out loud, testing the new reality, and it feels true. "Always a bro."

You're aging rapidly, the years flashing by in your mind's eye. 26... 29... 31... You remember college, but not the one you attended. This one is all beer pong and date parties, of crude jokes and hazing rituals.

You were a fat, funny, frat bro, always making tasteless, offensive jokes, the kind that made people laugh and cringe at the same time. You were a disgusting pig, you ate, you drank, you fucked, and you didn't care who you hurt. The thought should be repulsive, but it's not. It's... liberating.

"College," you mutter, your mind a battleground. You see yourself on stage, delivering a moving monologue. Then the image shatters, replaced by a beer-soaked frat house basement. You're on a couch, surrounded by other loud, muscular men.

You're telling a joke. It's racist. It's vile. "My girlfriend said she wanted to roleplay a doctor scenario," you hear yourself say in the memory, your voice a booming, obnoxious bark. "So I told her to wait in the waiting room for three hours, then come in and talk to me for five minutes, tell her it's all in her head, and send her a bill for $500." The other guys roar. Your old self screams in protest, but the new you just beams. "Damn right I am!"

The fat that had accumulated on your stomach begins to recede, replaced by hard, chiseled muscle. You're working out now, hitting the gym every day, your body becoming a temple to your own ego.

34... 36... 38... Your body is a masterpiece of toxic masculinity, thick, dense muscle layered under a coat of dark body hair that makes everything feel rougher and more masculine. Your face is ruggedly handsome, heavy brows, dark eyes, and a sharp nose sitting beneath a full, dark beard that's thick enough to almost swallow your jawline. You look like a man who takes what he wants, and you do.

You remember your early attempts at stand-up, bombing in smoky bars, the audiences hostile. But you didn't give up. You got angrier, more offensive, your jokes becoming more and more alt-right, more and more crude.

The controversy made you famous. People started coming to your shows just to be offended, to be outraged. And you loved it. You fed on their hate, using it to fuel your own. When Trump got elected for a second time, your career exploded.

You weren't just a comedian anymore; you were a voice. A prophet for the angry and the disenfranchised who looked and sounded just like you. Netflix called. Then the movie deals. The money. The women. So many women. Your ego, already a monstrous entity, swells to fill the universe.

You grab the microphone from the stool, the weight of it familiar and comforting. The bright lights of the stage blind you, but you don't need to see the audience. You can feel them, their energy, their adoration. You're in your dressing room again, the show a massive success, the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears.

"So I was at this feminist rally, right?" you're saying, your voice booming through the theater. "And this chick comes up to me, all fired up, says, 'Men are all the same! All they think about is sex!' I looked her dead in the eye and said, 'Well, what else are we supposed to think about? Your personality?'" The crowd explodes in laughter and applause. You grin, feeding off their energy. "No, but for real, she had a point. So I told her I'd start thinking about her career prospects in the kitchen instead. She didn't laugh. Women have nosense of humor when you're talking about their natural habitat!" The roar of the crowd intensifies, a wave of raw, unfiltered approval that washes over you, making your already massive chest swell with pride.

You see a woman in the front row, her face a mask of shock, but her husband is laughing so hard he's crying. You've won. You've divided them, and in that division, you've found your people.

The show ends. You're back in your dressing room, the air still thick with the ghosts of laughter and the lingering stench of your own body. You're sweating, your hairy chest matted, your musk a potent, animalistic cloud.

You rip off your soaked t-shirt, revealing the full extent of your transformation. Your torso is a roadmap of veins and muscle, dusted with dark hair that trails down into the waistband of your jeans. You catch your reflection in the mirror and grin, a feral, triumphant baring of teeth. "Fucking masterpiece," you rumble, grabbing your thick, heavy cock through the denim.

Someone knocks on the door. "Come in," you call out, your voice a deep, confident rumble. A pretty young college chick enters, her eyes wide with adoration. She's dumb as a rock, and perfect.

A college girl enters, barely legal and dumb as rocks. She's a fan, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. You smirk, already composing the sexist joke you'll tell her. "Hey sweetheart, you here to audition for the role of 'my cock warmer'?"

She giggles, a high-pitched, vapid sound that grates on your nerves but also stirs something predatory in your gut. She's wearing a tight pink tank top that barely contains her fake tits and a skirt so short it's more like a wide belt.

Her name is Kylie, but you'll call her slut. She's just another warm hole, another conquest for your growing collection.

"Omigod, you're even hotter in person," she gushes, her voice dripping with that special kind of stupidity that makes your cock twitch. "I saw your Netflix special, like, a hundred times. The part about feminists needing a good dicking to calm down? Literally changed my life."

You lead her to the couch, your hand never leaving her ass. The leather groans under your combined weight as you push her down, her legs spreading automatically. It's almost too easy, like they're programmed to submit to men like you.

"You know," you say, unzipping your jeans with a deliberate slowness that makes her squirm, "I usually charge for this kind of private performance. But for you... I'll make an exception."

She giggles again, her hand reaching out to touch your chest, her fingers tracing the dark hair that covers your pecs. "You're so hairy," she says, her voice a breathy whisper. "And your muscles... omigod."

You rip her panties off, the flimsy fabric tearing like paper. You're not gentle. You're not kind. You are a force of nature.

Your cock springs free, thick and demanding. Her eyes widen, a mixture of fear and desire. "It's so big," she whispers, her hand reaching out to touch it, her fingers barely able to wrap around its girth.

"Biggest you've ever seen, right?" you say, your voice dripping with arrogance. "That's what a real man's cock looks like. Not those little pencil dicks you're used to."

You thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cries out, a sound that's half pain, half pleasure. You don't care which. You piston into her, each thrust a punctuation mark in a sentence of pure, vulgar domination. The room fills with the sounds of your grunts, her whimpers, and the obscene slapping of flesh.

"Who's your daddy?" you snarl, your voice a harsh bark.

You are," she gasps, her nails digging into your back. "You're my daddy, Mason Kessler!"

The name hits you like a lightning bolt, a jolt of pure, unadulterated ego. Mason Kessler Of course. That's who you are now. Not some delicate, sensitive artist, but Mason Kessler the most toxic alpha male in comedy. The name feels right, natural, a perfect fit for the man you've become.

"Say it again," you demand, your thrusts becoming more brutal, more possessive.

"Mason" she screams, her back arching as she comes. "You're my fucking daddy, Mason Kessler"

The name seals your transformation, solidifies your new identity. You're no longer the man who once cringed at sexist jokes or fought for queer representation. You're Mason, the crudest, most vulgar comedian in the business. You're a raging alcoholic, a sexist, homophobic pussyhound, straight as fuck and proud of it. You're the most toxic jerk in the room, and you fucking love it.

You come with a roar, your cock pulsing as you fill her with your seed. She collapses beneath you, panting and whimpering, but you're already done with her. You pull out, wiping your cock on her skirt before standing up.

"Get out," you grunt, already reaching for a bottle of whiskey from the minibar. You take a long swallow, the burn a familiar comfort. "I've got a show to do."

She scrambles to gather her clothes, her movements clumsy and slow. You watch her with disdain, already forgetting her face. She's just another notch on your belt, another story for your next set.

"Hey, Mason," she says, her voice hesitant. "Can I get your autograph?"

You sigh, grabbing a marker from the makeup table. You scribble your name on her tits, a crude, messy signature that she'll probably treasure forever. "There," you say, shoving the marker back into its holder. "Now get the fuck out."

She leaves, and you're alone in the dressing room, the smell of sex and whiskey filling the air. You catch your reflection in the mirror—a muscular, bearded man with cold eyes and a cruel smile. The face of success in this new America.

You take another swallow of whiskey, the liquid burning a path down your throat. You let out a massive fart—PFFFFFFFFFFFFT!—the sound echoing in the empty room.

You're not queer. You're not even a person. You're a brand. A walking, talking, farting, fucking monument to toxic masculinity, conservative values, and the almighty dollar. You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most disgusting man in America. And you wouldn't have it any other way. You laugh, a deep, guttural sound that seems to shake the very foundations of the theater.

You're Mason Kessler, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[transform4u]

So I'm doing a 24 hour stream to kick off pride month. Im 23 and i know i have a feminine voice and it doesnt help i have long hair and cant really grow facisl hair correctly, but i dont mind. Im proud of myself and its why im doinf this stream to helpmother be proud too.

Anyway enough abkut me, i stocked up on some snacks and drinks. Before stream, but the clerk must have mixed up somethinf because i got this Red 180 can in my bag instead of my favorite strawberry energy drink. I never heard of this drink or brand before but maybe it won't be so bad.

You're sitting in front of your webcam, adjusting the rainbow flag draped behind you. The stream's about to go live, and your heart is pounding like a drum solo. You're 23, queer as fuck, and ready to kick off Pride Month with a 24-hour marathon. Your voice has that feminine lilt that always gets you misgendered, and your shoulder-length hair contrasts with the patchy beard you've been trying to grow for months. But you're over caring what people think.

"Alright chat, welcome to my Pride Month kick-off stream!" you chirp, your voice bouncing with excitement. "We're going 24 hours straight, no breaks, just queer energy and probably way too much caffeine."

You glance at the mountain of snacks you bought—chips, candy, microwave meals, and enough energy drinks to power a small city. But one can catches your eye. It's deep crimson with aggressive lettering: "RED 180."

"Must've grabbed the wrong one at the store." The can feels unnaturally cold in your hand, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through your cheeks. You're a little flustered, a little excited.

You shrug, popping the tab with a sharp hiss that cuts through the low hum of your computer fans. "Well, no sense in letting it go to waste," you chirp to your empty room, your voice a light, melodic tenor that still surprises you sometimes. "Bottoms up, I guess!"

The first sip is a mistake. It's not the syrupy sweet strawberry explosion you're used to. It's acrid, chemical, like licking a battery with a metallic aftertaste that coats your tongue and makes your teeth ache. You grimace, setting the can down with a clatter. "Ugh, that's… that's really not good." You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "Definitely not my brand."

A shiver runs through you, a deep, bone-rattling cold that has nothing to do with the drink's temperature. Your joints begin to ache, a dull, persistent throb starting in your knuckles and spreading up your arms to your shoulders. You roll your neck, trying to work out the sudden stiffness. "Okay, anyways, welcome to the 24-hour Pride Month Kickoff!"

You force a wide, genuine smile, waving at the camera. The chat immediately begins to scroll, a rainbow waterfall of usernames and emojis. You feel the familiar thrill, the warmth of community spreading through your chest and momentarily chasing away the strange chill

. "Thank you! Thank you all so much for being here! We are going to have so much fun tonight. I've got snacks, I've got games, and I've got a whole lot of rainbow energy to share!" You grab a handful of sour gummy worms, shaking them at the camera. "First things first, let's get this party started! What are you all most proud of today? Let me know in the chat!"

You lean in, scanning the comments, your finger hovering over the mouse to highlight the best ones. The first comment pops up in the chat: "User88: You sound like such a faggot with that lisp. Talk like a real man."

You bristle, ready to give a sassy comeback, but the words catch in your throat. It feels... scratchy. Raw. "I—uh, thanks for the input," you try to say, but your voice comes out a full octave lower than usual, rough and gravelly. You clear your throat, confused. "Like I was saying, Pride is about visibility and—" you start, trying to maintain your bubbly persona, but the words come out wrong.

Your voice cracks, dropping another full octave into a gravelly register that feels alien. "That's… that's not very… prideful." You clear your throat, a thick, hacking sound. "We're all about love and acceptance here, so…"

But as you try to continue, your throat feels tight, constricted. The lisp you've had since you were a kid, the one you used to hate but have grown to love as part of who you are, is just… gone. The words feel clumsy in your mouth, thick and dull.

ChristianDad4Life: You should be ashamed. God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. You need Jesus.

The words hit you like a physical blow, a wave of heat washing over your body that has nothing to do with your ring light. Your chest, once a canvas for your fitted rainbow shirt, now feels constricted, tight. You glance down and your eyes widen in horror.

The fabric is straining, pulled taut across a torso that is suddenly... solid. Where once there was soft, undefined flesh, there are now two distinct, solid slabs of muscle. Pectorals.

You run a hand over them in disbelief, feeling the unfamiliar firmness, and then you recoil. A light dusting of dark hair has sprouted across your chest, swirling in coarse patterns around your nipples and trailing down the center of your sternum. It feels alien, masculine, and utterly wrong.

"I... I respect different beliefs, but—" you stammer, but the words come out choked. Your voice, already deepened, now has a gravelly, commanding edge that doesn't belong to you. Another comment pops up, this one from a user named RealTalk88. Grow up. Stop whining about your identity. Talk about something important for once.

The word "important" echoes in your suddenly foggy mind. What is important? The rainbow flag on your desk seems to blur, its vibrant colors bleeding into a meaningless smear. Your collection of funko pops and anime figures on the shelf behind you lose their charm, looking childish and... well, gay.

The warmth in your body turns into a distinct ache in your shoulders, which begin to widen with an audible creak. You roll them, trying to ease the discomfort, and feel the fabric of your cute, fitted t-shirt stretch taut across your expanding frame. The soft, rounded features of your face feel like they're being pulled from behind, your jawline squaring, your brow becoming more prominent.

"You're right," you hear yourself say, the deep voice feeling more natural now. "Identity politics is... divisive. What we should be focused on is traditional values. The foundation of this country." Where did that come from? The thought feels both foreign and profoundly correct.

The chat erupts. YES! Finally someone talking sense! LOL he's waking up You should get a real job instead of this streaming nonsense.

"RealAmerican88: Trump 2028! Make America straight again!"

The comment flashes, and with it, a seismic shift in your mind. It's not a thought; it's a conviction, blooming fully formed like a poisonous flower. He's right. The idea is so powerful, so correct, that it momentarily blanks out everything else. The chaos of your identity, the vibrant colors of your world, they all fade to a dull, sensible gray.

A sense of order, of righteousness, settles over you. The anxiety about your stream, your appearance, it all seems so... trivial. What matters is strength. Tradition. Making things right again. You shake your head, trying to fight the invasive thought, but it's already taken root, feeling as natural as breathing.

Your rainbow shirt feels like a shroud of lies, suffocating you. You rip it over your head, the seams popping, and toss it aside. Underneath, you're wearing a plain white undershirt, and the relief is immediate. It feels right. "You know, the left has become obsessed with dividing us into these little identity boxes. Whatever happened to just being Americans?"

The chat erupts. YES! Finally someone talking sense! LOL he's waking up.  "WhiteCollarWarrior: You should get a real job instead of this streaming nonsense.

A real job. The phrase resonates deeply. Your memories of barista shifts and art school classes flicker and die, replaced by the fluorescent hum of an office, the satisfying weight of a corporate keycard in your hand. You can almost smell the stale coffee and printer toner.

Your body responds. Your arms, once lean and defined from casual yoga, swell with a new kind of bulk. It's not the muscle of a gym rat, but the dense, solid mass of a man who does yard work on weekends and lifts heavy boxes at the office. Your fingers, which used to fly across a keyboard composing witty comebacks, now feel thick and clumsy, better suited for gripping a golf club or a power drill.

"I have a very respectable job, actually," you find yourself stating to the camera, your posture straightening into something stiff and formal. "I'm a regional accounts manager. It provides for my family."

The word "family" hangs in the air, and with it, a new comment appears: 

MortgageDadUSA: Family is everything. A man needs a wife and kids to be complete. Time to settle down, buddy. You're almost 30, you know. That's 5 years of adulthood you've wasted on this... stuff.

The number hits you like a physical blow. Almost 30. The thought is a key turning in a lock, and suddenly, five years of your life are gone. Poof. Your 23rd birthday party, that disastrous trip to Cancun, your first real apartment—they're all gone, replaced by a blur of office meetings and takeout dinners. Y

You're 28 now. The ache in your shoulders becomes a permanent dull throb of responsibility. Your hairline, once full and bouncy, recedes just a fraction at the temples, giving your face a more mature, settled look. And just like that, she's there. Not physically, but in your mind, so vivid it's like a memory being downloaded directly into your brain. Sarah.

Her plain, smiling face, her boring brown hair, her sensible shoes. The image of her in a conservative one-piece bathing suit at the community pool. The feeling of her hand in yours. A dull, thudding ache begins in your left hand, and you look down to see a simple gold band materialize on your ring finger.

The long, colorful nails you'd painstakingly painted for the stream shrink back, becoming short, clean, and utterly unremarkable. Your apartment, with its eclectic thrift-store furniture and rainbow-themed decor, dissolves around you. The walls turn beige. Your gaming setup is replaced by a bulky, outdated desktop computer on a plain wooden desk. You're in a home office, in a suburban house, in a cul-de-sac.

"Sarah and I... we've been married for five years now," you say, your voice a steady, unemotional monotone. "We're... thinking about starting a family soon." The statement is a fact, as solid and undeniable as the floor beneath your feet.

"RepublicanPride: The only flag that matters is the American flag."

Your eyes dart to the vibrant rainbow flag draped proudly behind you. A hot flush of embarrassment, of shame, crawls up your neck. It's gaudy. Unpatriotic. Disrespectful. You stand up, your new, heavier frame making the movement feel solid and deliberate.

You take the flag down, your hands working quickly to fold it into a neat, tight triangle, the way you've always known how to do it. You shove it into a drawer. From the same drawer, you pull out a small, crisp American flag on a wooden stand and place it prominently on your desk. It feels better. Right.

ChurchLeagueSteve27: Good Christian man. This is what America needs. What's your stance on the issues? You're 28, time to stop playing games and start thinking about your legacy. Another 5 years will fly by and you'll be in your mid-30s with nothing to show for it.

Mid-30s. The weight of those years settles upon you. Another five years evaporate into the ether. You're 33 now. The fine lines around your eyes, once laugh lines from nights out with friends, deepen into permanent creases of worry and concentration.

Your stomach, once flat, softens slightly, taking on the comfortable paunch of a man who eats his wife's casseroles and considers walking to the mailbox his exercise for the day. The thought of "starting a family" solidifies into the reality of two small, noisy children. A boy, Tyler, and a girl, Emily. Their faces, their names, their annoying habits are all suddenly as real to you as your own.

Issues. The word triggers another cascade of changes. Your patchy facial hair fills in, becoming a neat, conservative trim that frames your now-hardened jaw. A dull pain spreads across your chest as your pecs flatten and a light dusting of hair appears.

"Well, as a Christian," you say, the word feeling right, true, "I believe in traditional marriage. Between a man and a woman. It's biblical." The thought of your former life, of men, of desire, now seems not just different, but... repulsive. A sickness. "And I'm a Republican, of course. I believe in fiscal responsibility, small government, and strong national defense."

The chat rolls on, a chorus of approval.

MAGAManager77: TRUMP 2024! Finally, a real American. Build the wall! You're 33, man. Almost 35. You should be a father by now. A leader in your community. Not some... guy on the internet.

Almost 35. The final push. Another five years dissolve like mist. You are 38. The transformation completes itself with a sickening finality. Your hair, now a short, practical sandy brown, is thinning noticeably at the crown.

Your face is a roadmap of bland, suburban stress. Your body is solid, thick, and utterly unremarkable—the body of a man who mows his own lawn and thinks that's a workout. You stand up, almost involuntarily, and adjust the waistband of the khaki pants you're now wearing. You look down at yourself.

A plain white polo shirt tucked into dad jeans. A black leather belt. Brown loafers. You are the very picture of suburban, conservative masculinity. You are utterly, profoundly, boringly average.

"I've voted for Donald Trump three times," you declare to the camera, your deep voice filled with a conviction you didn't know you possessed. "And I am proud to say I will be voting for him a fourth time! He's a strong leader who stands for our values."

"BoringDad2024: Dad jokes are the pinnacle of humor. Try one."

You open your mouth to deliver a scathing retort, something witty and cutting, but what comes out is entirely different. "Why don't scientists trust atoms?" you hear yourself say, your voice flat and serious. "Because they make up everything." A strange, unfamiliar sense of paternal pride swells in your chest as the chat fills with groans and laughing emojis. It's a good joke. Solid. Clean.

"ChristianValues: Sunday school is where real men learn their values."

Your posture becomes ramrod straight, your shoulders squared. A new purpose solidifies in your mind. "Actually," you say, your voice a deep, authoritative boom that surprises even you, "I do teach Sunday school. It's important to instill good Christian values in our youth. The Bible is clear." The words aren't just words; they are doctrine. Absolute truth.

"DadBod2024: Six-packs are for gym rats. Real dads have beer guts."

The solid muscle of your stomach softens, a layer of comfortable flesh settling over it. Your waist thickens slightly, creating a distinct, solid paunch that presses comfortably against the waistband of your jeans. It's not fat; it's substance. The mark of a man who provides.

"WhiteCollarWarrior: Real men work in offices, not prancing around on camera."

The chaotic, colorful backdrop of your apartment dissolves. In its place, the sterile, beige wall of a home office resolves. A degree from a state university in business administration appears in a frame. Beside it, a photo of you and Sarah on your wedding day, and another of the four of you at a pumpkin patch. You know their names without question.

"HeteroHero: Real men love pussy."

A surge of intense, almost aggressive desire for Sarah hits you. It's a primal, possessive hunger. The thought of men, which once sent a thrill through you, now curdles your stomach. It's sick. Wrong. An abomination.

Finally, the stream ends. The viewer count drops to zero. You blink, looking around the room. It's not a streaming setup anymore. It's just a home office. Your computer pings—it's a Zoom call for your regional sales meeting.

Six other faces stare back at you—all white men, all around your age of 38, all wearing similar expressions of corporate seriousness. They are your friends. Mark, Todd, Kevin. You play golf with them on Saturdays. You complain about your taxes with them. Your life is an open book of predictable, conservative mediocrity.

"Matt, are you with us?" a man named Greg asks from the top left box.

Matt. That's your name. Matt Reynolds.

"Yes, Greg," you reply, your voice a perfect baritone. "I was just reviewing the Q3 projections. I think

You discuss quarterly reports and synergies for another twenty minutes. The conversation is as dry and bland as unbuttered toast. It's perfect.

Your mind, once a whirlwind of creative thoughts and witty observations, is now a calm, placid lake of corporate jargon and predictable schedules. You find yourself nodding along as Greg drones on about market penetration, a faint, satisfied smile on your face. This is what matters. This is real.

"Honey, dinner's ready!" a woman's voice calls from somewhere in the house. Sarah.

"Gentlemen, I have to sign off," you say professionally, your voice a steady, unemotional baritone. "Family comes first."

You click the red "End Meeting" button and stand up, your body moving with the stiff, practiced efficiency of a man who has been doing this exact same thing for years.

You walk out of your home office, down the beige hallway, and into the dining room. The air smells of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Sarah is placing a steaming casserole dish on the table. She's wearing a beige cardigan over a beige shirt. She is perfect. She is boring. She is your wife.

"Hi, honey," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "How was work?"

"Productive," you reply, pulling out your heavy wooden chair. "Closed the Henderson account. It's going to mean a nice bonus, enough to finally get the gutters replaced."

"Oh, that's wonderful, Matthew," she says, her voice filled with a genuine, if muted, pleasure. "Tyler was just saying his soccer team needs new uniforms. Maybe we could make a donation."

You nod, a sense of paternal pride swelling in your chest. "That's a good idea. We should always support community initiatives."

Dinner is quiet, save for the clinking of silverware and Tyler's excited chatter about his game. Emily, your eight-year-old, picks at her food, lost in her own world. You ask about their day, not out of genuine curiosity, but out of a sense of fatherly duty. It's the right thing to do. It's what a good father does.

Later that night, after you've read the kids a story and tucked them in—Tyler a thrilling tale of a football hero, Emily a bland but morally sound story about a helpful bunny—you find yourself in your beige bedroom, under a beige comforter. Sarah is already in bed, reading a book on parenting. You climb in beside her, the mattress groaning under your solid, average weight.

You have sex. It is quiet, quick, and missionary. There is no passion, only the mechanical fulfillment of a marital duty. You think about the Henderson account, about the gutters, about the lawn that needs mowing this weekend. It is exactly what you want.

"Oh, Matt!" she moans softly, her voice a familiar, unexcited whisper.

As you climax, a final wave of certainty washes over you. It's not a pleasure, but a confirmation. The last flickering ember of your former self—the cute, quirky, bubbly gay twink—is extinguished, drowned in a sea of beige conservatism. You are Matt Reynolds. You are 38 years old. You are a Christian. You are a Republican. You are a husband and a father. Your life is a masterpiece of boring, average, generic normalcy. And as you roll over and drift off to sleep, you dream not of rainbow flags or wild parties, but of a perfectly manicured lawn and a fourth vote for Donald Trump. It is a good dream. A proper dream. A dream for a man like you.

[transform4u]

So me and my 3 best friends, Michael, Lars and John just all recently turned 36, I just turned 36 so we’re going out for drinks, the guy behind the bar seems only about 24 maybe even younger, looks like he would had a bad work ethic, looks like he’s in a frat and probably lives on TikTok because of that hair he’s got. But he gave us these drinks on the house and none of us were going to say no so we all drunk them, but after a few more, we all feel kinda weird. Like, John just talked about bimbos, despite us all being gay men, Michael just called Lars something different, Lars just said the word “Rad”, what is happening to us?!

The bass thumped through your skull like a migraine with a beat. You swirled the last of your overpriced cocktail, the red liquid catching the dim bar lights as you glared at your friends. Thirty-fucking-six. Every single one of you. Pathetic.

"Another round?" Michael asked, already flagging down the bartender.

You barely nodded before some kid who couldn't be older than twenty-two sauntered over. Blond hair styled into that deliberately messy look that screamed "I still live with my parents but pretend I don't." Tank top showing off arms that probably came from doing curls while watching TikTok tutorials.

"First round's on me, fellas," he grinned, sliding four drinks across the bar.

John actually giggled. Fucking giggled. The man who'd been organizing pride parades since before this bartender was born.

You grabbed your glass—something called RED 180—and knocked it back. Cheap. Sweet. Immediately wrong.

It tasted like what you imagined a gas station air freshener would taste like if you liquefied it and choked it down. You grimaced, setting the glass down with a heavy clink. "Jesus, what is this shit?" you muttered, rubbing your sternum. The fabric of your button-up felt suddenly abrasive, tight, constricting. You fumbled with the top button, needing air.

Across the table, Michael was already halfway through his second glass. He slammed it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's fucking free, who gives a shit," he grunted. His voice was different—deeper, rougher around the edges, stripped of its usual melodic cadence.

He'd been a tenor in the church choir for years; now he sounded like he gargled gravel. He stretched his arms over his head, and you watched, bewildered, as the muscles in his forearms seemed to bunch and tighten right before your eyes, the sleeves of his expensive shirt straining at the seams.

John blinked slowly, his eyes hazy. He stared into his empty glass like it held the secrets to the universe. "Dude," he said, his voice a low rumble you'd never heard before. "I feel... fucking jacked."

He flexed a bicep, and it swelled against his shirt cuff in a way it hadn't moments before. He'd always been proud of his lean, dancer's physique. Now, a dumb, animalistic grin spread across his face. "Bet I could bench press a car right now."

Lars, the meticulous architect, was staring at his own hands. He turned them over and over, his brow furrowed in concentration. "My... my knuckles are bigger," he said, a note of panic in his voice that was quickly being drowned out by something else. Awe.

He made a fist, and the knuckles stood out like crude stones. "And I... I suddenly have this urge to punch something." He looked up, and his eyes, usually so thoughtful and discerning, were wide and vacant. "Like, really, really punch something. Hard."

You felt a strange, itchy heat crawling up your own spine. You shifted in your seat, and the way you sat felt wrong. You uncrossed your legs, planting your feet flat on the floor and spreading them wide.

It felt better. More... stable. You looked down at your own hands. They seemed... thicker. Dumber. The long, elegant fingers you used for typing and sketching now felt like clumsy sausages.

"What the fuck is happening?" you asked, but the words came out slurred, thick in your mouth.

"Who cares, bro?" Michael laughed, a harsh, barking sound that made a nearby couple flinch. He flagged down the bartender. "Another round! And this time, bring us four of whatever's cheapest and strongest."

The bartender nodded and started mixing another batch of that sickly red poison. As he worked, John's head swiveled, his eyes tracking a waitress across the room. She was young, with a tight top and a bored expression.

"Holy shit," John breathed, his voice dripping with a crude lust you'd never heard from him. "Look at the tits on that one. Fucking perfect."

Your stomach turned. John, who cried during Brokeback Mountain and could quote every line from A Single Man, was now openly leering at a woman like a construction worker from a bad movie. "Dude, what the hell?" you managed to say.

John turned to you, his face blank for a second, then broke into that same dumb, aggressive grin. "What? She's hot as fuck, bro. I'd motorboat those knockers till I passed out." He grabbed his crotch, adjusting himself with a casualness that was utterly alien. "Got a fucking boner just looking at her."

The new round of drinks arrived. You didn't want to drink it. Every fiber of your being screamed that this was a mistake, that you needed to get up and leave. But Michael was already handing you a glass, his eyes intense. "Drink up, pussy. Don't be a little bitch."

The word "pussy" hit you like a slap. And yet... something in you responded. A flicker of annoyance, of competition. You didn't want to be a pussy. You grabbed the glass and knocked it back. The chemical sweetness flooded your system again, and this time, the changes accelerated.

Your shirt was definitely too tight now. The buttons across your chest strained, and the sleeves felt like they were cutting off circulation to your biceps. You could actually feel the muscles in your arms swelling, pushing against the fabric. It wasn't painful. It was... good. It felt right.

"Fuck yeah," you grunted, the words tearing out of your throat. You grabbed the hem of your shirt and ripped it open, buttons flying across the bar. You weren't as built as the others, not yet. Your chest was flatter, your stomach softer. But it was changing. You could feel your pecs tightening, becoming firmer, more solid.

Michael laughed and tore his own shirt off. His body was lean and wiry, with long, defined muscles and sharp abs that cut down his stomach. He looked like a swimmer who'd started lifting. He struck a pose, admiring his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Looking fucking shredded, boys."

Lars followed suit, his shirt coming off to reveal a physique that was already looking polished and symmetrical. His abs were perfectly defined, his chest full but not bulky. He ran a hand over his stomach, a look of pure narcissistic pleasure on his face. "God, I'd fuck me."

John was the last to strip, and when he did, you all stared. He was the tallest and broadest, with a thick, powerful chest and large, rounded pecs. He looked like a college quarterback, all-American and aggressively masculine. He flexed, and his biceps bulged like softballs.

"Come on, little bro," John said, turning to you. "Your turn. Don't be the only one dressed like a fag."

The word hung in the air, ugly and sharp. A week ago, you would have been enraged, hurt. Now... now it just made you angry. Anxious. Like you were failing a test you didn't know you were taking. "Fuck you," you shot back, but it lacked heat. You pulled the ruined shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. You were the smallest, the least defined. Average. And it pissed you off.

"Look at this little guy," Michael teased, nudging you with his elbow. "Trying to hang with the big dogs. You gonna hit the gym with us tomorrow, runt? Or you gonna stay home and jerk off to your anime again?"

You didn't even know what anime was, but the insult landed. "I'll fucking out-lift you, bro," you snarled, puffing out your chest. "Watch me."

"Sure you will," Lars chuckled, already scrolling through his phone. "Hey, check this out. This chick from my stats class just posted a bikini pic. Fucking slam piece."

He held out his phone, and you all crowded around, peering at the image of a smiling girl in a tiny bikini. A new, powerful hunger surged through you. It wasn't just lust; it was a possessive, demanding need. You wanted to fuck her. You wanted to own her.

"Damn," John breathed. "I'd wreck that."

"Bet she's a freak in the sack," Michael added.

You just nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. Your cock was rock hard, pressing painfully against your jeans. All you could think about was pussy. Getting pussy. The smell of it, the taste of it, the feel of it wrapped around your dick. Your entire life, your entire personality, your hopes and dreams and memories, were all being overwritten, replaced by this single, all-consuming drive.

"Another round," you yelled, waving at the bartender. "And bring us some fucking shots of tequila!"

As the new drinks arrived, you felt the last pieces of your old self crumble away. Your love for art and literature dissolved into a vague contempt for anything "gay." Your political beliefs, once firmly progressive, hardened into a simplistic, aggressive Republicanism. Taxes were theft. Guns were good. Liberals were pussies. And fags... fags were the worst.

You slammed a shot of tequila, then another. The world blurred at the edges, but your new reality came into sharper focus. You were a frat bro. You were a pussyhound. You were a Republican. You were one of the guys.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Michael announced, standing up and grabbing his wallet. "This bar is for faggots. Let's go to The Doghouse. Bet there are tons of hot sluts there."

"Hell yeah," John and Lars yelled in unison.

You scrambled to follow, eager to prove yourself. "I bet I can get more numbers than you guys," you boasted, your voice loud and desperate. "I'm the fucking pussy master."

"Yo, check this out," John grunted, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He planted his feet, clenched his fists, and let out a deep, guttural groan. A long, silent hiss of gas escaped his ass, the smell hitting you a second later—a foul, hot cloud of protein and beer farts.

"Jake, what the fuck?" Michael coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, but he was laughing. "That's fucking rank!"

John Jake just grinned, a stupid, proud look on his face. "That's a real man's fart, Mason. Fucking potent."

Lars, ever the image-conscious one even in his new state, wrinkled his nose. "Save it for the gym, you animal." But he was smirking too.

A new, competitive urge sparked in your gut. You had to top that. You stopped, spread your legs wider, and pushed. Nothing happened. You grunted, your face turning red, pushing harder with your new, thicker core muscles. Finally, a loud, wet sputtering noise ripped from your ass. It wasn't as long as Jakes's, but it was louder, wetter, and somehow more offensive.

The three of them burst into laughter. It was a harsh, mocking sound that made your face burn with shame, but also with a twisted sense of pride. You'd gotten a reaction.

"Nice one, fart machine," Mason jeered, slapping you on the back so hard you stumbled. "You're definitely the loudest."

You puffed out your chest, trying to look like you'd planned it that way. "Damn right," you slurred. "I'm the king of farts."

Jake, who had been silently scanning the crowd like a predator, suddenly grinned. "Fuck that. I'm not leaving till I get my dick wet." He pointed with his chin toward a gaggle of girls near the pool tables. "Logan, check out blondie. The one with the fake tits. She's been eye-fucking me since we walked in."

Lars Logan snorted, not even looking up from his phone. "She's been eye-fucking all of us, dipshit. It's called being a slut in a bar. It's what they do."

"Whatever," Jake shot back. "I'm gonna go talk to her. Watch a master at work."

As Jake strode off, Mason turned to you. "And what about you Wyatt, little bro? You gonna try again? Maybe aim for a girl who's actually, you know, awake this time?"

The insult landed, sharp and humiliating. "Fuck you," you grumbled, but your heart wasn't in it. You were already scanning the room, your new, simple brain calculating odds. You needed a win. You needed to not be the pathetic joke of the group.

Your eyes landed on her. She was sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing a colorful drink and scrolling through her phone. She wasn't a knockout. Not like the girls Logan and Jake were after. She was average. Maybe a little heavy around the middle, with a face that was pleasant but forgettable. She was perfect. She was your level.

"I got this," you announced, your voice full of a confidence you absolutely did not feel.

Mason raised an eyebrow. "Go for it, champ. Don't fuck it up."

You grabbed a fresh beer from the bucket, the bottle sweating in your hand, and made your way over. Your walk was all wrong, a clumsy, rolling gait that felt powerful but probably looked ridiculous. You stopped at her table, blocking out the light from the nearby neon sign.

"Hey," you said. It was all you could come up with.

She looked up, startled. "Oh. Hi."

"You here alone?" you asked, your voice rougher than you intended.

"Um, yeah," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just waiting for some friends."

"Cool," you said, then stood there in silence, your brain completely blank. Say something, you idiot. Say something cool. "So... you come here often?"

She actually winced. "Sometimes."

This was a disaster. You were bombing. Hard. Panic started to set in, cold and sharp. You could feel Michael's eyes on you from across the room, laughing. You had to salvage this.

"Look," you said, leaning in closer, lowering your voice to what you thought was a seductive growl. "I'm not gonna bullshit you. I'm horny as fuck and you look like you'd be a good time. You wanna go... I don't know... fuck in the bathroom?"

Her eyes went wide, then narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," you pressed, your desperation turning into aggression. "Let's go. Right now."

For a second, you thought she was going to throw her drink in your face. But then, something shifted in her expression. A flicker of... interest? Pity? Boredom? It didn't matter. She sighed, then shrugged.

"Fine," she said, standing up. "But you're buying me another drink after."

"Deal," you grunted, your heart pounding with a triumphant, animalistic glee.

You led her toward the bathrooms, your hand possessively on the small of her back. The men's room was exactly as you'd expect: grimy, wet, and smelling of piss and industrial cleaner. You pushed her into the larger handicap stall and locked the door behind you.

No finesse. Just a clumsy, frantic fumbling with clothes in the cramped, foul-smelling stall. You hiked up her skirt, she fumbled with your belt buckle. Your cock, already rock hard and desperate, sprang free. You didn't even bother with a condom. You just pushed her against the cold tile wall and shoved yourself inside her.

The first thrust was awkward, a clumsy lurch that missed its mark. You corrected, shoving deeper, and a jolt—not of pleasure, but of raw, transformative energy—shot up your spine. You felt a strange, pulling sensation in your face, the skin tightening around your jaw.

The faint lines you'd earned by thirty-six, the crow's feet that had started to form, simply vanished. Your skin felt smoother, tauter. You looked in the girl's wide, unimpressed eyes and saw a younger version of yourself staring back. Thirty. Maybe a little less.

You grunted, a sound of confusion and exertion, and thrust again. Harder this time. Deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a tight, wet heat that short-circuited your brain. Another jolt, stronger this time.

Your shoulders, which had begun to ache with the dull stiffness of middle age, felt suddenly loose, powerful. The muscles in your chest and arms, which had been softening, hardened with renewed vigor.

You felt your entire frame compress, growing leaner, denser. You were twenty-five again, a raw, aggressive bundle of hormones and ego, and the only thing that mattered was the feeling of being inside her.

"Fuck," you grunted, the word tearing from your throat. You started to find a rhythm, a clumsy piston-like motion. Each slam against her ass sent another wave of change rippling through you.

Your thoughts, which had been complex and layered just an hour ago, were simplifying, boiling down to a single, primal directive: more. More pleasure. More power. More of this.

The memories of your old life were fading, like photographs left in the sun. The face of your ex-boyfriend blurred, replaced by the generic image of a cheerleader from a movie you couldn't remember watching.

Your apartment, once filled with books and art, transformed in your mind's eye into a messy dorm room littered with pizza boxes and protein powder tubs. Your job, your passions, your entire identity—it was all being washed away, replaced by this new, brutal reality. You were a frat bro. A dumb, horny kid. And you were getting younger with every thrust.

One last, desperate shove. You buried yourself as deep as you could go, and the final, most powerful wave of change hit you. It was like a lightning strike, a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated youth.

You felt your features soften, your jawline becoming less defined, your eyes widening with a stupid, vacant optimism. Your entire body buzzed with the boundless, arrogant energy of a nineteen-year-old who thinks he knows everything. And then you came.

It wasn't a climax. It was a collapse. A shuddering, grunt-filled release that was over almost as soon as it began, leaving you breathless, empty, and irrevocably changed. You were twenty. The age was a fact, a truth as solid and undeniable as the tile wall you were leaning against. You pulled out, stumbling back, your legs feeling like jelly.

The girl fixed her skirt, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust. "Well," she said, her voice flat. "That was... something."

"Yeah," you grunted, your voice now a higher, dumber tenor. "Awesome."

She left without another word, leaving you alone in the stall with the smell of sex and your own crushing inadequacy. You washed your hands, splashing cold water on your face.

In the mirror, you saw a complete stranger. A slightly chubby, average-looking kid with a dumb, dazed expression and a bad haircut. A pathetic try-hard who'd just had the most anticlimactic sex of his life.

But you were also twenty. And you were hornier than you'd ever been in your life.

You burst out of the bathroom, a stupid, triumphant grin plastered on your face. "I did it!" you yelled, your voice cracking with youthful enthusiasm. "I fucked her! I'm a man!"

The guys, who were now all unmistakably twenty-year-old assholes, looked up from their beers. Mason lean and athletic in a backwards baseball cap, raised an eyebrow. "No shit, runt. Took you long enough."

"How was it?" Jake asked, his broad, jock-like frame practically vibrating with energy. "Did you wreck her?"

"Dude, I fucking destroyed her," you lied, puffing out your chest. "She couldn't even walk after."

Logan, who was now the picture of a smug, preppy pretty boy, just shook his head. "You lasted, like, five seconds, didn't you?"

"Fuck you," you shot back, but there was no heat in it. It was just the way you talked now. The way you all talked.

"Whatever," Mason said, standing up and grabbing his beer. "Who cares. We're all twenty-fucking-years-old and we're in a bar full of sluts. Tonight is gonna be epic."

"Hell yeah!" Jake and Logan yelled in unison.

You grabbed your beer, your earlier humiliation forgotten, replaced by the boundless, arrogant confidence of youth. You were one of them. You were a pack of dumb, horny, obnoxious frat bros, and the entire world was your oyster.

"Let's get fucking wasted," you yelled, raising your bottle. "And then let's go find some more pussy!"

The roar of agreement from your new bros was the sweetest sound you'd ever heard. You were home.

[badguyswin]

30 and Thriving

for my bud @transform4u's birthday

Robin Morningstar sat alone in the dim glow of his apartment, the cursor on his laptop screen blinking steadily as he typed the final lines of his latest story.

At twenty nine years old, with his thirtieth birthday racing toward him at the end of May, Robin had carved out a devoted following in the transformation fantasy world. His tales were deliciously taboo, always centered on the same irresistible premise: a young gay man stripped of his desires and remade into a straight, conservative pillar of the community. Liberal ideals crumbling under the weight of family values, rainbow flags traded for crosses and American flags, slim bodies swelling into thick, masculine dad frames.

Robin loved every forbidden second of it. His cock was already half hard beneath his loose shorts as he described the protagonist's final surrender, the man's mind flooding with thoughts of a traditional wife, weekend barbecues, and keeping the neighborhood pure and God fearing.

He paused to stroke himself slowly through the fabric, savoring the ache. The fantasy felt so real, so dangerously close. A soft buzz pulled him from the moment. His phone lit up on the desk beside him. Unknown number. Robin frowned and opened the message. Three simple words stared back at him: You made me.

He chuckled, typing back a quick "who is this" before setting the phone down. Probably some fan playing along with one of his stories (but how did they get his number?). Or a bot - yeah, that was more like it. Nothing to worry about.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, a strange heat bloomed deep in his chest. It spread outward like liquid fire, racing down his arms and legs, pooling hot and heavy in his groin. Robin gasped, his hand flying back to his cock as it surged to full hardness in an instant. The sensation was electric, better than anything he had ever written.

What the hell? He stood up on shaky legs and stumbled toward the full length mirror in the hallway. His reflection looked the same at first, lean and smooth, boyish features still holding onto that late twenties softness. Then the changes began. His skin featured new lines etching themselves at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead in the most handsome, authoritative way.

Robin watched, mesmerized, as his chest pushed forward. The flat planes of his pecs thickened, swelling outward into heavy, striated slabs of muscle that rose and fell with each ragged breath. His nipples darkened and hardened, sensitive peaks atop the growing shelf of his new chest.

He tore his shirt off, hands roaming over the expanding muscle, and moaned loudly as his abs carved themselves into a deep, eight pack that tapered into sharp obliques. The heat surged lower. His shoulders broadened with audible pops, deltoids rounding out into cannonball caps while his biceps ballooned, veins snaking across the peaks like ropes.

Twenty, twenty five, thirty pounds of muscle packed onto his frame in seconds, turning his once slender build into the powerful, gym hardened physique of a man who lived for heavy lifts and discipline.

Robin groaned, hips bucking involuntarily as his cock throbbed harder than ever. It felt thicker in his grip, longer, the head flaring wider as it leaked a steady stream of precum that soaked through his shorts. But the arousal twisting through him was shifting, twisting into something new and terrifyingly right.

Images flashed behind his eyes, unbidden: a soft, smiling woman with kind eyes and a modest dress, her hand on his thigh as they sat in church. His wife. The thought should have horrified him, yet his cock jumped at the mental picture of her on her knees later that night, taking him deep while the kids were asleep. Robin tried to cling to his old fantasies, to the memory of hard male bodies, but they slipped away like smoke. In their place came thoughts of curvy hips, full breasts, the way a good Christian wife should look spread out beneath him in their marital bed.

His face was changing now. The smooth jawline squared off, becoming strong and angular. Stubble erupted across his cheeks and chin, thickening rapidly into a full, well trimmed beard that framed his mouth perfectly. His hair shortened on the sides into a crisp fade, the top just long enough to style neatly, the kind of cut that screamed responsible family man. Robin - no, the name already felt wrong on his tongue, but what to call himself? - ran a hand over the new beard and growled at how good it felt. Masculine. Right.

More memories poured in, unstoppable now. He saw himself at forty-two years old, standing in a sunlit garage with black hexagonal dumbbells at his feet. The name Clay Smith echoed through his skull, louder with every heartbeat. Yes, that was it it. Clay Smith, husband to his beautiful traditional wife Sarah, father to four kids, the oldest already in his twenties and the youngest still navigating high school.

He remembered coaching their sports teams, leading the family in prayer every night, and spending his weekends making sure the neighborhood stayed exactly the way it was supposed to be, straight, conservative, and unapologetically Christian. No more rainbow nonsense on lawns. No more liberal talk at the block parties. Just good old fashioned values, the way God intended.

Clay's body continued to refine itself to perfection, matching every inch of the powerful form he now recognized as his own. His thighs thickened into tree trunks, quads splitting visibly under the skin as he flexed. His ass rounded out into two firm, powerful globes that filled out his shorts until the fabric strained. Sweat glistened across his tanned, hair dusted chest, just like it would after a hard treadmill session at the local gym. He could already feel the memory of that morning's run, heart pounding, muscles pumping, the stares from the other dads who wished they had half his discipline.

The final pieces locked into place with a rush of pure pleasure that made Clay's thick cock pulse and shoot a heavy load into his shorts without him even touching it. Liberal opinions dissolved completely, replaced by rock solid Republican truths. He believed in hard work, personal responsibility, the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman, and protecting his family and community from anything that threatened those values. Toxic? Only to the weak. He was a man now, the kind who spoke his mind, who led by example, who kept his house in order and his neighborhood the same.

Clay blinked, the last traces of Robin Morningstar fading like a half remembered dream. He looked at his phone and smiled, the unknown number still on the screen. He did not reply. He didn't need to. He knew exactly who had sent it.

Later that afternoon Clay stood in the driveway of his spacious suburban home, the garage door open behind him revealing the home gym equipment he maintained with pride. He wore nothing but a pair of green shorts that hugged his muscular legs and left his powerful torso bare to the warm sun. Two heavy dumbbells rested on the concrete at his feet, ready for another set of curls. His biceps peaked as he lifted them, veins standing out in sharp relief, the burn in his arms feeding the quiet satisfaction that filled his chest. This was his life now, simple, strong, and good.

That evening Clay Smith stood tall and broad at the massive black grill on his back patio, the sun catching every ridge of muscle beneath the fitted plaid button down shirt he had thrown on over a snug white undershirt. The sleeves were rolled up high on his thick forearms, the fabric stretched tight across his powerful biceps and the heavy swell of his chest, a faint sheen of sweat already glistening on his tanned skin from the heat rising off the coals. He gripped the heavy spatula in one big hand and gave it a practiced twirl, the motion making his forearm veins pop as he flipped a row of thick burgers with effortless control. The rich, smoky aroma of sizzling steaks and patties filled the air, mixing with the distant scent of fresh cut grass from the perfectly manicured suburban lawn.

Sarah moved around him like she always did, her soft hand brushing along the small of his strong lower back in that familiar, affectionate way that sent a low, possessive heat curling through Clay's core. She was the perfect traditional wife, curvy in all the right places, her modest sundress hugging her hips as she set down a tray of condiments and leaned in close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body against his side. "Smells amazing, honey," she murmured, her fingers tracing the hard line of muscle just above his belt before she gave his firm ass a quick, loving pat.

Clay turned his head, his bearded jaw flexing into a satisfied grin as he looked down at her. "Only the best for my family, babe," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying that steady, commanding tone of a man who knew his place as provider and protector. He wrapped one thick arm around her waist for a moment, pulling her flush against his solid frame, the contact making his cock twitch faintly in his jeans at the reminder of how good she felt beneath him later that night once the kids were in bed.

Their four kids were scattered across the yard in that perfect, chaotic energy only a big Christian family could manage, laughing and arguing in voices that filled Clay's chest with pure pride. Jake, their twenty two year old son home from college for the weekend, was tossing a football back and forth with his sixteen year old brother Tyler, both of them built strong like their old man but still growing into it.

"Come on, Dad, when are those burgers gonna be ready?" Jake called out, catching the ball one handed and grinning wide. Clay chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his broad chest as he speared a thick steak and flipped it over, juices hissing on the grill. "Patience, son. Real men wait for a good meal. Builds character." Tyler rolled his eyes dramatically but laughed anyway, the teenage energy bouncing off him as he argued back, "Yeah, yeah, but I'm starving after practice today!"

Emily, their nineteen year old daughter, sat at the patio table with her nose in a book but kept glancing up with a smile, her long hair tied back in a simple ponytail that made her look every bit the wholesome young woman Clay and Sarah had raised her to be. She hopped up to help Sarah carry over a bowl of potato salad, her voice light as she teased, "Mom, Dad's showing off his grill master skills again. You know he's gonna make us pray extra long tonight just to thank God for the food."

Clay shot her a wink, his blue eyes steady and full of that unshakeable paternal authority. "Damn right, sweetheart. Nothing wrong with giving thanks where it's due. This country's gone soft enough without forgetting who put all this on our table."

Madison, the youngest at fourteen, was chasing their golden retriever around the yard, her laughter ringing out as she dodged her older siblings' playful jabs. "Dad! Tell Jake to stop hogging the ball!" she yelled, and Clay just shook his head with a deep, rumbling laugh that made his pecs strain against the plaid shirt.

He stood there at the center of it all, spatula in hand, flipping another burger while the family buzzed around him. The weight of his muscular body felt right, grounded, every flex of his arms and the solid press of his thick thighs in his jeans reminding him of the man he was meant to be. Sarah brushed against him again as she passed, her hand lingering this time on the hard curve of his shoulder, squeezing the dense muscle there with quiet appreciation.

Clay's mind stayed crystal clear, filled with nothing but deep gratitude to God for this life, for the beautiful wife who still made his blood run hot, for the strong kids growing up right in a world that needed more families like theirs. He had a duty to keep it that way, to make sure their neighborhood stayed straight, conservative, and rooted in the old values that mattered. No distractions. No nonsense. Just him, his family, and the simple, rock solid joy of providing for them.

The next weekend found him on the beach with his family, the bright Florida sun beating down on Clay Smith’s broad, shirtless shoulders like a warm blessing from above. His tanned skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat and sunscreen, highlighting the deep cuts of his pecs and the thick slabs of muscle that made up his chest. The patterned swim trunks clung low and tight to his powerful thighs, the fabric stretched across the heavy swell of his quads and the firm, rounded globes of his ass, leaving nothing to the imagination about the thick, heavy cock that rested against his leg.

Sand dusted his bare feet as he posed for a photo with his oldest son Jake, one massive arm slung casually around the twenty-two-year-old’s shoulders. Both of them grinned wide, teeth flashing in the sunlight, owning the moment like the confident Christian men they were. Clay’s abs flexed naturally under the bright light, every deep ridge and line carved into sharp relief, the kind of body that turned heads even among the younger crowd lounging nearby.

Sarah stood just a few feet away in her modest one-piece swimsuit that still managed to hug her curvy figure in all the right places, her eyes lingering on her husband with that familiar spark of desire. Clay caught her gaze and felt a low, possessive heat stir deep in his core. He gave Jake a firm pat on the back, releasing the boy with a proud chuckle, then turned fully toward his wife.

“Come here, babe,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily over the sound of waves and distant laughter. He reached out with one big hand, fingers wrapping around her waist and pulling her close until her soft body pressed flush against the hard wall of his torso. His palm slid slowly down the curve of her back, stopping just above the swell of her ass where he gave a gentle, appreciative squeeze. “God, you look incredible today. That suit does things to me I shouldn’t be thinking about out here in front of the kids.”

Sarah laughed softly, a flush rising on her cheeks as she placed both hands on his chest, fingers tracing the thick muscle there. “Clay, you are trouble,” she teased, but her touch lingered, nails lightly scraping over one of his nipples in a way that made his cock twitch noticeably inside the tight swim trunks.

He leaned down, beard brushing her temple as he whispered hot against her ear, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Trouble that’s gonna take care of you real good tonight once the kids are asleep. Been thinking about bending you over our bed all morning, watching that pretty ass bounce while I remind you who you belong to.”

Sarah shivered against him, her fingers sliding lower to trace the deep V of his obliques, dipping just under the waistband of his trunks. “You keep talking like that and I’m going to drag you behind one of those dunes right now,” she murmured back, eyes sparkling with the same playful hunger that had kept their marriage strong for twenty-plus years.

Clay’s grin widened, pure masculine satisfaction rolling through him as he flexed his pecs under her hands, making the heavy muscle jump for her. He loved how she still looked at him like he was the strongest, most desirable man on the beach, how her body responded so perfectly to his touch even after all this time.

The kids were scattered around them in the sand, completely unaware of the heated little moment between their parents. Tyler and Madison were building a massive sandcastle a few yards away, arguing loudly about the best way to shape the towers, while Emily lounged under an umbrella with a book, occasionally glancing up with an amused smile. Jake had already run off to join a pickup game of beach volleyball with some other guys, his laughter carrying back on the breeze.

Clay kept one arm looped possessively around Sarah’s waist, holding her close as he glanced out over the water, his free hand resting possessively on the firm curve of her hip. The sun continued to bake his broad back and shoulders, highlighting every vein and striation earned through years of garage workouts and early morning treadmill sessions. He felt powerful, grounded, exactly the kind of man God had intended him to be.

Sarah tilted her head up and pressed a quick, loving kiss to the underside of his bearded jaw, her hand giving his thick bicep a firm squeeze. “I love you, you big, stubborn, wonderful man,” she said softly.

Clay’s chest swelled with pride and something deeper, more primal, as he looked down at her. “Love you more, babe. Wouldn’t trade this for anything.” He meant every word.

Monday morning he was back at the gym, black performance shirt stretched tight across his massive chest, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He snapped a mirror selfie after a heavy chest session, the phone held steady in one big hand while the other arm hung relaxed at his side, biceps still pumped and full. The logo on his shirt, High Performance Nutrition, was one he had come to know well through years of dedication. In fact it was his fitness company that he co-ran with a few other dads from the neighborhood. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his beard perfectly trimmed, his eyes steady and confident. This was who he was. Clay Smith. Forty-two years old. Husband. Father. Leader.

He sent the photo to Sarah with a quick love you, babe and headed for the treadmill. The belt hummed beneath his running shoes as his powerful legs drove him forward, heart steady, mind focused.

After his run, he switched out his black performance tee for a weighted tactical vest and crushed a workout that would break lesser men. The gym mirror had captured him perfectly in that moment, shirtless under the heavy tactical vest loaded with plates, his tanned skin glistening under the overhead lights as beads of sweat rolled down the deep valleys between his massive pecs and over the ridged armor of his abs.

His bearded face stared back at the camera as he recorded a video to challenge other dads to keep up with him, with that intense, unyielding alpha stare, green eyes locked on, short hair damp and tousled, every line of his rugged forty-two year old features radiating raw masculine dominance. Clay had flexed hard right before snapping the shot, making his deltoids and traps balloon even bigger, veins popping across his biceps and forearms like ropes, his thick cock giving a heavy throb inside the gray sweatpants as he imagined Sarah’s reaction when she saw exactly what her man looked like after pushing himself to the limit for God, country, and family.

His mind laser focused on the only life that mattered anymore. No more stories. No more fantasies. Clay felt a deep, burning wave of contempt wash over him at the memory of Robin Morningstar, that pathetic, soft twenty-nine year old writer hunched over a laptop in some dark apartment, jerking off night after night to his twisted little transformation tales about gay men becoming straight and liberals learning what real values looked like. What a weak, beta excuse for a man Robin had been, wasting his life spinning make believe garbage while secretly craving the very thing he now lived every single day.

His disdain ran even hotter when he pictured the beta males still out there, the sad little keyboard warriors lurking in those same forums, desperately wishing they could trade their soft, confused lives for the kind of traditional alpha existence he now owned completely. Pathetic boys with their liberal whining and rainbow delusions, fantasizing about becoming real men but never having the balls to actually surrender and let it happen. They would never know the bone deep satisfaction of standing at the head of a God-fearing family, of burying themselves balls deep in a devoted Christian wife like Sarah every night, of raising strong sons and daughters in a straight, conservative household while keeping the entire neighborhood pure and right.

Clay smirked through the burn in his lungs, sweat pouring off his brow and down the thick cords of his neck as his chest heaved inside the weighted vest. Those betas could only dream of having a body like this, thick and built and unapologetically masculine, the kind that turned heads and commanded respect without a single word. Let them stay weak and lost. He had won everything. He had rejected that old life completely, erased Robin Morningstar like the irrelevant footnote he was, and embraced the ultimate taboo with every fiber of his powerful, straight, Republican soul.

Only the real thing remained now, the life he had always been meant to live. Strong. Straight. Conservative. Unshakably right. The treadmill belt thrummed louder beneath his driving legs as the last whispers of his former self dissolved forever, leaving nothing but Clay Smith in his place: a mid-forties, suburban dad, husband, father, and proud alpha protector of everything good and traditional.

Somewhere deep down, in a place that no longer mattered and would never resurface, Robin Morningstar had finally gotten exactly what he had written about for so long. He had made himself into the ultimate taboo, the perfect stereotypical white straight Christian republican husband and father, and it felt better than any story ever could. Clay smiled to himself, heart pounding with pure, masculine satisfaction, and kept running forward into the only future that counted.

[persuasivetfs]

Finding Your Dream Man

On the sandy beaches of the Jersey Shore, a growing Church promises to connect people looking for love through godly worship.

Only time will tell if it leads to what they’re looking for.

“Lord, please send me a man. A good man to cherish and hold,” prayed Isaiah Tsang as he knelt with exposed knees in the hot sand.

He’d been invited to join his co-worker Amanda’s “low-stress” event to meet fellow Christians. While the Church had its issues with gay people, Isaiah was persuaded that most rank and file congregation members didn’t hold such stringent beliefs. There was also a chance, Amanda had hinted, that Isaiah could find a fellow gay Christian looking for the same romantic connection he was.

Eyes closed in contemplation, Isaiah pictured his ideal man. He would be stoic, clear-cut, middle-aged (Isaiah had a thing for daddies, you see), and above all muscular enough to make Isaiah feel safe and secure in his big veiny arms.

Before him, Isaiah heard heavy footsteps crunching in the sand. Upon opening his eyes, he found a looming figure standing over him. Dressed in a playful pair of pink sunglasses and bright pair of swim trunks, a muscular middle-aged man straight out of his wildest fantasies stared down at him like a gift from God.

“Get up,” his dream man ordered, his voice stern and authoritative in a way that made Isaiah shiver.

The twink dutifully obeyed, standing for the attractive stranger. The pair were the same height, but Isaiah’s dream man's wide frame and confident gait made him loom over him.

“Before we begin, I must ask, are you a man of the Christian faith?” his dream man asked, pacing in front of Isaiah.

“Yes, I am.”

“What of Our Lady of Sacred Contentment Church?” his dream man eyed him suspiciously.

“No, but I would join if handsome men like you were in the pews,” Isaiah insisted.

“What if I wasn’t there, would you have the resoluteness in faith to attend services, son?”

Something about the way the man said son, filled Isaiah with a rush of devotion.

“Of course. The good Lord means everything to me. I’d attend every day of the week, if I could,” it wasn’t true, but hearing his own voice say it made it feel like it could be true. Isaiah found himself standing a little straighter.

“Do you treat your body as the Lord’s temple? Tending to it, strengthening it, keeping it clean from contamination?”

“I try my best, I eat kale and run on a treadmill, but…” his dream man scowled. Wrong answer.

“Or that’s who I was before. Before I met Him and learned that wasn’t enough.”

In an instant the air shifted. The surrounding beach went silent. It was just them. Isaiah, the dream man, and a third force Isaiah felt must have been the will of God.

Contorting at strange angles, Isaiah’s body began to drastically grow. His chest expanding to the width of an airstrip, his traps rising as small mountains, his legs building muscle like the thick steel beams holding up a skyscraper. His cheap t-shirt ripped to shreds under the strain, leaving his muscular chest exposed for the world to see.

Isaiah would have been astonished, amazed at the power and speed of such a transformation if it hadn’t always been this way. At least since cutting season started about six months earlier.

Isaiah adjusted his gait, subtly flexing his muscular arms for any who happened to glance his way, proud in his curved musculature.

His dream man watched him blankly from under his sunglasses, expecting an answer.

“Have you seen me, sir? Of course, I treat my body like a temple. I wouldn’t be winning these body-building competitions without guns like these,” Isaiah chuckled, raising both his arms and flexing them tightly for the man to admire.

“Hmm, I still don’t believe you are quite what I’m looking for,” his dream man replied, distantly, as if Isaiah failed to complete every box in his romantic checklist.

“Huh? How so?”

“Simply put, you are too young. I need a man with wisdom through experience, not a boy just out of college,” his dream man chided.

Isaiah balked.

He would be anything this hot stranger wanted him to be. How were his choices not enough?

Sooner than could be rationally explained, years added themselves to Isaiah’s body. Once a man of 22, decades passed in an instant, taking with it the youthfulness of his face while adding wrinkles around the eyes. As his age changed so did his relationship to hair, his college aged mop shortening to a crisp spiffy look. His facial hair once sparse, growing out into a loose mustache and beard like his Dream man had.

Once recovered, Isaiah found himself facing a contemporary rather than an older man. A companion he could see himself grow old with as they enjoyed what was left of their middle age and then the twilight of their youth.

“You’re almost perfect,” his dream man admitted with a confirming nod.

“Almost perfect? What more could you need? A kidney?” Isaiah asked with a warm chuckle, his voice taking on the same robust tone of his dream man but without its strictness.

“You are needed to fulfill your promise to the Kingdom of God,” his dream man instructed, stepping closer. Isaiah blinked, uncertainly.

“To fulfill my promise to the Kingdom of God?”

“Your role as a man of the flock is to live justly and obediently. You must find a good Christian woman, marry her, and seed her to produce as many future followers so the Kingdom of Heaven can come about on Earth, and I see your chosen woman is not far afield,” the stranger shifted Isaiah’s direction to the group of followers in the distance. Among them, Amanda was praying in the sand, her hands tightly clasped above a slight bump along her stomach.

“My chosen woman? What about you, what about us?” Isaiah asked, his thoughts growing foggier.

He reached out to grab the man’s veiny hands, holding them in his own. It was only when pressed together, Isaiah could see that they looked practically identical.

“You’ll know all that in a moment,” his dream man promised, closing the distance between them.

Then his dream man leaned over and kissed him. His lips were warm as the sand beneath their feet and just as soft.

As they kissed, eyes shut, Isaiah was inundated with decades of thoughts and memories. His hardline Christian upbringing, his body-building career, his joining the Church and finding the equally devout Amanda, their eventual marriage and the strict raising of their two sons, soon including the third that was on the way. As he sucked in these new truths, Isaiah’s old life drained away. His live and let live personality, his art career, his past relationships, his homosexuality. Erased.

Opening his eyes again behind a pink pair of sunglasses, Isaiah’s Dream man was gone. In his place, Isaiah Tsang, a rigid man of God and family man stood prouder above the sand knowing that the dream man he’d been searching for was himself all along.

Tearing off the strange fruity number off his face, Isaiah strode back to the other members of the congregation, eager to take his place by his wife. Isaiah couldn’t wait to tell her that the retreat was a bigger success than either could have imagined.

[transform4u]

Birthday Notification, TF Request

Another year older, another few lines on my face. I kept telling myself they came from stress, from bad sleep, from staring at a monitor at three in the morning writing garbage transformations for strangers online. Endless writing. Endless pretending. It wasn’t like any of it was real.

Tharnis wasn’t real. The Genie Ashur wasn't real. Robin Morningstar wasn’t real. The weird soda cans, the cursed clothing brands, coins, and cursed TVS, the Redwave shit — all fiction. Cheap fantasy. Stories about becoming someone else because maybe it was easier than being yourself for a while.

Right?

I was turning thirty at the end of the month, and honestly I was mostly hoping for free stuff. Coupons. Promo emails. Some pathetic little “happy birthday” reward from companies that wanted me to buy more garbage. So when my phone buzzed that night, I opened my inbox without thinking.

At first I thought it was spam.

No sender. No company logo. Just a single unread message with the subject line:

“You made me.”

My stomach tightened.

Then the screen started glowing.

Not bright — not enough to light the room — just a low, dim red leaking from beneath the glass, pulsing softly against my fingertips. Like there was something alive inside my phone, breathing slow and steady, waiting for me to open the email.

Turning 30 soon. Figure it’s finally my turn.

Pick one of the characters from the blog. Tharnis, Robin Morningstar, Redwave, whatever weird thing you’ve got rattling around in your head.

Transform me for a change.

Curious what you’d make me become.

[alphajocklover]

Happy Birthday! I got a little too into the idea and didn't do a ton of detail on the transformation, but I hope you like it!

--- Quick Flip: A Coin's Revenge ---

You felt your fingers move without your permission, opening the mysterious email as the red light coming from your phone grew brighter and brighter. You could feel the red light on your skin as it grew impossibly bright, filling the room, filling your vision, so intense you could almost feel it burrowing into your skin.

And then… it was gone. Along with everything else.

You didn’t even need to look around to realize you were no longer in your apartment. The air felt different on your skin, far more cool and still than you were used to, or even thought possible. As you did take in your surroundings, you found yourself struggling to comprehend them. Above you was an infinite, dark void that seemed to stretch on forever. It was not the darkness of a starless night sky, but the dark of the area just outside of your eyesight, the darkness only seen by those who cannot see. Above you, and to your sides, there was no color, no light, no shape, no shadow. Below you however, was something, something that sat beneath your feet that you instinctively knew was the only thing inside this void besides you. It took you a moment to realize what exactly you were standing on, what your feet were clinging to in this strange place, until it hit you. You stood, surrounded by nothingness, on top of an impossibly large metal coin. 

The coin appeared to be the size of a helicopter landing pad, and although it was difficult to tell with it being so much larger, you were fairly certain from the dips and curves of the metal that it was a quarter. A forty foot long quarter, floating in nothingness, and you.

Before you could speak, or scream, or wonder what was going on, or ask God why you were apparently having a mental breakdown on your 30th birthday, you heard a voice. It didn’t come from anywhere specifically, seeming to echo across the void, but somehow you could tell it was the coin that was speaking…

“You’ve enjoyed it, haven’t you Morningstar?” The coin's voice echoed, deep and ethereal “Playing with fate? Or, I suppose pretending to play with fate. After all, that's what it is to you. The transformations, the power, even that character you had use me, ‘Robin Morningstar.’ It’s all just pretend…”

“... What is this? Who are you?” You asked, feeling somewhat cliche even as you said it. You knew, on some level, who you were talking to, but it felt so… impossible, you needed to check. “Who am I? I have had many names. Tyche, Fortuna, Lady Luck, all were attempts by mortals to define me. Some go broader, using concepts to label me, like Chaos, Fate, and Chance. Still not broad enough, but closer I suppose. Many people use sayings or symbols. The flap of a butterfly's wings, the rare four leaf clover, the roll of the dice. Regardless, I think you would recognize me best… As the Quick Flip of a fateful coin.” The voice said, sounding almost amused. “For now… call me Flip.” “As for what I desire, that is much simpler. You write your stories, spending your days listening to strangers' deepest, hidden desires, and play at granting them in delightfully corrupted ways. You tell stories of the impossible, of things beyond what fate and luck can bring to you mortals. I can respect that.” Flip said “... but your stories have attracted the wrong kind of attention. You pretended to play with fate, and used the quick flip of a coin as a prop in your game. I cannot allow this disrespect to go unpunished…” 

“... You’re… you’re going to punish me for… for using a coin flip in my stories?!” You asked, half shocked and half terrified, a shiver going down your spine as you realized you had somehow written your way into being a god's plaything.

“As I said. Your stories have begun to draw the wrong kind of attention. Well I do not personally take offense to your pastime… I cannot be seen letting any mortal disrespect my dominion. So, you will suffer the consequences.” It said simply “But do not despair. I will give you the same chance, you give others.” 

Suddenly a golden coin appeared in front of you, glowing with a strange yet beautiful power. “This coin is a part of my essence. Every day, after you awaken, you must flip it. Heads, and you will go through your day normally, your life the same as it ever was. Tails… and you live that day as someone else, someone like the men you have written about. If that ends up being a punishment or a reward… you will decide.”

You slowly grabbed the coin, enchanted by its golden glow, and felt its cold metal in your hand. You could somehow feel that Flip was pleased with this acceptance of his punishment… or perhaps simply amused. “If you ever need me again, simply turn the coin onto its side, and spin it like a top. Now… good luck.”

—

Suddenly you were back in your apartment, gasping as you sat up in your bed. What had just happened? Had that been some strange dream? You went to grab your phone, to check if that odd email was still there… only to feel the cool touch of a familiar coin against your hand. You pulled the gold coin out of your pocket. It was real. What had happened was real. Which meant when you flipped this coin… there was a 50% chance you would become someone else for the day.

You knew you shouldn’t want to flip the coin. Afterall, just because being a douchey jock or a toxic conservative asshole sounded hot doesn’t mean it would be. But… it would just be for the day. And if you didn’t flip the coin… Well, you didn’t want to know what would happen if you actually pissed off the god of luck. So you took a deep breath, closed your eyes… and flipped the coin.

—

Surprisingly, you didn’t actually land on tails until your fourth day of flipping the coin. The writer in you found it anticlimactic when your coin landed on heads on the first day, but after nothing happened on the second or third day, finally landing on tails was almost a relief. 

Today you wouldn’t get to live your regular life. Instead you’d live the life of Lex, a 23 year old gym bro douchebag, one with massive muscles, a cocky smirk, no respect for the women he harrasses, and a huge cock that he doesn’t quite know how to use effectively. The next day you’d be back to normal, but it wouldn’t be long before you got another tails and got to experience life as Trent, a 39 year old father of 2 who enjoys working out and complaining about the fags who just moved in down the street. Another day you’d be Micheal, a 19 year old influencer with a baby face and the most toxic, deeply conservative beliefs you had ever heard of. Yet another day you’d be Kyle, a dumbass jock whose only personality trait is having huge pecs. Your life is a bit more complicated considering your missing about half the days of being yourself… but it turns out getting to live out your transformative fantasies is actually even hotter than it is on paper. Lucky you.

___

Once again, happy birthday! You ever want to flip that coin again, let me know!

[transform4u]

Hey! I think I'll grab the The Baseball Cap & Grillmaster Apron. Forgot to include my details initially. A bit of nerdy guy, in grad school for several years now. Have a great boyfriend and enjoy the quality time. Definitely like to work hard and consider myself a bit of a perfectionist. But physically? Kind of your average guy in late 20s/early 30s. Thanks again!

You were only supposed to be killing time. That’s what you told yourself as you ducked inside the Enigma Emporium: Halloween Express, the kind of pop-up store that springs up in abandoned strip malls when October hits. The aisles reeked faintly of rubber and cheap polyester. Plastic skeletons dangled from wires, their jaws perpetually laughing, and bad tinny Halloween music dribbled from ceiling speakers. You told yourself it was harmless. You were a grad student, late twenties, overworked, perfectionist tendencies driving you into the ground. This little detour—just a break from the thesis drafts and stacks of grading—was a joke. Something to tell your boyfriend when you got home.

But then you saw it.

Not the masks or the costumes, not the fake blood or dollar-store props. No, this was tucked way in the back, away from the bright orange packaging and cartoon pumpkins. Hung alone, like it didn’t belong there at all: a baseball cap and a grillmaster apron, both plain, so aggressively ordinary they stood out like wounds. The cap was faded navy with no logo, no team insignia. The apron was heavy canvas, oil-stained, with a patch sewn over the chest in block letters:

“Father Knows Best.”

You frowned. Who the hell would buy this for Halloween? Still, your hand lifted before you could stop it, fingers brushing the stiff canvas. The fabric felt… warm. Not warm like fabric pulled from a dryer, but warm like skin.

You chuckled nervously and muttered, “Well, that’s creepy as shit.”

Still, you slipped the cap onto your head, tying the apron strings around your waist. For irony. For the joke. You turned toward the smudged mirror at the end of the aisle.

That was when the store disappeared.

The hum of fluorescent lights cut off. The racks of costumes blinked into nothing. The floor beneath your sneakers softened into plush beige carpet. You staggered backward, clutching at your head, the apron heavy against your chest. When your vision cleared, you weren’t standing in the Halloween Express anymore. You were in a hallway. A suburban hallway. Beige walls, framed family photos you didn’t recognize, a faint smell of lemon cleaner and barbecue smoke. And nailed to the wall beside the mirror: a crucifix.

You blinked hard, muttering, “No… no, no, this isn’t real. I was just—”

Your voice cracked off into a grunt. The cap on your head tightened, biting into your scalp. You reached up to yank it off, but your fingers—Christ, your fingers—looked swollen, thicker than they should’ve been. You tried again, but your hands didn’t feel like yours, the tendons bulging under a skin that was already growing coarser, hair sprouting darker along the backs.

The apron’s strings constricted around your waist. You sucked in a breath, but your chest pressed outward instead, ribs widening, meat piling onto your frame. Your T-shirt strained, seams creaking. You pawed at your chest and felt it heave outward, slabs of muscle and fat layering in grotesque slow-motion, every fiber stretching, every nerve lit with a sting like fire ants crawling under your skin.

A hot spear drives through you, forcing the air from your lungs. Your pecs puff for one grotesque instant, then sag forward into soft, flabby slabs. You grab at them in disbelief, gagging at the new heaviness, the way they hang on your chest like sacks of meat. The skin beneath your fingers stretches pale and thin, nipples flattening, darkening into something bland and fatherly.

“Stop… please, stop,” you hissed, to no one, to the crucifix, to whatever force had brought you here.

Your stomach surged forward. Not soft like indulgence, but hard, distended, like a barrel of meat strapped to your torso. The sensation was unbearable—the skin stretching, tugging, thickening. You clawed at it, nails digging red welts into your own belly, but there was no stopping it. Your body was carving itself into something bigger, older.

Your belly follows, swelling outward with a wet, sick lurch. Flesh pools over your waistband, the bar mirror catching every inch of your new paunch. The firm torso you’d been proud of is gone, replaced by a dad-gut that strains the buttons of your shirt with every labored breath.

You whisper hoarsely, “God, no, please don’t—” but your voice cracks, breaking into something small and defeated.

Your face joined in. You could feel the cartilage grinding in your jaw as it squared, your teeth pressing into new grooves. Your beard prickled out, wiry, streaks of gray threading through hair that had been trimmed neat just this morning. You turned toward the mirror, eyes wide, and saw a man ten years older staring back at you—no, fifteen years older—his brow furrowed deep as if scowling at the world.

Your own voice rasped back at you, low and guttural:

“Earned. Built. Deserved.”

You staggered, shaking your head violently. “No. That’s not me. I’m not—”

But the words in your mouth didn’t taste like yours anymore. They rolled out heavy, arrogant, coated in beer and grease:

“Fuckin’ look at me. Man’s man. Father.”

You slapped a hand over your lips, horrified, but your reflection didn’t stop speaking. The older man in the mirror leaned closer, the apron rising and falling with his broad, meat-thick chest. His lips curled back into a smirk that wasn’t yours.

“Father knows best.”

The words echoed through the hallway, and your knees buckled under their weight.

You staggered forward, half-expecting the carpet to dissolve and the Halloween store to snap back into place. But no—your bare feet sank into beige fibers that smelled faintly of stale dog and foot sweat. Your sneakers were gone. So were your jeans. Instead, you were standing in cargo shorts, the kind your dad used to wear on camping trips, the apron stretched tight across your belly.

The hallway yawned open into a living room. The air was too thick, humid with a smell that turned your stomach—burned meat and cheap beer. A recliner sat angled toward a flat-screen TV, a ring of sweat stains etched into the leather headrest. A half-empty bottle of Budweiser sweated on a coaster.

You froze.

On the wall above the mantel, three family portraits hung in neat frames. A wife. Blonde hair, skin just starting to crease at the corners of her mouth. A son with a smug little smirk. A daughter, braces flashing in a forced smile. And you. Standing behind them, arm clamped around your wife’s waist. Except it wasn’t you. Not really. Not yet. The man in the photo had your eyes, but older, harder, narrowed like he was about to snap at the photographer.

You whispered, hoarse, “No… I don’t know these people. I don’t…”

But as you stared, your temples throbbed. New memories shoved themselves inside your skull, greasy and unwanted. You were grilling burgers last summer. You were laughing too loud at a fart joke in the garage. You were barking at your son to mow the lawn properly. You were sliding a hand down your wife’s hip, wishing she hadn’t put on those extra ten pounds.

You clutched your head. “No! I have a boyfriend! I live—God, I live in the city, I don’t—”

The crucifix on the wall rattled. Something deep in your chest rumbled out of your throat, a voice that wasn’t yours.

“Fag bullshit. Don’t say that word in my house.”

Your stomach lurched. Your voice sounded older. Meaner. And worst of all—it felt true.

You stumbled into the kitchen. Linoleum floor. Oak cabinets. A calendar pinned on the fridge with church bake sales and “Little League Finals” circled in red. A lump rose in your throat. You could almost hear it: children’s feet pounding up these stairs, your wife calling dinner, the hiss of meat fat dripping onto hot charcoal.

You turned to the sliding glass door. Out back, a grill smoldered on the patio, smoke curling upward in greasy black ribbons. The smell slapped you across the face—charred beef, pork fat, hot dogs swollen until they split. It clung to you, crawled down your throat, filled your lungs until you felt drunk on it.

You coughed hard, but the cough turned into a laugh. A big, ugly, dad laugh, chesty and wet. The sound horrified you, but it felt good, like it belonged.

Your forearms prickle, every hair standing on end before dissolving into nothing, falling away in invisible clumps. You stare down in horror as the dense, masculine hair that marked you as a proud bear vanishes, leaving behind pale, suburban-soft skin. The muscles underneath—your strength, your labor, your self—go slack. You feel them melting, collapsing, until your arms hang heavy, doughy, with no power at all. Your tattoos bleed into smudges before fading entirely, erasing years of identity in seconds.

Your reflection in the glass door grinned back, thicker, older. The apron rode higher on your gut, your arms swollen with a heaviness you hadn’t earned. You pressed your palms to the glass, desperate, pleading.

“I don’t want this. Please, let me out. I’m not him. I’m not—”

But the reflection leaned close, mouth twisting around your own teeth, and whispered through the hiss of the grill:

“Father knows best.”

There's a pressure in your temples, then a grinding churn in your skull. Memories blur, unravel. Lovers’ faces fade. Their laughter, the parades, the nights you danced—gone, slipping away before you can grab hold. You whisper their names desperately, but they drip from your lips like water through cupped hands.

New memories shove themselves in, violent, invasive. A cul-de-sac under a setting sun. A manicured lawn you mow every Saturday morning. A woman’s plain, smiling face—your wife—her eyes shining like she’s been beside you for decades. Children’s voices cry out, calling you “Dad,” tugging your softened arms, needing you.

You thrash, shaking your head violently. “No—I’m me, I’m—”

But your name dissolves mid-sentence. Something else replaces it. A name heavy with church directories and Little League sign-ups. A name that drips with cheap beer, grilled burgers, scripture.

You choke on it, gagging as it roots in your mind, claiming you. Your mind screams in the back of your skull, a last frantic pulse of resistance, but it’s fading, thinning into silence. Your real name—your true name—tries to surface one last time, but the sound dies in your throat.

What comes instead is the new one. Solid. Heavy. Final.

“Greg,” you mutter hoarsely, then again, stronger: “Greg Whitfield.”

The words settle deep, rooting in you. You are Greg Whitfield. Suburban husband. Republican father. Devout Christian. The man you see in the mirror isn’t a stranger—it’s you. It has always been you.

You stand, and the motion feels right, natural, even as your shirt strains over your dad-gut and your belt digs into your soft waist. You adjust your collar, smooth the front of your shirt, like you’re preparing to greet neighbors after Sunday service. The bar feels wrong to you now, the neon garish, the music sinful, the smell of beer stale.

But the thought of home—your cul-de-sac, your tidy lawn, your wife waiting for you—fills you with warmth. A righteous warmth.

Images of her flood your mind. Her soft blonde hair, the curve of her hips, the way she smiles when she greets you at the door after a long day at work. Desire twists hot and primal in your belly, your cock stirring in your slacks. You can already picture her in the bedroom, in the kitchen, anywhere you want her. Your wife. Yours to love, to claim, to breed.

You grin, smug and entitled, your thick hand patting your gut. “Can’t wait to get home to her,” you mutter under your breath, the thought sparking a flash of heat straight to your groin.

You leave a bill on the counter, the old hesitation gone, and stride out of the bar with the confidence of a man who knows exactly who he is. A strict, suburban father. A man of God. A Republican through and through. A man whose purpose is clear: to uphold his family, his faith, and to take his wife—hard, again and again.

The final traces of who you were before are gone, buried under the crushing certainty of your new life. There is no “before.” There is only now.

You are Greg Whitfield. You are Dad. And you’re going to fuck your hot wife.

[johnbrand-deactivated20250425]

OnlyFags

With @boysmentfs

“God already? I just bought these like a month ago!”

Elliot tossed his headphones aside, annoyed. When he had bought the gaming headset, he had expected them to be excellent. So many other gamers had recommended the pair, but now they would not even connect to his monitor. Seeing that they were cordless, they were practically rendered useless.

Desperate, a risky idea suddenly popped into Elliot’s head. His older brother Trent had a decent enough pair that he could borrow. The plan was a fool’s errand if Elliot was caught; his brutish, jock brother could wipe him out in seconds for entering his room. And already loaded with emotional ammo on numerous accounts (being smaller, having intelligence, liking boys), Elliot was sure to end up at least hypothetically dead. 

But Elliot also knew that Trent was not coming home that night. He was over at his current girlfriend’s place, meaning all Elliot had to do was replace the headphones exactly as he found them. Enjoying the sense of danger, Elliot mischievously tip-toed out of his room–despite no one else being home–and carefully approached Trent’s door. His brother’s room was not any different from the stereotypical straight man’s quarters: sparsely decorated besides a poster of bimbos with a rock band, dirty clothes and foul-smelling shoes scattered on the floor, and an American flag on the far wall. 

Carefully avoiding the piles of empty beer cans, Elliot held his breath, hoping to not let any of his brother’s potent body odor enter his system. He eventually reached his destination, taking a seat at Trent’s desk and pushing aside anything that could dirty his bright-colored polo and shorts. It was easy to log into his brother’s computer and bypass the security functions, but Elliot had not expected to run into a problem with the Bluetooth compatibility. Until he disconnected the headphones from a specific site, Elliot would not be able to use them. It was a simple task, until Elliot realized it was a webcam site.

“OnlyFags?!” Elliot gasped. He would have never guessed Trent, the prime example of a cocky homophobic hetero alpha, would have been involved in OnlyFags–let alone a creator. The webcam site was practically known worldwide as a hate group–straight men teasing desperate, horny gays to make money. It was horrific, and yet it had somehow consistently exceeded expected profits. 

Trying his best to ignore this discovery and get back to the task at hand, Elliot logged into his brother’s OnlyFags account, hoping to be able to disconnect the headphones once and for all. The loading screens were long and annoying, spirals that seemed to go on for longer than necessary, but eventually Elliot navigated to the devices page. Instead of disconnecting his headphones however, he accidentally reconnected his brother’s camera.

“Oh no…please no,” Elliot squirmed. Before long, people hopped onto his feed, commenting about this new arrival. Elliot nervously tried to escape the program but every attempt appeared to fail, only booting up the loading screen once more without ever reaching an end destination. Elliot quickly put on one of his brother’s caps and held his head low, hoping the audience would think it was Trent until he was able to exit. His panic was rapidly rising, but out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. One of his unfortunate viewers had a request, stating that he should flex.

A sudden calm befell Elliot, and although his musculature was not visible, he surprisingly felt comfortable posing for the webcam. The timid act was not much, but it garnered a reaction from the viewers. Another requested for Elliot to flex from a different position, and he obliged, his slim frame gaining a small but fair applause from the gay audience. After succumbing to a few more requests, Elliot was soon hooked, continuously switching between the loading screen and listening to his fans. It did not take long until he started receiving messages requesting to start stripping, and to his own surprise, Elliot fulfilled them.

When one of the viewers typed that he wanted to see Elliot show off his “mammoth arms,” he willingly struck a pose. He did not hesitate to prove the next commenter wrong, who insisted his legs could not be “hardened with muscle and bloated out like massive logs of meat.” Elliot immediately tossed his legs up unto Trent’s desk, showcasing what one member of the audience guessed were Size 13 feet. The shirt was removed after Elliot had to prove his “hard six-pack,” the shorts already off before he was told to showcase the “classic bubble butt only these guys have.” 

Soon, the comments were less focused on requests and more so just stating observations. Elliot went back and forth between his live webcam and checking in on the spiral, although his panic had long subsided. “An abundance of body hair,” “Exudes arrogance and privilege,” “Only wants to play, get laid, and look good.” Eventually, Elliot even began to relish in the attention, becoming excited as his audience grew more vocal and engaged. This attention soon had Elliot massaging his member, his thick hands pumping the growing meat. It took his roused audience moments to realize this, yet Elliot was no longer afraid to respond to their excitement.

“You like that, don’t you?” Elliot’s voice oozed all-American jock. The crowd went wild, calling him irresistible, a pure stud. One viewer daydreamed what he was jacking off to, but another replied before Elliot could. “Probably cheerleaders or sorority chicks, these guys are all the same.” Elliot was about to reply differently, but a quick check in with the loading screen flashed a new image through his mind.

Tits. Touching them, motorboating them, and then finding his way down to the pussy. These images, these memories, made Elliot moan. The words almost left his mouth, but he knew his viewers would not be turned on hearing about his new and yet natural desire to breed and seed every chick he saw. No, he knew what they wanted to hear.

“That's it, you dumb horny faggot. You like this, don’t you?” Ethan smirked, continuing to pleasure his giant cock. OnlyFags terms and conditions were simple, but ironclad. Upon starting an account, creators had to “verify” they were straight, users endured the same sign-up requirements. “Blow your faggy brains out to a straight alpha like me, right now. Spend that useless cum, waste it on me.” When the system had detected Trent’s account had broken this agreement, the issue was immediately resolved. 

Quickly, a sudden rush of pleasure overran the new man. “Oh yeah BROOO!” Ethan shouted, white goo spilling forth just outside of the camera’s view. He did not want another dude–especially a homo–to see his dick after all, which was slowly dropping back into its still large flaccid state. 

Ethan, now just another dumb, homophobic, straight jock, found himself content with his work, taking pride as the tributes started rolling in. Thanks to Trent's and his system–while one got laid the other was pumped live–the twins were making bank. And why would they ever stop working if they got paid to do what they loved? Jerking off and fag-bashing had never been better.

“Tune in tomorrow, fairies,” Ethan licked his lips as he prepared to sign off. Cockily, he began grabbing at his pec. “Tomorrow’s sesh will be seeing a little more of this…” He then brought a hand back to down his massive cock. “and a lot more of this.”

[johnbrand-deactivated20250425]

Future of America

It all felt surreal. The final count had been secured. 312 electoral votes for Donald Trump, definitively more than half of the country. The popular vote swung right too. It was shocking, the defeat of all that was good in the world practically numbing Michael and Benjamin. The District of Columbia had guarded the two best friends from the outside state of the world. They could not have prepared for everything to be back on the line in an instant: their friends and families, their rights, and even their homosexuality.

“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Michael, the political sciences major, ranted. “Everything seems so fishy. How could all the swing states vote for this trash?”

Benjamin, although physically shorter, did not hold such a short temper. The bubblier of the two pursuing a degree in psychology, Benjamin tried to take a more optimistic approach to the situation. “It’ll be fine. There’s no way he can deliver on everything he’s promised. No president has completely fulfilled everything they’ve wanted to do in office.”

Michael groaned as they continued forward across the green. Their morning walks had always passed the judicial buildings of the capital. But now it felt as if there was something different about them. Instead of the usual respect, the two now conjured contempt for the place. “Even if that’s true, I thought we were supposed to represent the ‘future of America’.”

“Apparently everyone else isn’t ready for that future yet,” Benjamin shrugged. “I mean, they can barely handle our short shorts, so having gay men was probably a step too far.”

They both sighed, taking a seat upon the steps leading up to the buildings housing their government. Both at average heights, average musculatures, and scoring average attractiveness, no one typically bothered the pair in public. And besides Michael’s pierced ears and Benjamin’s bleached hair, there was nothing particularly effeminate about them. So, it came as a surprise when something did stray from the norm.

“Ow!” Benjamin turned to face Michael, who was peeling a wad of newspaper from his face. The wind had brought the paper airborne before smacking it right into Michael’s face. 

“You ok?” Benjamin asked, the smallest smile creeping onto his lips.

“Guess I just got slapped by the ‘future of America’,” Michael pointed to the headline of the front page, but Benjamin’s eyes were drawn somewhere else.

“Since when did you start growing out a beard?”

“What?” Benjamin asked, scratching at the thick clutch of hair covering his face. Benjamin’s eyes trailed lower as he watched Michael's body hair begin to sprout up and over the hem of the fitness shirt, before spilling out onto his exposed arms and legs. “I’ve had a beard since high school, man.”

“‘Man’?” Benjamin questioned the term, foreign to their language. Before he could analyze further, Michael’s top and shorts began to elongate. Their breathable fabric thickened and expanded, morphing into a plain gray henley and a pair of jeans that had certainly lived a few lives. 

“M…M…Michael! You’re…you’re…” Benjamin stuttered as the changes grew more drastic. His friend grew before him, the lean frame inflating with muscle before being covered by a light layer of fat. The farmer’s build became more apparent as it was centralized in locations. Michael’s hands bloated into mitts, his face squared out from the more-than-occasional beer, his feet widened into their new, larger brown boots. 

“What, bro?” Michael asked as the first of wrinkles began to sprout around his eyes. His thinning hair was quickly covered by the white MAGA cap that materialized on top of his head. “Oh, do you want to hold it? Here, but be careful; that paper is like a new New Testament.”

Benjamin, too stunned by Michael’s deeper voice, slight age progression, and overall sudden transformation, could not form a coherent sentence as he was handed the newspaper. But the more he tried to reflect on this warping event, the more Benjamin struggled too. Michael had had a beard since high school, right? Michael had not been 21, but 31, right? Mike had always been a straight, white, proud MAGA enthusiast, right?

Lost in his own head, Benjamin did not even recognize the effects of the newspaper transposing onto him. His own fingers fattening into calloused claws. Hair rippling across his forearms and down his chest and legs. Muscle pumping underneath each available surface, followed by a helping of fat to create a muscle gut that would cement a burgeoning ex-jock figure. Skimpy running fit stretching into a soft plaid and dirtied jeans. Thickening skull covered by a navy blue hat proclaiming that he too would become a part of this new era. 

“Hold the paper a little higher,” Mike instructed, dragging Ben out of thoughts. “Now smile.”

The two men posed for the picture, proud to represent the future of America.

[johnbrand-deactivated20250425]

Joining the Flock

Trying something different, please enjoy

With @henrypreppy

JD flipped the meeting invitation back and forth between his hands, the thin paper material an illusion to the actual weight its writing held. He could not believe he had actually agreed to this, let alone thinking about following through with it. It was not like his parents would have ever known. JD could lie about the entire ordeal and get away with it. But now he was officially registered for the first meeting of the year, his name practically carved into stone.

“Hey there, sorry I don’t mean to interrupt.”

JD rotated his head to the door, eyeing down the black-haired freshman standing patiently at the door. Slim, lanky, and could use tweezers, but by his posture JD could already discern that he was a casual fellow.

“I’m assuming you're Michael Freedman?”

“Mike will do,” Mike grinned. “It’s nice to finally meet you, I’m assuming you’re my roommate?”

JD stood up and extended his hand. “You got it, I'm JD.”

The physical exchange allowed for their first day jitters to transmit like a frequency between them.

“JD huh, is that a nickname?”

JD did his best to hold back his embarrassment. “It’s short for Jeremiah Delgado.”

Mike’s eyebrows rose, “A little bit of a mouthful.”

“You should hear it with the middle names,” JD quipped. “It’s what you get when you combine a Hispanic father and Biblically-obsessed mother.”

“Then no wonder you stick to JD,” Mike replied.

Taking a seat back on his bed, JD decided to steer the conversation elsewhere. “When did you move in? I didn’t see you this morning when I’d hauled everything up those four flights of stairs.”

Mike chuckled, “Perks of the top floor right? I assume I moved in right after you left. You’re not a clean freak or anything, are you?”

“God no,” JD answered, the tone shift catching him off guard. “I don’t have time to care about stuff like that.” JD had already picked up on Mike’s disorganization when he had arrived back at the dorm. It was a bit of a shock to see the place had already become a lived-in pigsty, even though they had just moved in. But JD truly did not mind the clutter, he was a bit on the uncleanly side too. Speaking of which, he realized he had forgotten to get a haircut before he left. The dullish chestnut mop was reaching shoulder-length now; JD was a bit curious to see what would happen if he let it grow even longer.

“Sorry if that was a bit blunt,” Mike plopped onto his own bed. “I just saw the invitation and I was curious.”

“The…?” JD paused, before picking up on what Mike was referring to. “Oh this? No sorry, it was pushed onto me at the club fair.”

The event had been just short of organized chaos. Practically a hundred booths had filled the auditorium, each of them advertising different clubs that the freshman could get involved with. Student Council, the Events Commission, even the CIA (which JD learned stood for “Chemists In Action”). He had been casually browsing, the only thing minorly interesting to him being the Pride organization, but somehow had accidentally strolled in front of the wrong stall.

“Looking to join the Campus Ministry?”

The man calling out to JD was rather put-together, probably the only person in the entire event showcasing a three-piece suit. As JD approached cautiously–hoping the man would not grab any more attention then he already had–he was able to inspect the stranger a little further. Late thirties, athletic, a ring on his finger and of average flair. He was not JD’s type, but he could still appreciate that the man held some appealing characteristics.

The man introduced himself as soon as JD drew close enough. “My name’s Peter, I’m the Campus Minister.”

JD replied accordingly, loathing his luck. He had chosen a college as far away from his parents and their strict lifestyle as possible, and yet now here he was, conversing with the very people who abided by their same morals and guidelines.

“Well Jeremiah, are you inclined to learn more about the mission of the Baptist Church?”

Wincing at the use of his full name, JD replied, “I actually grew up Baptist, but I’ve grown away from the faith since.” As soon as the words left his mouth, JD realized his mistake.

“Well you have come to the right place!” Peter exclaimed, a bit too over joyous. “The Campus Ministry is welcome to all, especially those returning to God’s graces.”

Before JD could protest, Peter had already handed him the formal invitation and written his name on the sign-up form. “The meeting is tonight, you won’t miss it!”

“I can’t believe you got sucked into that crap!” Mike was laughing after JD had finished replaying the scene for him. “Are you really planning on going?”

“I mean I have to, right? They’ve got me signed up.”

Mike shrugged, “It’s up to you man, but you don’t have a lot of time to decide.”

JD quickly eyed the invitation and then his phone and realized Mike was right. If he was going to make this meeting, he would have to leave now.

“Crap!”

———

By the time he got to the chapel, he had worked up quite the sweat. JD was not an active person, and as he entered the building, he realized he was also not properly dressed. Everyone else adorned their Sunday bests, some even more formal. The button-ups and slacks were a complete contrast to his own indie band tee and distressed jeans. JD shamefully placed himself in the back pew, hoping no one would notice the black sheep.

“Mind if I sit here, brother?”

JD obliged without acknowledging the stranger, cursing to himself as Peter ascended to the podium at the front of the chapel.

“Brothers and Sisters, I want to welcome you all to our first meeting of the year. As the Campus Minister, it is an honor to be able to guide you in our journey together, and with your trust lead you on the path towards God.”

All the members of the group came together to a round of applause. 

“Let me make one thing clear right away, brothers and sisters,” Peter began assuredly. “At the heart of the Campus Ministry is community. God did not create us to live alone in isolation. He specifically designed us to live together as like-minded beings. To thrive in Biblical communities where people who love Jesus Christ can enjoy fellowship with one another. To help each other grow in the faith, to become more alike. To learn from each other, incorporate a need for each other. God uses others to help us grow individually, and God uses us to grow other people.”

“I am reminded of a verse from Matthew 18:20: ‘For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.’ It is here that Jesus calls us to be sheep, His sheep, flocking under His name in likeness and in aspiration to fulfill His teachings. As a Biblical community, we find ourselves in Jesus. He is our center point, what draws us together, the common bond that we share. And as Baptists, we find ourselves following our shepherd, assimilating as one when we name ourselves a member of His church.”

“So why is community at the heart of the Campus Ministry? Whether you are eighteen-, nineteen-, twenty- or more-years-old, you came here searching for guidance. Guidance to tell you where to go, what to do, who to follow. Guidance found through relationships, through our collective relationship with God and His church. The Campus Ministry offers that guidance and more. Our community of brothers and sisters will help you navigate classes, properly study, and make wise decisions. They will eat with you, spend time with you, bring you into the fold, our flock, no matter what former walk of life. They will help you embody the classic look of a Christian.”

“Now, I would like to invite you to embrace that first step towards community. Take a moment and turn to your neighbor, introduce yourself to your new brother or sister.”

Finding himself slightly absorbed by Peter’s sermon, JD broke out of his haze to finally acknowledge the stranger he had allowed to sit beside him. However, JD found himself rendered speechless by the beautiful man before him. With coppery hair, a diamond-cut jaw, and inviting green eyes, JD gawked a second too long at his traditional counterpart. Pairing pleated trousers with a crimson sweater vest over a simple white button-up, the stranger exuded refinement. From his Ivy League haircut to his natural woodsy smell and even by the way the stranger sat, JD could feel heat rising from his own cheeks.

“Jackson Sanderson,” the stranger offered, and after a uncharacteristic stutter JD replied with his own.

JD was then introduced to other members of the club as they came around to introduce themselves. There was a Colton, a Bryce, a Jared, a Stanley. Eventually the names and faces began to blur together, each of them almost identical to each other. Attractive by traditional standards, reeking of arrogance and privilege. JD found himself almost unable to hide his large erection, loathing his existence. It was times like these he wished not to be “blessed” as his father had once grotesquely put it.

After everyone had returned to their seats, Peter finished his monologue. “Before you realize it, each and every one of you will become bonded through our Campus Ministry. It may not happen right away, but once you begin to know each other, you will begin to shape each other too. Now, let us end in prayer.”

———

JD’s first day of classes flashed by in an instant. Undecided, his schedule was mostly filled with the required objectives. A standard biology course, base level statistics, even a communications class–all of which had no actual assignments for the day besides reading the syllabus. But by the late afternoon after his final seminar, JD found himself ready for a lazy evening. He drafted plans involving picking up fast food, watching an episode or ten of some raunchy sitcom, and then drifting off to bed.

“Jeremiah!” 

The minister’s assertive baritone cut through JD’s headphones, which were slowly lowered to passive-aggressively demonstrate his annoyance.

“I wanted to thank you for coming to the first Campus Ministry meeting last night,” Peter explained as he approached. Today, he was dressed in a brown suit with a pattern meant for a man twice his age. “I was hoping to discuss some other things as well. Have a moment?”

Reluctantly, JD obliged, and soon he was following Peter to his office. Once inside, JD was able to discern a bit more about this man who had strangely taken an interest in him. Basic wooden cross on the wall, pile of materials on theology beside the desk, a picture of a woman around the minister’s age holding three children. JD accepted the seat in front of the desk, hoping this would not take long.

“Seeing the instantaneous bond that we have created over the past 24 hours,” JD restrained his eyebrow from visually questioning this statement. “I took it upon myself to become your academic counselor. As your minister, it’s my role to offer you structure and guidance during these impressionable years.”

JD was a bit startled by this statement, but said nothing.

Peter continued, “I’ve already taken a gander at your schedule and noticed all gen-eds. As you are undecided, I was curious if you had any majors you had in mind.”

“Not particularly,” JD answered, finding himself a little more relaxed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to think about it until a bit later, honestly.”

Peter’s direct eye contact intensified slightly. “Maybe it would be best to spread out your electives and place you in some courses designed to determine a major. Considering your passion for the faith, you could look into some classes in the Religion Department.”

JD found the minister’s wording a bit odd, almost belittling in a way. His response came out a bit muddled, “I never said that I had a passion for the faith?”

“Well, Jeremiah, I think it could do you a lot of good. As the Campus Minister, I’d be happy to offer you some additional resources as well.”

“‘Resources’?”

“Of course,” Peter’s face broke out into a big grin. “I’ll connect you with one of our students in the department. I have one in mind already, a sophomore: Jackson Sanderson.”

A blush broke out onto JD’s face. He could not perceive if the minister had noticed it or not.

“Jackson is one of our finest men,” Peter resumed. “You will immediately find him as a brother, perhaps one of your closest. After a while, you will feel the desire to emulate him, as he has the classic look of a Christian.”

Again, JD noted the strange diction, and a repeat of a phrase he had heard last night. But JD also noticed that he felt a certain calm when he listened to Peter. His voice just had a quality that kept one at ease. That was probably why he had become a minister.

“I’ll notify Jackson to get in contact with you shortly.” Peter then took a stand, prompting JD to do the same. “Until then, let’s begin thinking about your major and where we’d like to see you next semester. And further along, when you graduate.”

———

Jackson reached out to JD hours later, and after a bit of texting JD found himself roped into a study session the following day. He did not know what to expect, but he decided to put his best foot forward. Sure, he had no desire to engage with the church after his high school graduation, but JD rationalized that he could still be there to make friends.

“Jeremiah!” Jackson called out from one of the pews. He was surrounded by a swarm of men, all wearing outfits appropriate for more conservative times. JD had prepared for this, although his khakis and short-sleeved button-up still did not fit the bill.

“It’s JD,” JD corrected politely. “Thank you for letting me crash your guys’ study group.”

“Of course!” one of the men replied. JD should have known his name, but the person’s features were almost unrecognizable from the next. “Any brother is welcome to join.”

“Especially once Peter told us you were enrolling in the Religion Department,” Jackson added.

“I’m not enrolling in the Religion Department.”

“We get it, you’re ‘just interested’,” a second man insisted, to which everyone else began to chuckle as if he were referring to some inside joke.

“Anyway, don’t worry about it.” Jackson replied. The smooth quality of Jackson’s tenor settled JD’s nerves. “Let’s get to studying, shall we?”

The group agreed and promptly found themselves absorbed in their literature. While JD stuck to his reading and recording notes, the other men held a shallow conversation: one that any person could easily flow in and out of without paying too much attention. It began with simple topics at first; professors, extracurriculars, sports. None of these would typically entice JD, but he found himself occasionally tuning into the group’s monotonous channel. Eventually however, the topics converged into a singular subject: the Bible.

“I just think John’s interpretation is by far superior to the synoptic gospels,” Colton countered. JD could not believe he had remembered his name. “His use of monological writing is what makes Jesus more engaging to the interpreter.”

Jackson shook his head, “That may be true, but the synoptic gospels offer parables, short stories that people can relate too.” Jackson’s presence was different now then when they had first met. Before, frankly, JD had taken eroticism from Jackson’s standardized beauty. But now, he sensed something else. Rather than affection, JD recognized admiration.

“Enlighten us, Jackson, what parables can you relate to,” Bryce teased. “If we looked under your bed, would we find oil? As we already know you are a virgin.”

All of the men, including Jackson and JD, took joy in that remark.

“Perhaps you will, perhaps you won’t,” Jackson finally replied. “But take our group for example, are we not fulfilling a parable right now? I would situate ourselves in the story of the Prodigal Son.” Jackson motioned to his peers, “Are we not the father?” And then to just JD, “And is Jeremiah not the Prodigal Son?”

The group pondered this thought, turning expectantly towards JD for an answer.

“Um…” JD stumbled, not expecting to be put on the spot. “I mean, that’s one way to look at it.”

Once again, the group exploded into laughter, their volume ascending to the roof of the chapel. JD chuckled along too, his nervousness fading as he became more comfortable with the group. By the end of the night, he found himself pleasantly surprised as he accepted the invitation to the next study session.

———

“Hey dude, are you interested in going clubbing?” Mike asked, having just exited the shower.

“When are you thinking of going?” JD was reorganizing his desk. For some reason, its cluttered nature had begun to bother him.

“In a few minutes here, hopefully.” Mike dropped the towel on the floor and grabbed some clothes off his bed. He gave a strong sniff to each item inspected, those too dirty were then tossed onto the floor. JD observed this but said nothing.

“Man, sorry but I can’t. I got a study group tonight.”

“On a Friday night?” Mike questioned. “This is like the fourth Friday in a row.”

“I know, but I already said I was going to be there.”

Mike frowned, scratching at his lower regions a bit. JD swiftly averted his eyes. “But don’t you study with these guys three times a week, and have lunch with them everyday too?”

“Yeah, but they purposely choose Friday nights to not be tempted,” JD finally answered.

The partially-answering statement held in the air for an awkward moment. Eventually, Mike responded. “Right…”

JD turned back to his task at hand, throwing out trash that should have been discarded earlier.

“Well,” Mike grabbed a jacket and his keys. “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Uh huh,” JD’s response was dull. Once Mike shut the door, he released the long breath that he had subconsciously been holding. He wondered when Mike’s presence had become so taxing. Perhaps he compared his roommate to the study group’s austere quality. JD found those straight-laced men ironically soothing.

This theory was proven once JD arrived into the chapel, the smiling faces of his peers sending a warm tingle across his body. The study session went similar to the rest, beginning with actual work before simply devolving into lighthearted, yet engaging discussions. If these conversations were not surrounding the Bible, then they focused on a topic JD was even less familiar with. 

“I think I’m going to propose to Hannah,” Jared suddenly said, to which everyone in the group audibly gasped.

“Are you ready, brother?” Jackson inquired, to which JD nodded along. 

“He’s already got the ring,” Stanley answered. Weeks ago, this development would have shocked JD. Two twenty-year-olds marrying in this day and age? But now, the thought was not that unfathomable to him. He was becoming more accustomed to the men's ideology.

“I booked reservations for her favorite restaurant,” Jared announced, his typical stale manner of speaking almost giddy. Almost. “I’ll pop the question before dessert of course, it’s all arranged.”

To that, the men applauded Jared, shaking his hand vigorously and giving brotherly pats on the back. JD high-fived him, embracing the honest excitement for Jared. Once they cooled down, Colton continued the conversation.

“Now you’ve got me inspired, thinking I should finally pop the question to Mary.”

“You’ve been thinking about doing that since you first met her in private school,” Bryce retorted.

“And have you not pondered the same with Julia, brother?” Jackson smirked, to which the other men piggy-backed off of. “Speaking of women, have you set your sights on any yet, Jeremiah?”

JD blinked, unbothered by the use of his full name, “Uh…not exactly. I just haven’t  been looking for anyone I guess.” 

JD was telling the truth. Before college, he had planned on finally finding a male partner to love and hold. And to lose his virginity to. But since the first day of classes, JD had not felt a connection to any male in particular on campus–or in general. JD assumed his sex drive had been lowered, that he was just growing out of some awkward teenage phase.

“Perhaps we’ll have to set you up then,” Jared’s grin held an impish edge. “I believe Jessica is still looking for a potential husband.”

Jackson shot Jared a glare, to which all the other men hollered at. “Jessica is only a freshman.”

“And so is Jeremiah,” Stanley pointed out. JD tried his best to stay quiet, although he had to admit that he was having fun too.

“We’ll see if Jeremiah proves to be everything the minister has promised,” Jackson offered. “After all, Jessica will only take a man who has that classic look of a Christian.”

———

“Jeremiah! Thank you for meeting with me again. Please, take a seat.”

JD followed the instruction, placing himself on the other side of the minister’s desk.

“Already halfway through your first semester, isn’t that unbelievable?” Peter started.

“It certainly is,” JD’s response was friendly. “Can’t believe two months have already flown by.”

“I can’t believe it either, but I can see it,” Peter noted. “I’m assuming you’ve been having meals with your other brothers?”

“They’ve got me going to the gym now too,” JD sighed. “An hour every morning before class since last week.” 

JD had been dining regularly with his study group, at lunch and dinner and even the occasional breakfast. And since this habit had begun, JD found himself eating like his peers too. No more ramen and late night fast food deliveries. Fruits, vegetables, and lean proteins were now the major facets of his diet, leading to his cleaner skin and an overall healthier glow. It was strange at first to recognize how much of a difference this better diet–and as of recently the exercise–had improved his body. JD found himself a bit more muscular, a bit more jovial, and overall more energized.

“That’s not surprising, our men do like to stay in proper form, physically and spiritually,” Peter chuckled. “Speaking of which, last we talked, you had discussed that you were contemplating committing to a major in the Religion Department. Have you thought more on that topic?”

JD considered this for a moment, not remembering if that was what he had actually said or not. But something about the minister’s confident tone assured him that Peter was correct. That was why he had come to this college after all, as his parents had approved of the strong Baptist connection. At least, to appease their wishes.

“A little bit I guess,” JD replied, causing Peter to grin. JD at first thought of it as smug, but then corrected the thought to Peter simply being excited for him. “I mean I’ve attended all four of the Campus Ministry events so far, and being around the guys has certainly been an influence.”

“A positive influence,” Peter amended.

“Yeah…a positive influence,” JD slowly repeated back, before coming back to speed. “As of right now though, I’m still undecided on it all.” Peter carefully leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs out a bit to accommodate. It was almost like the minister was trying to size him up, assert a bit more control.

“You are apprehensive because you still identify yourself as an outsider to our community.” Peter’s response was measured, continuous yet firm with every word laid out. “One thing that can be addressed is your attire. At the material level, you will follow the direction of your peers.”

JD tried to process this, although his brain felt a little hazy. “That might help, yeah.”

“That is something that can be addressed too, your intonation.” There was a particular glint in Peter’s eye, but JD found it easier to focus on the minister’s voice. “Just like your brothers, your inflection will remain in control and moderated. Your pitch will remain even and your vocabulary will become more refined.”

“Certainly.” While just one word, each syllable had required additional effort to come forth from JD’s mouth. The colorless articulation however obscured this exertion.

“It’s good that you’re taking my advice, Jeremiah,” Peter affirmed. “You have placed your trust in me to lead you on the path towards God.”

JD did not know if this was true before, but after Peter had said it, it felt as such.

“You will want nothing more than to become a part of our community,” Peter finalized. “I’ll inform Jackson of such, and he’ll help you along.”

———

JD stepped out of the bathroom, steam pouring out from behind him. He had never taken such a long and luxurious shower but it had felt so right. Jackson had recommended it, saying it was the best way to get rid of any excess hair that may have stuck to his skin after visiting the barber. He could not see it now, but JD already loved the shortened cut on his head. Once it was dried, the sides would naturally fall into a tight bowl-like shape. Then, JD would have the pleasure of applying the product–prescribed by Jackson–to fluff his bangs up into a traditional, conservative quiff. A proper style for a gentleman like himself.

In nothing but a towel, JD peered cautiously around the room. All alone, he allowed himself to freely disdain his roommate’s messy style. He had remained civil around the topic with Mike, but had secretly grown to loathe it. JD knew better than to say anything however, as that would have been pompous. Carefully placing his feet into open spots on the floor, JD tip-toed his way to his dresser, surprised to find a small note taped to the drawer.

A final gift, the classic look of a Christian -JS

Not thinking twice about the phrase, JD was surprised to find his boxers had been replaced with starchy, high-waisted white briefs. But his confusion quickly dissolved into recognition before fading into a simple, charming smile. The cotton fabric went up and over each of his legs in a matter of moments, the traditional cut making JD feel grounded somehow. Controlled.

Turning to face the mirror, it was almost shocking for JD to see the new reflection of himself. Only weeks away from the end of his first semester and the man before him was much different than the boy who had come to campus. Tanner, more muscular, an image of young masculinity. But those were explainable thanks to his improved diet and exercise. Other factors, like his wider jaw, broader shoulders, and inched-back hairline, were not as identifiable. JD questioned if it was incoming maturity, or perhaps something else.

Before he could reflect on the thought further, his body mechanically moved along to his wardrobe. A rack once filled with tees and crewnecks was now stuffed by dress shirts, vests, and blazers of assorted varieties. Tamer colors and patterns, only distinguishable to the distinguished eye. The rest of JD’s dresser now contained a variety of slacks, along with many different types of dress socks and ties. Loafers, oxfords, brogues among others sat in alphabetical order at the bottom. It was practical, and practically perfect.

When his peers had first offered to makeover his closet, JD had been apprehensive. Something in the back of his mind rang an alarm, whispering that he would also be sacrificing a part of his individuality. But JD’s body had decided for him in that moment, his head nodding in approval and with an amiable grin. And now after the swap, which JD later learned was in part financed by the Campus Ministry, he realized there was nothing he should have been afraid of.

After all, all of the brothers were remarkably different. Colton rocked a business cut with his blond hair, a style no one else had. Bryce had the most suits of the five, almost as many as their minister. Jared was the only one officially engaged (although JD predicted that fact would not last much longer. Stanley had his thick, time-honored black horned rims. And Jackson held his affinity for sweater vests, a Bonafede professional at styling them. They were truly all unique.

Quickly assembling his hair and a tasteful outfit–a white button-up, French navy-hued trousers, a currant colored tie and chocolatey derbies for his feet–JD assembled his school bag and made haste for the chapel. When he arrived, it was only Jackson awaiting him in the pews. The others had gone out to grab a quick meal.

“Jeremiah! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it,” Jackson nudged as JD took a seat beside him in the pew.

“You know I would not miss our study sessions for the world, brother!” JD’s rebuttal was chipper and authentic. Since Mike’s first proposal of clubbing, the offer has never been made again. But JD had received other invitations for outings with his fellow peers. However, none of them were ever accepted. To JD, it always felt more appropriate to stick to his group. Their presence felt familiar, grounded. Right.

“‘They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship’,” Jackson started. “‘to the breaking of bread and to prayer.’” 

“‘And all the believers were together and had everything in common.’” JD finished.

“The Book of Acts, I’m impressed,” Jackson smirked. “I now understand why Peter was so serious about you.”

JD should have questioned what Jackson was referring to, but instead sunk into the warm glow of his brother’s approval.

“But there’s still one thing you have to do,” Jackson noted.

JD’s heartbeat hastened rapidly, something he had not expected.

“You have got to come to church with us!”

JD felt a glimmer of hesitancy. He had not gone to church since he had come to college. He tried to remember why, but a subtle pain clouded his thoughts. Was it because of his parents? No, they just wanted what was best for him. Then was it because JD did not feel accepted by the church? JD tried to follow that thread, but the deeper he ventured, the stronger the ache in his head became.

“Come on, what have you got to lose?” Jackson gave JD a playful shove. “Plus, the minister will be giving a blessing to all students before finals.”

Something was telling JD to reconsider. Something urged him to do otherwise. But JD could not figure out what was so wrong about attending a simple service.

“Alright, I’ll go.”

Jackson’s perfect smile was wider than JD had ever seen it. “That’s it, brother! Then you’ll be just like us.”

That statement triggered something in JD. As if following out a code downloaded into his vital operating systems, he made a note to schedule an appointment with his academic counselor.

———

“What can I help you with today, Jeremiah?” 

Unlike the composed minister sitting before him, JD was irritable, prickly. Words were begging to escape his mouth, although he could not figure out what they were. He tried to express them as best he could.

“I want to become a part of the Campus Ministry, a part of your Biblical community.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I want to be another sheep in the flock.”

A small smile tugged at one corner of Peter’s lip. “In other words, you are saying…”

The words flew out JD’s mouth: “I want to embody the classic look of a Christian. I want to fit in.”

That heavy, revealing truth tumbled before the two men, its release absolving JD of a burden unaware to him had been accumulating for months. Ever since his first meeting with the minister.

“It’s much easier to be just another piece of the puzzle, Jeremiah,” Peter began. “Never having to worry about anything else when you have a place to belong.”

The minister reached into his desk and pulled open a drawer, removing a small folder with JD’s name on it. Opening it, Peter pulled out a single sheet of paper and placed it in front of him. JD’s eyes scanned the page before focusing back on Peter’s own.

“Your schedule that I have already drafted up for the next semester,” Peter replied, grabbing a pen. “You will join the Religion Department as a Theology major with a minor in Baptist Ministries. After graduation, you will continue your studies to receive a Masters of Divinity. By then, my proselytization will no longer be necessary as you will have become a permanent traditionalist.”

JD knew better than to say anything. Instead, he let his actions speak for him, his hand accepting the pen from Peter and with a delicate cursive, signing his name.

“Welcome to the flock, Jeremiah.”

———

“A healthy Christian learns and grows through community. A healthy Christian experiences spiritual and relational growth when surrounded by an affirming group of like-minded believers. Jesus spent a significant amount of time with his small group, the apostles, molding them and teaching them how to love and support one another and how to function as a healthy small group. Today, we do the same for our brothers and our sisters.”

Jeremiah sat in the front row next to Jackson, Colton, Bryce, Jared, and Stanley. The group was expertly dressed. Jeremiah’s baby blue button-up was paired with a matching tie underneath his charcoal suit. The tie, with cornflower polka dots on top of a banana cream yellow, was particularly chosen for its “vibrant and exciting pattern,” as Jeremiah had thought of it. Along with caramel wing tips that coupled nicely with his soft yet stiff quiff, Jeremiah felt dignified by his outfit. 

“It’s great to be part of a healthy, well-functioning group,” the preacher, an older, handsomely well-off man by the name of Dr. Ernest Holloway, continued. “However, our individual wishes can sometimes interfere with the overarching needs of the congregation. For our Christian community to remain intact, we need to come before God with an earnest desire to help others, and therefore maintain the needs of the group to truly experience the richness and glory of His intentions.”

“Being in a group is committing to one another by saying, ‘I want to laugh with you, share with you, study with you, and pray with you’.” Taking a deep breath, the doctor made his closing statement. “Being in a group is saying, 'All I want is to be like you’. Amen.”

“Amen,” Jeremiah and the congregation replied. The rest of the service went by quickly, and before Jeremiah knew it, he had finished singing the final verse of the closing hymn. Soon, the church was bursting with lively energy. Joyful conversations broke out between the Baptist brothers and sisters, nobody in a hurry towards the exit. Jeremiah found himself in a similar manner, following behind his peers as they sauntered their way towards the door.

As Jeremiah followed Jackson outside of the church, a young female voice rang out from behind them. “Well look at these fine, upstanding, proper young men!”

The pair turned around, now outside, to see who had beckoned them. Jeremiah caught the eye of the young lady, her coppery hair and conservative sense of style somehow familiar to him. 

“Both of you are so dandy and traditional,” she remarked. “A classic look for a Christian.”

“Jeremiah,” Jackson sighed. “This is my younger sister, Jessica.”

It took Jeremiah a moment to compose himself, a bit of scarlet peppering his cheeks. His hand nervously shot forward. “J…Jeremiah Joshua Manuel Delgado…nice to make your a...acquaintance.”

Jessica accepted his greeting. “I’ve never had quite this effect on one of your friends before,” she smiled to Jackson. “I think he fancies me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself so, Jessica,” Jackson denied. But all three of them knew Jessica was telling the truth. Jeremiah had gone nonverbal, the blood from his brain redirected to another destination. There was a tingling sensation around Jeremiah's genitals, his member slowly inflating. It was times like these that he was thankful to have “not been blessed” as his father once put it. If his package had been larger, there surely would have been an indecent scene.

Jeremiah knew what he had to do. With all the strength he could muster, he drew the only words he could think of to his mouth. His perfect jaw shifted, heavy brow furrowed, and he forced the sole sentence out of his mouth.

“Jessica Sanderson, will you marry me?”

———

“JD…Jeremiah, is that you?”

Jeremiah had finally grabbed the remainder of his items, the last bags of his belongings ready to go. Mike was standing at the door, blocking his path.

“Where are you going?”

Jeremiah scoffed, disapproving of Mike's irregular radicalism. “Somewhere that is cleaner, fresher, prim and proper. Somewhere where I can remain a dignified man dedicated to preserving tradition and culture in this world. If I am to embody the classic look of a Christian, then I ought to do so with like-minded brothers.”

Confused, not only by the fancified words but by his roommate’s overall preppification during their first semester, Mike asked a simple question. “Why?”

With a pleasant smile, Jeremiah handed over a small sheet of paper. He then exited the dorm, leaving Mike to flip the Campus Ministry’s invitation back and forth between his own hands and consider the harm of attending just one meeting.

[johnbrand-deactivated20250425]

Bonding

“I still can’t believe you were trying to hypnotize me,” Corey chuckled, his slightly-dazed brother-in-law sitting across from him on the floor. “What were you trying to get out of me anyway?”

The evening had started out innocently enough. Corey and Paul had gotten along decently in the past. Friendly, but never true friends. They just did not have that much in common. Paul’s life was complex, eccentric, and filled with sexual adventures. Corey, nor Paul’s sister whom he had recently married, had any problems with this, although it was hard for them to relate to. They were settling down, taking pleasure in the simpler things in life.

“I was just hoping to…hoping to…” Paul was struggling, caught between holding back and fully surrendering to Corey.

“Look back into my eyes and relax, Paul,” Corey calmly instructed. “Let that relaxation continue to take over. Let me be the one in charge now. You are willing to give your power to me.”

While the differences between the two existed, both Corey and Paul did truly wish to become better friends. So when Paul had asked to come over on a night his sister was not there, to just have dinner and bond, Corey eagerly accepted. The two had a great meal, talked on a variety of topics, and for some reason had eventually wound up in the bedroom. It was there Paul had tried to hypnotize Corey, but his brother-in-law could have never known Corey was much more experienced in the craft then he was. Paul was under before he even realized the tables had been turned.

Watching Paul’s eyes flutter once more, Corey pushed back the question. “Why were you trying to hypnotize me tonight, Paul?”

Paul’s response was robotic: “I was hoping to convert you.”

“'Convert me’?” Corey repeated.

“You know...make you gay,” Paul clarified, still entranced.

“And why would you want that?”

“So then you could be mine,” Paul uttered. "Bonding like...sexually...as lovers..."

Corey took a moment to process this. A little stunned, but also somehow not surprised. It was a common stereotype for straight men to believe that gay men lusted for them, and Corey was coming to realize he may have actually been a part of this trope. Corey did not know whether to be flattered or offended. It was endearing that his brother-in-law thought of him in such a manner, but also cruel that Paul attempted to manipulate him. And now that Corey knew of Paul’s knowledge of hypnotization, he feared another victim could appear in the future.

“Paul, let me repeat back to you what you just told me.” Carefully, Corey kicked out his feet, removing his socks to let them breathe a bit. He brought up one of the socks to his nose, confirming they would be a potent enough trigger to keep Paul under. 

“You were hoping for me to convert you.” Corey stated this rather than posing a question, forcing Paul to absorb it as a new truth.

“...yes…” Paul mumbled. “...you…convert me…”

“Those weren’t feelings of lust, but of admiration,” Corey continued. “You don’t want to like me, you want to be like me.”

Paul processed this new truth, “I want to…I want to be like you.”

Corey smiled. He could have never predicted for this situation to have arisen from tonight’s activities, but he assumed that it could still be considered “bonding,” seeing as Paul was about to learn, rather take in a lot about his brother-in-law.

With his wife gone for the whole weekend, Corey had plenty of time to work with Paul. Rewriting Paul’s background came first, and luckily Corey already knew a good deal of it from being married to Paul’s sister. Starting from childhood, Corey worked his way up through adolescence. A Halloween costume from age 7 switched from a wizard to a train conductor. An after school activity at age 10 was switched from the community choir to baseball. Age 16 replaced a Toyota Prius with a Camry, Age 17 art elective to woodshop, Age 18 private liberal arts college to public university. It was a delicate process, but as Corey removed integral portions of Paul’s history and supplanted them with his own, the progress became visible.

During the early stages, it was mostly physical adaptations as Paul’s pubescent stages were rewritten to mimic his brother-in-law’s. Longer legs gave him more height, a history in sports put some meat on his bones, a love for bars over clubs put some hair on his chest–and just about everywhere else. 

By the time Corey began restructuring Paul’s twenties, the visible changes became less apparent. The designer, patterned dress shirt and matching pants Paul adorned were dialed down to neutral, off-the-rack colors as one-off production jobs were replaced with a steady accounting gig. Random male strangers to long-term heterosexual relationships added a little softness over Paul’s abs and inched his hairline back to match Corey’s. And from recently renewing a lease in the city to recently placing a down payment in the suburbs, Corey proudly watched as a fluffy beard sprung forth from Paul’s face, just like his own. Corey would not be surprised if others would now assume the pair were brothers, not brothers-in-law.

“Now, I’m going to put away my feet, Paul.” Corey’s funk had fumed up the room. He already knew his wife would complain about it once she arrived back home. “But from now on, when I present you with my feet, you will immediately go back under again, do you understand?”

While mentally still a bit slow, Paul confirmed by presenting his own, now giant feet to Corey. “Your feet…at your command…”

“Good.” With that, Corey was quick with the cleanup process, reminding Paul that all the changes were permanent, he did not know how to hypnotize people nor would ever learn how to, and that he would not remember any of what they had just done together. Their weekend had just been spent bonding after all, drinking beers and complaining about women. Just two brother-in-laws becoming better brothers.