whats up bros just trying to dumb down and bulk up. big smelly musky bi top. low IQ but i gotta get dumber. dms open, no pics tho im staying anon. fuckin love wrestling football and lifting
The bedroom air was thick with the warm, intimate scent of two bodies pressed together under the sheets. Caleb’s cheek rested right against the smooth rise of Josh’s chest. Their legs were tangled lazily, phones casting soft blue light across their faces as they scrolled side by side in the dark. Caleb’s fingers traced slow, hungry lines along Josh’s delicate abs while his screen flooded with clips of shirtless muscle bros flexing their biceps and bouncing their roided out pecs for the camera. The sight made heat pool low in his belly, thick and insistent. Envious.
“Fuck, these influencers are living the dream,” Caleb murmured, voice low and horny as he nuzzled into his boyfriend, who was all too used to Caleb's neediness. “Millions of followers just from showing off those huge chests every day. I wish I could be famous online like that. Just instantly huge, everyone completely obsessed with me.”
The second the wish left his lips the world seemed to freeze. A thick, syrupy heat rushed through Caleb’s veins, sweet and unstoppable, spreading outward fast. His phone slipped from suddenly numb fingers and hit the floor with a thud. He tried to sit up, to call out, to grab Josh, but every muscle was locked. His mouth would not open. His tongue lay heavy and useless. Panic was rising inside him, but it drowned under the bloating rush that followed.
His torso started collapsing inward with wet, fleshy sounds only he could feel. Legs folded up and melted, thighs and calves and feet sliding higher, fusing into dense, heavy slabs that surged straight forward like rising dough. Hips narrowed sharply. Waist cinched tight. All that mass poured into his chest, swelling outward in two aggressive, rounded mounds that pushed hard against the skin, stretching it shiny and tight. He bloated fast, skin pulling drum-tight over the growing bulk, every useless breath sending the new flesh quivering and jiggling like overfilled, warm water balloons packed with dense man meat.
The mounds kept expanding, heavier by the second, fat and thick muscle layering on in heavy sheets. Short, dark hairs prickled out across the swelling curves, sprouting dense stubble until the entire surface was covered in a soft, masculine pelt that matted instantly with beads of sweat. His nipples swelled into fat, rubbery nubs, surrounded by darker, coarser hair. He could feel the cool air touching them, touching him, throbbing visibly with each frantic heartbeat. Veins snaked across the ballooning slabs, pulsing hot and blue under the glistening, hairy skin. The cleavage between them deepened into a sweaty, hairy trench that trapped every drop of dank moisture. The sensation was overwhelming, every jiggle, every slosh of internal weight sending sparks of forced, humiliating pleasure straight through his trapped nerves.
Josh’s voice rumbled from above, but it had dropped into a deep, slow, brainless drawl that vibrated straight through the heavy flesh Caleb had become. “Bro… shit feels weird as fuck right now.”
Thick, calloused fingers dragged lazily across the upper curve of the left pec, scratching slow and possessive right through the dense hair and over the fat, aching nipple. The touch lit Caleb up like lightning, a jolt of raw, unwanted ecstasy shooting deep into his core. He tried to scream, to beg, but nothing came out. The only response was another helpless bounce as the heavy, hairy pec flexed and quivered under Josh’s casual scratch.
Josh sat up, and the motion sent Caleb’s entire world rocking violently. The two massive, hairy slabs slapped together with a loud, meaty smack, then settled into a shelf-like protrusion that jutted proudly forward, overhanging the carved abs below. Gravity tugged at their heavy weight, making them hang full and round, the dense hair matted down with fresh sweat that rolled in tiny rivers into the deep cleavage. Caleb felt cool air kiss the hairy skin, felt the way the fat nipples stiffened harder out in the open, throbbing, begging for more touch even as horror clawed through his trapped mind.
Below him, connected to him, Josh’s body was changing too: growing, hardening, swelling into something massive and powerful. Shoulders broadened with deep, wet creaks, delts ballooning out like cannonballs. Arms thickened into veiny, football-sized biceps and horseshoe triceps. Abs carved thickened and hardened into a brutal eight-pack, grooves so deep they cast shadows. Quads exploded outward, sweeping wide and thick, calves swelling round and juicy. Between those tree-trunk thighs, his formerly average cock surged longer and fatter, the head flaring huge and slick with pre, balls swelling heavy and churning. Josh's whole frame stretched taller, hitting six-four and two-hundred-eighty pounds of pure, veiny, shredded muscle.
The handsome face above shifted too, dark messy hair growing thicker and wilder, falling in sweaty waves over a strong brow. Thick eyebrows furrowed in that cocky, half-lidded way. Stubble darkened along a sharp, wide jawline, giving him that perfect douchebag-jock edge. The expression settled into a permanent, brainless smirk, eyes intense but empty, the look of a guy who knew his body was pure sex but had zero thoughts behind it.
And the mind changed with it. Every memory of soft kisses, whispered promises, shared showers, and gentle mornings burned away in seconds. New ones took their place: brutal gym sessions at dawn, chugging protein shakes and blasting room clearing farts, banging sorority girls in the locker room, hyping up his reflection while chasing the pump, filming endless pec-bouncing content for the thirsty fags and bitches that follow him. Straight. Cocky. Dumb as rocks. Obsessed with nothing but getting bigger, getting likes, getting worshipped by anyone willing to stare at the body he owned.
Caleb’s consciousness reeled as the reality warp finished its cruel work. In the new world, there had never been a boyfriend named Caleb. There had only ever been this new Josh, the dumb, straight bodybuilder influencer whose chest was the main event. These huge, hairy, overhanging pecs had always been his, always this massive, always this sensitive, always the thing that made his feed explode and his follower count sky rocket. No past life. No memories of love. Just meat. Just slabs. Just the famous, jiggling, hyper-responsive, hairy pecs that millions jerked off to every single day.
Josh grinned that cocky, stubble-framed smirk at his phone, propped it up on the nightstand for the perfect low-angle shot, and hit record. The flash lit up every pore, every dark hair, every striation across the shiny, sweat-glistened, hairy mounds that were now Caleb’s entire existence.
“Yo, what’s good, gainz gang!” Josh bellowed, voice thick and slow and dripping with pure bro-energy, dark hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at the camera with not a single intelligent thought behind his dark eyes. “Your boy Josh comin’ at ya with the nightly pec check. These fuckin’ slabs are lookin’ extra juicy tonight, huh? Watch this shit.”
He flexed hard. Caleb’s world exploded. The hairy pecs ballooned outward, swelling bigger, rounder, muscle fibers screaming as they locked into rock-hard plates beneath the dense pelt. Skin stretched so tight the short black hairs stood up, matted and glistening. Every single fiber, every drop of blood, every throb of the insane pump flooded Caleb with burning, erotic heat. His fat, hairy nipples poked out like thick erasers, hypersensitive in the cold air, sending constant jolts of forced pleasure straight into his trapped mind with every brutal flex.
Josh bounced them. Left. Right. Left. Right. Caleb jiggled helplessly, the heavy, hairy meat slapping and rippling, sweat flying off the curves in tiny arcs and soaking into the dense hair. The motion dragged his nipples through the air, sparking fresh waves of humiliating arousal that made his consciousness throb in helpless ecstasy. Up close in the camera, the pecs were massive and overhanging, pores and hairs filling the frame, jiggling heavily with every bounce. Right. Left. Right. Left.
Each bounce felt like it was scrambling Caleb's brain.
“Fuck yeah, boys, you like that shit?” Josh laughed, deep and stupid, stubble framing that dumb, confident grin. He slapped the right pec hard, the impact rippling through the dense hair and meat like a shockwave, pain and pleasure twisting together into something sick and addictive. Caleb would have cried out if he could. “These bad boys are famous for a reason. Two million thirsty followers obsessed with these hairy slabs. Bet half you fucks would kill to bury your face right here and motorboat ‘em.”
He belched loud and wet, a long, protein-scented eruption that rumbled up from his gut and vibrated straight through the massive, hairy chest. The burp made the pecs quiver extra hard, and Caleb tasted the sour tang rolling over his sensitive, hairy skin, trapped so deep inside the body he could feel every gas bubble.
Then the fart hit. Josh lifted one tree-trunk leg, grinned that cocky smirk at the camera while scrunching up his smug face, and ripped a long, bassy PRRRRFFFFFFFT that shook the whole bed. Thick, masculine musk rolled up instantly, cheese and eggs and pure jock filth washing over the sweaty, hairy cleavage. Caleb’s trapped mind gagged even as the horror of being trapped deepened, the smell soaking into every pore and hair follicle of the pecs he now was.
Josh kept filming, voice dropping into that horny, brainless influencer growl, dark messy hair sweaty and wild as he flexed again. “You know the drill. Double tap if you wanna see me oil these puppies up later and make the hair all shiny and slick. Comment ‘PEC GOD’ if you’re a thirsty bitch for these slabs. And smash that follow button if you wanna watch me grow ‘em even bigger on this bulk. Let’s hit three mil by next month, boys.”
He flexed again, holding the most savage pose, veins popping like ropes beneath the hair, nipples throbbing visibly, the entire shelf of meat locked solid and glistening in a perfect low-angle shot. Caleb felt every second of it, the muscle locking, the skin burning with the pump, the constant, throbbing pleasure that refused to let him think straight. Every like that dinged in on the live count sent another involuntary flex through the hairy pecs, another heavy jiggle, another rush of heat.
Josh finally ended the video, tossed the phone aside, and flopped back onto the pillows. The impact made the heavy, hairy pecs bounce wildly for long, humiliating second, nipples tickled by the dense hair and sparking with every slap of flesh on flesh. His big hand came up again, rubbing slow, possessive circles over the massive chest, fingers raking through the short black hair, occasionally pinching a fat nipple and twisting just enough to make Caleb’s entire being white out with the sensation.
“Best fuckin’ chest in the game,” Josh muttered happily, voice thick with post-pump bliss, stubble scratching against his own shoulder as he turned his head. Another casual belch escaped him, and he chuckled low. “Gonna keep these slabs fed and pumped. They’re my money makers.”
The hand kept moving, scratching through the hair, rubbing, owning every inch of the glossy, jiggling, hairy meat. Caleb floated in the endless, hypersensitive prison, fear and forced arousal twisting tighter with every shared heartbeat. He felt the slow, heavy rise and fall of the chest that now contained him completely. He felt the way the hairy pecs settled into their thick, proud shelf, always ready for the next flex, the next hard slap, the next video.
Josh’s breathing slowed into sleep, but the sensations never stopped for Caleb. Every tiny shift made the heavy, hairy mounds quiver softly, the short hairs tickling and matting further with sweat. Every pulse of blood sent another throb through the dense muscle. The nipples stayed half-hard, tingling, waiting for the next casual touch from their owner.
In this new reality, millions would wake up tomorrow and scroll straight to Josh’s feed, drooling over these gloriously hairy, overhanging jock pecs. Liking, commenting, begging for more bounces. And Caleb would feel every single view as another flex, another heavy jiggle, another sweaty, hairy, erotic pulse of his permanently trapped existence.
He was famous now. Exactly what he had wished for, but twisted in the worst way. Helplessly, deliciously trapped as the world-famous, constantly fondled, endlessly flexed, hairy, jiggling beefy pecs of a dumb, straight, farting, belching, douchebag jock god who had never known him as anything else.
At least he was stuck in this nightmare with Josh, but time would reveal that being trapped as an audience for a brain-dead jock slob 24/7 would hardly be as glamorous as the thirst traps made it seem.
Marcus was really regretting his wish. All he wanted to do was spend time with the hot guys in the Frat House down the street, but he never meant that he wanted to spend time with them as a brother of the house. He wanted to be sucking on their cocks, sniffing their hot swampy armpits, not trapped inside a meaty sweat covered body without any ability to control it. He hated the version of himself he was now, his big thick hand scratching at his ass crack and pits, sniffing his rank stench. He felt so gross and stupid, lounging around in sweat pants, laughing at the dumb misogynistic jokes, flexing when given the cue.
He kept waiting for something fun and gay to happen, for all the hot guys to start kissing, or for someone to play pop music to relax to, but the best he got was kisses on the cheek and bros slapping his cock with a callused palm, muttering “no homo, brah!” Rap music was blaring, causing him to scream inside his head, but the vessel he was inside just nodded along and tapped his big stinky foot. “This shit is tight,” he drawled, at the same time his hand pawed at his fat package.
One of the frat boys he had the biggest crush on came and sat beside him, throwing a muscled arm over his shoulder, his slick armpit hairs touching his skin. His thick cock remained deflated, up until the bro shoved his cheap scratched up phone in his face, laughing. “Fuckkk Mark, look at these mommy milkers,” he said, showing off a GIF of some big boobed porn star squeezing her fleshy tits together. Instantly, Mark as he was now affectionately called, could feel all the blood rushing to his cock, a low groan leaving his open mouth, the stank of morning breath blowing out, but his bro didn’t care. He reached his big meaty hand into his sweats, at the same time his bro was doing the same thing. “Fuck brah, let me pull us up something good,” the dude said, using his sweaty pube covered fingers to quickly bring up a porn video, lesbians scissoring to be exact.
Their slick pussies sliding against each other, their titties bouncing. Mark couldn’t help it, even if a tiny gay voice was screaming in his head, begging him to remember that he was a gay boy who wanted to be fucked by frat boys, not be one. Mark was only hyper focused on the swaying tits and squirting pussies on the phone screen, he didn’t even glance over at his bro jacking his cock because that would be gay. No one in this frat was a queer. Least of all him.
Once he busted his load to the moaning MILFs, he didn’t even clean up, he just shoved his thick cock into his sweats and stretched out, shoving his bro away as he squeezed out a hot protein fart. Everyone laughed, breathing in the hot fetid stench, loving the sense of brotherhood in the house.
Mitch stood outside the college gym, his heart racing. What would he do if Kurt caught him? Would he get beaten up? It didn’t matter, Mitch tried to make himself look busy on his phone as he saw Kurt leaving the gym walking with his usual confidence except for a slight limp seemingly from pulling a muscle. The man stunk of cheap body spray and sweat and wore a sweat drenched hoodie and shorts. Mitch didn’t understand how any guy could be so proud to be such a Neanderthal. Even though Mitch knew he’d look odd walking into a gym with his current outfit, he’d rather a few strange looks than be caught looking like a brute to can’t wipe between his cheeks.
Mitch resented Kurt, he’d worked so hard to get into his college. Years of studying and dedication seemingly for nothing when a guy like Kurt can come in on a wresting scholarship. So he groped guys on a mat in a stinking gym, what was so difficult about that? Mitch believed it was stupid and absurd, but most of all unfair. How come he got an easy ride for college? So today he’d take matters into his own hands. He reached the locker room and searched for Kurt’s name. Steven’s. No. Alejandro. Also no. Ahh, Kurt Carnel. He had it. After a few seconds of trying to fiddle with the lock he managed to pry open the locker. Bingo! Kurt’s wrestling gear. As Mitch grabbed it to throw it in his bag he noticed how damp it felt in his hands and how their stench wafted into his face, burning his nostrils. God did this man ever wash his kit? Maybe it was more of a favour Mitch was gonna burn it, maybe then he could get some fresh clothes. As he reached for the last item in the locker, Kurt’s jockstrap, Mitch paused for a moment. He didn’t know why but the smell of it, something about it was alluring to him. He wanted more of it, and like a moth to a flame, Mitch held the jock up to his nose. He breathed in deeply. It was wet and stained. Very clearly unwashed but it smelt so good. As he tried to pry himself away from the jock he felt a breeze across his body. Looking down he yelled, “Shit!! What happened to my clothes?!” Mitch was standing in the lockers stark naked. He looked into the bag of Kurt’s stuff and even around the locker but his clothes were nowhere to be seen. Then he looked at the jock in his hand. If he didn’t want to be caught naked he was going to have to put on the only clothes he had available. Kurt’s. He slowly slipped the worn fabric of the jock up his skinny legs until it sat comfortably on his crotch. It actually felt nice. Then there was a footstep behind him. BAMM!
Mitch was face down on the floor, ass in the air. He clutched the side of his head and felt it pulsing. Before he had time to collect himself he felt a hand grab at the strap of the jock and drag him towards a bench. The sleek floor of the locker squeaked against Mitch’s exposed stomach until he was hoisted into the air and thrown onto a nearby bench. Looking up he could see Kurt standing above him. “Seems like I picked the right guy.”
“What the fuck?” was all Mitch could mutter before his face was held against Kurt’s package in his sweaty shorts.
Mitch’s eyes rolled back as the BO emanating from Kurt’s package clung to his face and embedded itself into his pours. The smell was putrid but Mitch had no choice but to keep breathing it in, deeper and deeper. With each breath he felt hotter as his skin began to sweat profusely. Sweat dripped down his forehead and back and ran down his face and arms. He felt his exposed ass get a meaty slap causing his cute cheeks to jiggle. “We’ll make a wrestler out of you don’t worry kid.” Before Mitch passed out from the heat of Kurt’s crotch, he was pushed away. he should have been panicked but all he could think was how he wanted more.
“Ayy seems like my musk is already taking effect, coach said it’d be potent.” Kurt chuckled as he saw with each breath, Mitch’s chest started to grow. His once small chest began to puff out as two meaty pecs began to form. They grew round and almost soft. He cupped them with one hand to find they felt like juicy tits. With his pecs growing meatier the rest of his body followed suit. Without realising Mitch was flexing his biceps as they grew bigger and stronger. His thighs and calves inflated like balloons until they were thick and sturdy. Perfect for keeping his ground. A tight six pack also began to pop into existence as his neck began to thicken with muscle like a bull. He groped and squeezed at his growing body as it filled in. He looked like bodybuilder. No scratch that, a wrestler.
“See Mitch, when I tore the ligament in my leg I thought my wrestling season was going to be over. No more scholarship! But then coach said I could find someone to fill in for me whilst I recovered and when I found out you had some vendetta against me I knew you’d be perfect.” Mitch looked at Kurt confused. “Ven-vende-vendetta?”
Kurt laughed at Mitch’s confused expression. And nodded. “Yeah you have one against me dummy or did you forget?” Mitch just continued looking vacantly at Kurt. “But what’s a vendetta?” This caused Kurt to burst into even more laughter.
“Damn coach was right, I guess we really are swapping smarts too. Luckily I get to keep this body and I can train you but for the mean time I need to take another course so with your smarts I should do pretty well for myself. I see you’ve probably taken too many hits to the head hey big guy with cauliflower ears like that!”
Mitch raised his thick meaty ands up to his ears and with his sausage fingers he felt the sore, inflated cartilage. He really was becoming a dumb wrestler. “Yeah Mitch, I’m afraid your brain is going to be a bit mushy for a while.”
Before Mitch had a chance to gather his bearings in his changed body Kurt had him on his feet and stepping into his wresting singlet. As the fabric was pulled up his body the more and more his head felt like cotton. Any complex thoughts or long words became just out of reach for Mitch as he tried to rationalise what was happening. He should have been panicking but he was becoming far too dumb to really understand what was going on. Difficult thoughts were replaced by simple images in his head. Images of how to tackle and wrestle. How to stand is ground and work out. But not much more. With the singlet on, Mitch was being led into the wrestling studio of the gym where the coach was waiting for him. “Oh you’ll need this champ.” Kurt said as he pulled out a used mouth guard from his bag and shoved it into Mitch’s mouth.
Mitch looked at the coach with that same vacant expression plastered permanently to his face. “You did well kid,” the coach said patting Kurt on the back, “he’ll do very nicely whilst you get healed up. Okay Mitchy! Let’s get in a neutral position so we can see what we’re working with”
By the end of the day the coach had been going through drill after drill with Mitch making sure he perfected his wrestling. He was going to be the college star until Kurt was ready to wrestle again. Even then coach didn’t want his star athletes in the same weight class so decided to move Mitch up as he was the newbie. With a little protein, gainer shakes and training Mitch was looking a lot thicker and ready to stand his ground. Plush the extra padding definitely helped in tournaments. Wrestlers didn’t need abs anyway.
Tyson was a uni drop out, nothing special about him other than his pretty face and dedication to his diet. He had no real hobbies and no real friends. The only reason people paid him any real attention was because of his body. However guys got pretty turned off after a one night stand with him when they'd wake up and Tyson would have written them critiques about how to improve their bodies and performance in the bedroom.
Tyson was the worst kind of gym bro, not because he had no real personality, but because he was an asshole with no real personality, in fact when he wasn't coming home from the gym, taking selfies in the mirror or scrolling on grinder for someone to bounce on his waist he spent a large portion of his time staring in the mirror admiring his own perfection.
"fuck yeah, I'm probably the hottest guy alive" he'd say as he rubbed his own crotch.
His arrogant attitude had essentially transformed him into a self obsessed autosexual, whilst he enjoyed sex and having a guy put in all the work whilst he laid back in pleasure he still preferred a night to himself and his mirror.
Tyson flexed his arm one last time, admiring the perfection before him before he turned off his alarm and got up to go to the gym.
"well, I'll see you when I get home handsome" he said winking at his own reflection and snapping his underwear band.
He threw on the folded red tank top and black gym shorts he had lying on his dresser, the ones he had steamed the night before. As he walked out the door he picked up his glass from his morning water and placed it neatly in the dishwasher before turning it on and leaving for the gym.
Upon arriving at the gym Tyson walked into the welcome area where he found 3 tall bodybuilders lined up at the key scanner. Tyson rolled his eyes and tried to avoid contact with them, he hated those freaks. The guys who willingly chose to inflate themselves with disgusting amounts of muscle. Who could barely fit in their cars and he huffed and sweat like bovine beasts when they got on the treadmill.
Tyson quickly got impatient and began tapping his foot as the 3 meatheads were holding up the line.
"are you beasts gonna scan in or am I just waiting here all day"
The three turned their heads to them almost in unison
"yoo you think we are beasts huhu" one flexed his enormous bicep that dwarfed Tyson's head
"hey Ty, what up lil dude. Wanna hit bench with us today? we we can help you grow that chest"
Tyson was disgusted at the thought of working out with the three of them and smelling their terrible stench or listening to them heaving for air.
"no thanks, its hard to improve upon perfection" Tyson said with a smirk
"aw come on dude, you can always improve and get bigger, you aint even close to your limit"
"and I dont want to be" Tyson said with a disgusted frown and one raised eyebrow
There was a loud ding and the three bodybuilders began waddling and shuffling their way through the electronic gate into the gym, having to turn sideways slightly to get their hulking frames in the turn gate.
"This is what I mean" laughed Tyson
"haha, can't blame us for being absolute units man"
"But doesn't it annoy the fuck out of you being like that?"
"no way bro, being this big is fucking awesome"
the three bodybuilders all began laughing and flexing
"I'm sorry I really dont see how turning myself into a...freak would be awesome"
There was a dead silence as the three bodybuilders stopped laughing and turned to him.
"that's a bit of a harsh word bro"
"yeah man don't diss the hobby coz you aint into it"
Tyson smirked flicking as he polished his fitness watch with the edge of his jumper "dude I dont think anyone is into it"
"what the fuck is that supposed to mean"
"umm being so big you have no style because you cant fit into anything, constantly covered in sweat marks, you reek after just a few minutes of exercise, you gulp down water like an elephant who hasn't drunk in a year, can barely fit in your cars and take up so much space, plus I like when guys find me attractive and aren't grossed out by my monstrous body" Tyson turned his back placing his gym bag in the locker completely unaware that the three men he had just insulted looked so red their heads could pop with anger.
"I'LL LET YOU KNOW MY HUSBAND LOOOOVVVEEESSS MY SIZE" the bodybuilder in the middle yelled through his teeth
"whoooaa jayce" the two others said in unison as they grabbed him by the chest and stopped him taking a step forward
"don't shoot the messenger buddy but Im pretty sure your husband wouldn't be disappointed if you lost 30-40lsb of muscle, pretty sure he'd enjoy date night without sitting across from a behemoth stuffing himself so full of protein like a slob"
Jayce threw his arms up in the air and pushed his two friends off of him turning around and walking away.
Tyson ignored the interaction implying pulling his towel and drink bottle out of his gym bag.
"You know what you need Ty..."
"and what's that Mark?" Tyson tiredly asked rolling his eyes
"A real good bulk, make ya real big, that'll change your mind" Mark smirked looking at his friend who was smiling back.
"whatever" Tyson groaned as he walked off into the gym.
---
A few hours had passed and Tyson was in the changing room admiring himself after his workout. It was enough to pump him to that perfect spot where he looked just slightly bigger and was a little sore, but not enough to make him sweat or stimulate the sort of growth a lot of gym guys were after.
Tyson flexed one bicep and ran his other hand down his thigh feeling himself get hard.
"Oh yeah handsome, just wait till I get you in my bed" He smirked at his own reflection.
Just then he heard the sound to the changing rooms open, his hand quickly shot up from his thigh, not wanting anyone to see his moment of lust.
He watched in the mirror as Jayce rounded the corner, his massive and wide shoulders causing him to bump into subway tiled wall. A massive smile lit up on Jayce's face as he saw Tyson standing there.
"Yep" Jayce yelled out
Dylan quickly followed behind and began walking towards Tyson, not that he thought much of it.
"Grab his left Dylan?"
"No worried Jayce"
Tyson was shocked as the two hulking bodybuilders suddenly grabbed hold of his arms and used what felt like all of their strength to sandwich him between them.
"h-HEY WHAT THE FUCK GET OFF" Tyson struggled and squirmed to get out of there grip but it felt like he was being pressed between two stone walls, he was unable to do anything other than pathetically kick his legs.
Just then Tyson heard the door to the changing rooms lock as Mark rounded the corner.
"Mark!, tell your fucking boys to let me go!"
The three bodybuilder's laughed as Mark walked closer holding a strange metal container in his hand that resembled a protein shaker.
"Hey lil dude" Said Mark with a big smirk across his face
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THREE WANT" Tyson snapped.
"to prove you wrong man" Jayce whispered
'w-what" Tyson continued to flounder and squirm to no avail
"you said being a bodybuilder sucked, well we are gonna prove you wrong" Dylan smirked tightly squeezing Tyson's arms
"h-how, Im not gonna start bodybuilding because you three threaten me"
"oh there is no threat bud, we have got something we want to try but dont know about the side effects wanna test it"
"ARE YOU GONNA JAB MY ASS FULL OF ROIDS" Tyson squeaked pathetically
"no dude, of course not" Said Mark
"we already know the side effects to roids" laughed Jayce
Mark grabbed onto Tyson's perfect hair and forcefully pulled his head back, Tyson couldn't see but he felt Jayce wrap his giant muscular arm around his pinning his between Jayce's bulky bicep and forearm and grabbing his cheeks forcing his jaw open.
"bottoms up pretty boy" Mark said as he flicked the cap off the contained with his thumb and shoved the mouth piece into Tyson's mouth.
"MMMMM -MMMM -MMMMMMM!!!!!!" Tyson tried to yell but his mouth was full of a strange thick liquid.
Mark dropped the contained and grabbed Tyson's nose still forcing the container to his lips
"gotta drink if you wanna breathe buddy"
Tyson couldn't hold it any longer
GULP...GULP...GULP.....GULP
Tyson sucked down what was in his mouth and what continued to pour from the container, when the last drop was drunk and all he could taste was air the three bodybuilders all let go in unison and Tyson dropped to the ground gasping for air.
"How long does it take to work Mark?"
"errr container says a few minutes for a start and a week for full effects"
Tyson couldn't concentrate on what the three were talking about, his body began to feel like it was being super heated, like his muscles and bones were being fried into pudy.
Tyson's hand began to tremble, as he looked at it pressed against the cold tiled floor he noticed his thumb enlarging, getting longer and thicker, it spread to all his fingers and his hand, at first he thought it was an allergic reaction but it wasn't puffy or fat, it was hard solid and defined, like all the muscles in his hands were suddenly expanding, he watched as his handed swelled up to the size of dinner plates as veins in his arms and forearms pumped in sync with his heart beat.
His forearms stared growing outwards and he felt his already tight and pumped biceps ache as they swelled even bigger. Seeing his reflection in the mirror he looked like a bad art project as different parts of his body were swelling with size and different times, his shoulders got wider as his calves got bigger, his pecs inflated as his feet grew out of his shoes, his abs bloated into a semi roid gut as his quads quickly filled with blood, and his ass pumped up into a big meaty globe as his traps crept up his back swallowing his necks.
after just a few minutes the three bodybuilders were stunned looking down at the sweaty bulky mess that was Tyson on the floor of the changing room.
Tyson had watched the whole thing in the mirror but still he couldn't recognise himself, what had happened, what they did to him.
He looked like one of them, a bodybuilder.
"w-what did you do to me" Tyson moaned, out of breath and out of energy
"damn, he got huge so quick, and he still has a week to go?"
"please, no, no bigger, turn me back"
the three bodybuilders began to have a conversation around Tyson like he wasn't even there as he tried to pick himself up off the floor. A few minutes passed and Tyson finally stood up. He felt uncomfortable, muscles he didn't even know where near each other rubbed up against each other like every aspect of his body was fighting for space.
Tyson looked at himself horrified in the mirror at the big bulky freak he had become.
"oh fuck..m..my perfect body" he turned to the three men behind him "please, please you gotta turn me back"
"you still got a week of growin left bud" Mark replied
"PLEASE I CAN'T GET BIGGER"
Jayce smirked trying to contain his laughter
"Look dude, we said we were gonna show you how being a bodybuilder is awesome, let it go for a week and we'll check back in and if you still hate it, we'll turn you back"
Tyson turned back to his reflection and flexed, freaked out by his bicep being larger than his own head.
"see, its already awesome, see you later dude"
The three bodybuilders started walking out of the changing room
"no WAIT!!"
Tyson ran over to his bag feeling the weight of his new body with every step and feeling his hard muscles bounce. He leant over and swung his bag over his shoulder. He watched as the door closed behind the three and he ran to catch up. Every step was a chore, it was like an entire workout for just one leg to hold up the weight of his new massive body.
By the time he reached the door Tyson doubled over gasping for air, he placed his giant meaty hand on the wall and slid down the the floor, he had only run a few feet but it felt like he had just done and three hours of cardio without a break, he felt the sweat running down his back and struggled to come up with a reason anyone would want to be this big, why guys would dedicate their lives to become titans.
it took 15 minutes, for Tyson to catch his breath and stand up again and by the time that happened the three he was after were already gone, he walked through the gym defeated hoping nobody would recognise him. He made it to the turn gate and as he went to go through he felt a hard pressing against his shoulders. Not at all used to his new size Tyson hadn't adjusted the angle that he approached the gate and found himself stuck between the two steel bars. Tyson pushed with his back leg but didn't realise the power behind his colossal quads as he easily pushed himself out but he couldn't stop the moment and he came tumbling forward face first onto the floor in front and multiple gym attendants.
"woah, you okay big guy" one of them asked,
Tyson looked up and saw the other two doing their best not to laugh.
"yeah I'm fine!" Tyson tried to get up as fast as he could but the sheer weight of his frame meant it was an awkward step by step process that took almost a whole minute.
Tyson quickly raced out the doors as fast as his could but once again misjudged his giant muscles and his two shoulders slammed into the automatic doors not realising they weren't wide enough for him. A loud bang rang out and Tyson looked back as the glass automatic doors wobbled and shook, and ounce more pressure and they would have surely crashed down around him.
Tyson waddled through the car park desperate to get to his car. Swinging open the door he quickly realised why he had never seen a bodybuilder in a sleek sports car, he didn't fit, just one leg stepped in and there wasn't any more room for him to squeeze in. He tried everything, moving the seat back, moving the wheel up, but still he didn't fit. After about 10 minutes of doing everything he could think of to get in he just decided to force his way in.
Sliding into the car he felt cramped, and when he closed the driver's door it bounced off his arm and swung back open denting the car next to him. Tyson tried again leaning all the way into his car and shutting the door. It shut but as he sat back up he found himself on an awkward angle to the wheel, he tried to adjust himself to roll down the window so he could stick his arm out and get more space but as he placed his arm down on the leather seat to push his own body out the way he heard a loud tearing. His clothes didn't feel loser and he couldn't see what had torn but it sounded bad...
When Tyson arrived home he squeezed himself out of his car, it felt like being freed from a sardine can but as he turned around to shut his door he had found the source of the tearing noise from earlier, in the centre of the seat, directly under where he was, was now a large split right down the leather, seats that cost over a thousand dollars to fix split apart like paper, and that wasn't the worst of it, he looked at the lower back of the seat to see how the leather had warped and swollen from the amount of sweat that had been pressed against it.
"AW MAN" Tyson moaned slammed his car door, not realising the force his arms were able to put behind it and as the door lodged into place his hand carried the momentum behind it straight into the metal of the car leaving a large dent from his palm.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME"
Tyson stormed over to his front door just wanting the day to end. He pulled up his keys to the front door and fumbled for a few minutes as he struggled to sort though them with his massive meaty fingers, finally he got in the door and shut it behind him as gently as he could which still resulted in a slam.
His stomach let out a loud groan, he had never felt so hungry so sudden in his life, Tyson tried to walk to the kitchen but realised it was more of a waddle has his massive muscular thighs slammed into each other. Arriving in front of his fridge he opened it up and grabbed one of his already made meals out and placed it in the microwave to heat up. He watched in spinning round and heard his stomach grumble as the 2 minutes felt like an entirety. Finally he heard the beep and opened up the microwave to devour his meal. What normally would have left him feeling full for hours didn't even make a dent in his hunger. Tyson opened up his fridge and moved on to his next meal without even heating it up, then another, then a protein shake to wash it down, then another meal and a couple apples, along with a banana or two, and of course he had to pull some of the muffins out of the freezer to defrost to have a bit later.
Tyson sat on his couch, feeling groggy and finally full. He looked around him, plates, protein shakers, wrappers and plastic containers were spread out all over his lounge room from the floor to the coffee table. He felt so heavy he didn't want to get up, he just wanted to pass out on his couch and go to sleep. As his eyes began to drift close...
BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
The loudest belch he had ever heard forced him to jolt awake.
"aw fuc-uuuuUUURRPPP, this place is a mess"
Tyson finally realised he had trashed his lounge room in his feeding frenzy, he got up to try and clean but he didn't get very far. His body was so massive it was hard to move between his furniture and it was hard for him to constantly bend down to pick stuff up. On his second trip back from the kitchen to clean the last of the mess he finally noticed where he had been sitting, and the enormous sweat patch pressed into the fabric.
He pulled his tight tank top out from his body realising it looked like he had never washed it in his life.
"god, I need a fucking shower"
He made his way down the hall to the bathroom where he was shocked by his own reflection. He knew he had been turned into a hulking behemoth but, he looked like a completely different person now. His tank top was tight and clung to his body as his pecs hung out the sides. It was covered in sweat patches and strains from spilt protein shakes and food. His face was covered in a coat of sweat and his hair was oiler than he'd ever seen before. Tyson's gut churned as he let out another belch. He suddenly felt a tightness in his pants and he got hard.
"what the fuck..."
Tyson lifted up one arm to flex his bicep, he watched the sweat running down from his pits to his lats, he swallowed a quick gulp of air expecting maybe a small burp but was greeted with a massive room shaking belch. Tyson couldn't help it, he got rock solid staring at his sweaty body and hearing his own manly belching.
He worked his hand down awkwardly to his dick and started to pleasure himself.
He couldn't work it out, he missed his perfect body, he missed his old self, he was grossed out by being such a freak but god he was too horny to not please himself.
Right before his big moment he felt a wave of heat surge out into his body, his clothes felt tighter and suddenly the left strap of his tank top snapped as his shoulder, pec and arm practically doubled in size.
"AAH NO, NO NOT AGAIN"
Tyson watched as his dirty tank was torn to shreds by his growing body. His shorts felt tighter and tighter, soon he felt the sound of ripping fabric. As he turned to the side to inspect his growing legs he saw as his muscled ass split his pants in the back and the fabric quickly tore through making his shorts look like a bad loin clothe prop from a Halloween costume.
"OH FUCK NO, STOP, STOP AHHHH"
Tyson could only watch as his body continued to rapidly grow in the mirror...
--------------
3 weeks later
Tyson leant back on the workout bench groaning and gasping for air. It was the most he had ever lifted, not that he wanted to get bigger but it was the only thing he could do with his day at this point.
He heard the noise of 3 guys cheering as Mark, Jayce and Dyaln approached him.
"HEY BIG MAN" Said Mark
"oh great, what do you guys want"
"relax big guy, just wanted to bring you a snack" Dylan laughed as he pulled out a paper bag of drive through crispy chicken and handed it to Tyson.
"Dont forget to wash it down" said Jayce handing him a protein shake
Tyson didn't have the will power to hold back, his new muscle and size burnt so much fuel from simple existing he was practically starving constantly. He immediately reached into the bag and started eating as much as he could as fast as he could, washing it down with a swig of the protein shake, only taking breaks to gasp for air.
A river of chocolate protein ran down his cheek and dripped onto his XXXL tank top, which looked more like a medium crop top on him.
A young handsome gym attendant walked over to the group with a smile on his face.
"hey guys, just a reminder, you can't eat like that in here save it for outside okay" He smiled as he looked straight into Tyson's eyes.
Tyson's mind was racing, this guy was the most handsome guy he had ever seen in his life, we wanted to apologise for being such a slob, hell, he wanted to ask the guy on a date.
Tyson rubbed the crumbs and protein from his mouth away with the back of his hand and opened his mouth. Immediately he gritted his teeth and almost by instinct at this point cocked the side of his mouth open.
BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPP!!
Tyson couldn't help but belch and burp as he struggled to get a word out.
"bro..that's nasty" the gym attendant laughed as he walked away.
Mark, Jayce and Dylan all erupted with laughter.
"DUUUUUUDDEEEE" yelled Dylan
"You aren't gonna get a date like that dude I tell you that" laughed Jayce
"They probably wouldn't date him even if he didn't burp every couple of minutes, I mean who wants to date a bodybuilder freak right guys" Mark laughed as he rubbed Tyson's shoulders
"Yeah, you're right Mark, nobody wants a freak like Tyson" Dylan chuckled.
Tyson couldn't control it, the sound of their laughter, the way the three called him a freak and a slob. His dick got hard and he felt as a mixture of pre and cum leaked into his underwear.
They were never going to change him back, he was going to be stuck as this good for nothing muscle pig, forever....
My boyfriend and I are definitely heading towards a break-up, which sucks. I was on our home computer and saw a he had looked up "how to break-up with your boyfriend without hurting his feelings", etc. Truth is, he's always been a bit passive and doesn't like to hurt people's feelings and I'm more about working things out. Well, the other day I was one the computer and noticed things like "gay to straight" and "jock tf" and "lib to con" and "amicablly breaking up with your straight boyfriend" in his search history. Weird shit- right? Well now he's telling me he wants to show me something and I'm plannng to ask him about all this stuff he's been looking up.
You’re sitting at your desk, the glow of your shitty old monitor lighting your face, when you notice the search bar autocomplete filling with weird-ass shit. Not your stuff. Not your typing.
"gay to straight transformation device dark web legit?"
"amicably breaking up with your straight boyfriend"
"jock tf live reality"
"liberal to conservative curse?"
Your stomach drops. It’s his computer too, but you know damn well those aren’t your searches. Your boyfriend — soft, conflict-avoidant, the kind of guy who would rather write a notes app apology than raise his voice — has been looking this shit up.
At first you tell yourself it’s some porn rabbit hole, some freaky kink click-through. But you remember what you saw last week in the history: "how to break up with your boyfriend without hurting his feelings." And that stung. You’d already been feeling the cracks, the long silences at dinner, the way he doesn’t touch you first anymore. Now this?
You’re just about to dig deeper when his voice comes from the doorway.
“Babe… come here. I wanna show you something.”
You spin, nerves taut. He’s standing there, half-smile plastered on, but his hand’s clutching something behind his back. A cheap little black plastic gadget with a red button, like something from a dollar store sci-fi movie.
“What the fuck are you holding?” you ask, ready to blow this all open, confront him about the history, the lies, the weird-ass shit.
Instead he steps closer, tone casual but with an edge. “It’s… something I found. Don’t laugh. It’s from a site you can’t normally get to. They said… anything I say while holding this? Becomes real. No questions, no delay. Just… boom. Reality locked.”
You scoff, but your throat’s dry. “What, like a magic wand? You’ve been looking up ‘jock tf’ and now you wanna LARP Harry Potter? I want to talk about our relationship”
He ignores you, raises the thing like it’s a mic, and says with this strange firmness you’ve never heard from him before:
“What relationship? You’re not my boyfriend. You’re just my straight-ass roommate. Nothing more.”
And it’s like a hammer slams into your skull. You stagger, clutching your temples. Heat flares in your face, in your gut. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but the words tangle in your throat. And as the migraine spikes, you see it — pictures on your wall melting, Polaroids of the two of you kissing warping into dumb group shots of keggers. Your phone contact list shuffles, his name dropping from “boyfriend ❤️” to “Roomie Kev 🍺.”
“Dude… what the fuck,” you croak, your voice already slipping down a register, less sharp, more lax, like some hungover college guy.
He laughs, giddy, holding the thing tighter. “Holy shit, it worked. You felt that, didn’t you?”
You try to protest, to say we were dating, you asshole, but the thought slides out of reach, replaced by this dull certainty that you’ve been living in this two-bedroom off-campus apartment with him for a couple years, nothing special, just roommates splitting rent. The memories are all jumbled — your first kiss is gone, replaced by the time you both got drunk and stole a traffic cone.
You stumble to the mirror in the hall. Your face looks the same — for now. But your hair feels greasier, your posture sagging just slightly. You smell your own breath and wince — stale beer, not toothpaste.
Behind you he grins wider, pressing the device to his chest like it’s a holy relic. “This is just the start, bro. Trust me… I’m gonna make us so much better.”
And your head won’t stop pounding.
You’re leaning against the wall, skull buzzing like someone’s splitting it open with a screwdriver. The air feels thick, sour, like the room hasn’t been aired out in weeks. Kev’s pacing now, that ugly little gadget clutched in his hand, and he’s got that manic look — the one he gets when he’s found some new “lifehack” online that he won’t shut up about.
“Dude… you seriously can’t,” you mutter, your words slurring into something less sharp, less you. “That shit—whatever you just did—it fucked with my head. I can’t… remember right.”
He stops, smirks, and presses the button with his thumb like it’s a toy. “Nah bro. You’re just my roommate. Always been my roommate. We’ve never dated. We’re just… two dumb straight dudes sharing a place, right?”
Your chest lurches. The weight of it sinks in. Photos of Pride parades, gone. The rainbow sticker you know was on your laptop, now replaced with a faded sticker of a football team you don’t even follow. Your closet shifts — bright shirts dull into rows of hoodies and cheap polos.
Your voice comes out weaker this time, defensive but already flattening:
“The fuck, man, I… we… no, we weren’t always…” But then it just dies off, replaced by a memory of you two moving boxes into this place after freshman year, talking about how “college bitches were gonna love us.”
Your throat tastes like vomit. Your head’s fogged.
Kev’s grinning now, pacing like a preacher working up a sermon. He lifts the device, says casually,
“And like, we’re not into guys, man. We’re both straight as fuck. Always drooling over chicks, right? Like, big tits, tight asses, that’s our shit.”
You grab the edge of the wall, groaning. The words echo inside your skull until they’re not just his voice anymore — they’re your own voice, saying it in unison. Suddenly every hookup memory you’ve got is gone, replaced by blurry, shitty images of parties where you “almost scored” with some drunk sorority girl. Your stomach knots with shame, but also with hunger. Hunger for girls.
You choke out: “N-no, dude, I’m not… I’m not into—” But the words dissolve. The idea of sucking a guy’s dick feels revolting now, like licking trash. The thought of tits in your face? Your cock twitches without permission.
Kev laughs, notices you shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah bro, we’re the worst. Straight-up pussydrunk. Fuckin’ born to smash, not this gay shit.”
Your reflection in the hallway mirror has slipped further. Shoulders hunched, neck looser, a little puffier around the jaw. Your skin’s slick with sweat you didn’t notice building. You smell awful — like gym socks, beer breath, a whiff of stale Axe.
Kev watches you like a scientist observing a rat in a maze. “Shit, look at you. Already looking like a roommate, not a boyfriend.” He grins, pushes it further:
“And like… we’re both in college. Twenty years old, pledging the frat together. Dumb as shit, living for keggers.”
It hits like a sledgehammer. Your memories of work, of life outside campus, evaporate like spit on hot asphalt. You’re suddenly back in a cramped frat basement — keg stands, yelling dudes, someone puking in a trash can. Your desk with books and news articles? Gone, replaced with a cheap plastic folding table covered in Natty Light cans and crusty red Solo cups.
“Dude, my head,” you groan, rubbing your temples, “this is… fuckin’ wrong.”
But when you hear yourself, your voice is already dumber, lazier, vowels dragged down like some half-stoned bro.
Kev slaps your shoulder, laughing with mean delight. “Nah man, it’s right. This is us. Dumbass bros, livin’ the dream.”
You want to fight it, to scream about who you were — but all that comes to mind now is a vague memory of almost failing Intro Psych because you kept skipping class to lift weights.
And the worst part? Your body tingles like it likes it.
Kev’s eyes are wild now, drunk on the power of that little black box. You’re slumped on the couch, sweating through your shirt, head thick with fog. Every time he speaks, reality cracks harder. Your chest aches like your ribs are stretching, your brain buzzing like someone poured bleach into it.
Kev lifts the device again, grinning. “Bro, this roommate shit’s good… but let’s make it real perfect.”
He presses the button.
“We’re not just roommates. We’re brothers. Frat bros. Twenty years old. Dumb as fuck, always shirtless, always schemin’ on pussy.”
Your spine arches with a jolt. You clutch your stomach as fat melts off, muscles knotting in its place. Not sculpted — sloppy frat gains, puffy pecs, arms thick but veiny. Your shirt tears at the seams as your shoulders widen. Sweat pours down your back, thick and sour.
“Dude—fuck—my head,” you groan, but your voice cracks into a lazy, dumb drawl. “Bro… my… my gains, man…”
Kev grunts too, doubling over, his soft frame bulking out beside you. His face roughens, jaw squaring, acne scars surfacing. His hair shortens into a greasy buzzcut. He rips his own shirt off, flexing dumbly, drooling at his own reflection.
The room shifts again. No more apartment. Dingy off-campus frat house. Walls stained with beer, posters of bikini models and American flags taped up crooked. Your desk is gone — now it’s a busted-up futon covered in stains.
Kev laughs, voice breaking into a crude rasp:
“Fuck yeah, bro. We’re Theta Pi, man. Fuck books, fuck smarts, we’re just beer, pussy, and Jesus.”
The words burrow in. College courses you cared about—gone. Your memory of voting in the last election—gone. Instead: vague recollections of “yelling at libs on Twitter” between bong rips.
You try to protest, but all that comes out is:
“Yooo… we gotta get some bitches over, bro.”
Your cock twitches in your sweats — small, embarrassingly so — but your brain treats it like a weapon. Your stomach clenches with raw, stupid horniness. Tits. Ass. Nothing else matters.
Kev wobbles toward you, still flexing, sweat dripping down his forehead. “And yo, we’re straight as fuck, man. Like, no homo. We hate that shit. Always been about pussy. Always will be.”
Your heart seizes. The last threads of memory—holding hands with him, kissing him, the warmth of a real boyfriend—rip apart like wet paper. What’s left is nothing but shared drunken nights, jerking off to Pornhub side by side, calling each other “no homo” when you did it.
You look at him—no, your bro—and it clicks. You’ve never been boyfriends. You’ve never been gay. You’re two dumb conservative frat dudes, horny, stinking, bored with everything except tits and beer.
The final blow comes when Kev raises the box, grins wide, and shouts:
“Yo, we’re just average-ass boring bros. Nothin’ special. Just straight-up brahs, small dicks, big mouths, livin’ for the frat.”
Your body locks. Your brain caves. You grunt, rubbing your greasy buzzed head, and a dopey smirk spreads across your face. You like being nothing special. Just another forgettable frat retard, muscles sloppy, balls aching, mind empty.
Kev tosses the device aside — forgotten, irrelevant. He slaps your back so hard you nearly puke.
“Fuck yeah, bro. We made it. No gay shit, no boring boyfriend crap. Just us. Bros.”
The stink of beer and sweat fills your nose. The thought of who you were before? Doesn’t even exist.
You and Kev—no, Brad and Kyle now—are just two obnoxious, horny, Christian frat boys. Small dicks, big egos, dumb as bricks, ready to party, pray, and pump.
Kinda sick of my faggy roommate. He’s always complaining about me stinking up the place or being too loud. Dude shit y’know?
Imagine my surprise when my bro says there’s a way to deal with him! Just one sip of this energy drink with my cum in it and he’ll be a new man, a real man. Can’t wait to room with someone who’s just like me!
You slam the fridge door shut with your shoulder, burping loud just to piss him off. Your “faggy” roommate is in his room again, probably folding his laundry into perfect little squares or whining into his phone about how you left protein shaker bottles full of crusty sludge in the sink. He’s always riding your ass about “smelling up the apartment” or “being too loud” when you’re gaming at 2AM with your boys.
You’re over it. You’re the one who pays more rent anyway. You’re a man — loud, sweaty, obnoxious, yeah — but a real man. Not some tight-ass little theatre kid who screeches if he sees a crumb on the counter.
That’s why when your bro from the gym slipped you the can earlier, grinning like a devil, you knew it was your way out.
“Just one sip of this shit, bro, and he’ll stop being such a whiny bitch. Make him a real man. Trust me.”
The can looked like some generic “EXTREME ENERGY X-BOOSTER” crap, but the way your buddy smirked when he said it made your cock twitch. You added your own little “secret ingredient” before sliding it into the fridge — a fat shot of your cum straight from your balls. Thick, cloudy, sticky at the bottom of the can. The thought of him guzzling it down without a clue makes you laugh out loud.
You hear his footsteps later — light, fussy little taps down the hall — then the fridge door. “Ugh, you left your beer in here again,” he mutters, nasal, like he’s auditioning for some bad play. Then the crack of a can opening.
You wait. You hear him gulp, long and deep, like he’s desperate for anything cold.
For a moment, nothing. Then his coughing. “Ugh, what the fuck? This tastes… gross.” He doesn’t throw it out, though. He takes another swig. Another. You can almost picture it: your roommate rolling his eyes, complaining under his breath, but draining it anyway like the little neat-freak martyr he is.
That’s when you hear it: the belch.
Not his usual prissy little throat-clear cough. No. A real belch. Deep, wet, rattling from somewhere low in his chest. He actually says “Fuck yeah” after it.
Your ears prick.
You creep out of your room, peek toward the kitchen. He’s standing there in his tight little pajama shorts, looking confused. He scratches under his shirt — then again, harder. “Why’s it so hot in here?” he mutters. You see sweat prickling at the back of his neck, darkening the collar. He tugs the shirt off and tosses it aside.
That’s when you notice it: his pits are damp already. His deodorant-obsessed, twice-a-day-shower roommate pits. The stink wafts into the hall, rank and musky, nothing like him at all.
He looks down at himself, frowning. “My arms feel… weird.”
You watch his forearms twitch. The veins pop a little. His biceps push up against the skin, just slightly fuller than they were. His delicate little hands flex like he’s surprised by his own grip.
He burps again, louder this time, and laughs. “Huh.” It’s not his laugh. Deeper, raspier, like something’s dragging him down an octave.
And then your own gut twists.
You lean against the wall, sweating suddenly. Your stomach clenches, sharp, then… hollow. You glance down at your shirt — it hangs looser than it should. Your pecs look softer, smaller.
You shake your head. “Nah, bro, I’m good,” you mutter to yourself, though your voice sounds a little thinner in your ears.
Back in the kitchen, your roommate swipes his hand across his chest — and you swear there’s a whiff of real man-musk dripping off him already. He grins, flexes clumsily in the toaster’s reflection, and lets another fart rip, loud and unapologetic.
The smell drifts your way. You gag, but at the same time, you feel your cock twitch with shame.
Something’s happening. Something slow, sticky, and you know it’s only just begun.
You grip the doorframe, trying to convince yourself it’s nothing — maybe food poisoning, maybe just your bro’s shitty “energy drink” backfiring. But the room is spinning, your shirt sagging looser against your shoulders.
Meanwhile, your roommate just stands there in the kitchen, bare-chested, pawing at himself like he doesn’t even care that you’re watching. His nipples look puffier, darker, his pecs rising fuller every minute. He sniffs his own pit, winces, then smirks.
“Smells kinda… sick, dude,” he says, his voice cracking down into a rougher register, like a frat pledge straining his throat on keg night. He flexes a bicep and actually kisses it, like some dumb gym clown.
You swallow hard. His pits stink — thick, sour musk filling the kitchen — and your gut twists in protest. “Jesus, can you, like, shower or something?” you hear yourself whine, your voice way higher and sharper than you meant. Nasal. Grating.
He doesn’t even look at you. He’s busy scratching at the trail of hair thickening across his stomach. It’s crawling out faster than hair should grow, wiry black curls coiling down into his waistband. He lifts the edge of his shorts and lets them snap back against his sweaty hip with a wet slap. “Fuck yeah, bro, check this out,” he laughs, spreading his legs and farting loud enough that it echoes off the tile.
Your knees almost buckle from the stink. You gag, hand flying to your face — but your fingers are trembling, your nails oddly clean and pink. Your arms look thinner already, smooth in a way that makes your stomach sink.
He takes another swig from the can — his Adam’s apple bulging bigger than you remember — then crushes the empty metal flat in his hand with a single squeeze. He belches again, a monster roar, and spits on the floor.
“Holy shit, I feel fuckin’ unstoppable.” His voice is pure frat-boy now, deep, cocky, soaked in arrogance.
You press your thighs together without thinking. Your jeans feel weirdly loose in the crotch. When you dare to glance down, the bulge you were so proud of looks smaller. Shrunken. Humiliating.
“Fuck, nah nah nah,” you mutter, pacing, tugging at your waistband, your tone slipping higher, lispy. You sound like… like him. Like the roommate you used to rag on.
He catches it. He smirks at you — a big, dumb, cocky grin. “What’s wrong, princess? You lookin’ a lil soft, man.” He slaps his own pec, then bounces it twice for show, laughing.
You shake your head, but your reflection in the microwave door betrays you. Your face looks rounder, softer, your lips pursed like you’re holding back a complaint. Even your posture’s off — hips tilted, shoulders caving inward, wrists loose at your sides.
He lumbers closer, the smell hitting harder now — swampy musk, sweat pouring down his chest, shorts damp at the waistband from pre-cum or piss or both. He reeks like a frat house gym bag, like every stereotype you ever mocked.
And you — you’re shrinking by the second, voice thinner, body tighter, movements fussier. Your ass jiggles when you step back, fuller than it’s ever been, the fabric of your sweats clinging around it. Your cock twitches pathetically, barely filling the outline.
He looms over you now, a beast, grinning, belching in your face. “Fuck yeah, bro. You’re, like, fuckin’ changing, huh?” His spit flecks your cheek when he laughs. “Bet you’re gonna be my lil roommate bitch now.”
You want to argue, to tell him to shut the fuck up, but what comes out is:
“Omigod, you’re, like… gross!”
Your own voice betrays you — nasally, whiny, gay as hell.
And it hits you like a slap: the trade isn’t stopping. It’s accelerating. He’s swelling into the ultimate obnoxious frat bro — dumb, stinking, homophobic — while you’re wilting into a lispy, whiny, femme little twink stereotype.
And you can’t stop it.
You stumble backward, smacking into the wall, your legs trembling. Your roommate fills the kitchen now, body swollen with meathead bulk, sweat pouring down him like he just finished two hours at the gym. The air is thick with his musk — sour, rank, suffocating — and he fucking loves it.
He pumps an arm, veins like ropes under his skin. “Holy shit, bro, I’m a monster,” he laughs, chest heaving as he slaps it with a meaty hand. He flexes again, kisses his own bicep, then spits on the floor for no reason. “Gonna crush puss all night, dude.”
He paces, wide-legged, farting casually, not even breaking stride. “Bet those woke fags on campus are gonna hate this. Fuck ‘em. We run this shit now, bro.” The words come easy, like he’s been a frat douchebag his whole life.
You can’t even form a comeback. Your throat squeaks when you try. Your voice is a high, lispy whine now, every syllable dripping with queeny fuss. “Stop, you’re, like… being sooo nasty right now,” you whimper, hugging yourself, nails bitten neat and pink.
Your body seals the humiliation: shoulders narrow, chest smooth, arms thin as twigs. Your ass swells round and soft, bouncing when you shift. Your cock shrinks into useless nothing, a limp nub that barely twitches. Your sweat smells sweet, almost perfumed, like you’d drowned in body spray.
You watch his pits explode with wiry black hair, sweat running in rivers down his sides, staining his shorts. He grins, shoving a hand down and scratching himself with a wet slap. “Fuck yeah, frat king vibes. Gonna get so much pussy, bro. Alpha as fuck.” He scratches again and belches in your face, the stink burning your nose.
“Omigod, ew!” you squeal, covering your face with both hands like a parody of yourself. You hear your voice and cringe — nasal, shrill, the exact stereotype you always mocked.
The memories slip. You try to remember what you were before, but it’s like chasing smoke. All you can picture is being like this — the fussy, prissy little twink. Always whining, always folding laundry, always sucking your teeth when something’s messy.
Meanwhile, he’s not just “like you used to be.” He’s ten times worse. Bigger, louder, dumber. Muscles straining, gut churning with beer and gas, homophobic slurs dripping from his mouth like it’s second nature. He flexes, spits, laughs, then shoves a hand through his sweaty hair, cocky grin plastered on his face.
He turns to you, eyes blazing with frat-boy arrogance. “Guess it’s just who we are now, huh, princess? Me — the alpha bro every chick wants. You — lil faggy roommate bitch.” He laughs so hard he farts again, and the stink makes your eyes water.
And the worst part? You don’t even remember enough to disagree.
You flutter your hands helplessly, whining, “You’re sooo mean, omigod!” in your squeaky theatre-kid tone.
He roars, flexes, then stomps off toward his room, shorts riding low off his musky hips. “Fuck yeah, bro. College is mine now.”
The door slams.
You’re left trembling, shrinking into yourself, already fussing over the discarded cans and sweat stains. The only thought that feels natural in your foggy, locked-in brain:
how about a story where a gay college students hooks up with a popular discreet college jock. At the end of their hook up, the jock figures he can’t let it slip that he’s gay, so he creates another dumb, mindless bro
You still don’t know how the hell it happened.
One second you were studying alone in the silent corner of the university library, the lanky gay kid everyone sort of forgot existed—Evan Reyes, the skinny film major with the oversized sweaters and the quiet voice. A total non-factor. The kind of guy who blushes just trying to order coffee.
And then there was Cal Fisher.
Cal.
The walking campus legend.
Six-foot-three, linebacker shoulders, thighs like tree trunks, jaw sharp enough to slice drywall, always wearing some beat-up tank that clung to him like it worshipped him.
Cal, who you had never once heard speak above a lazy half-mumble.
Cal, who you were pretty sure didn’t even know gay people existed unless he needed to call them slurs.
Cal, who walked toward you that night after practice, sweat still drying on his skin, face flushed, hair messy, smelling like turf, testosterone, and shitty body spray.
And he said:
“You. Come here.”
You honestly thought he was talking to someone behind you.
But no. He meant you.
And before you knew it, you were following him across the quad, heart pounding, mind spiraling, trying not to stare at the way his back muscles bunched and rolled under his tank.
When he pulled you into his dorm room and locked the door behind him, you thought you were gonna pass out.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you like you were some kind of problem he needed to solve—big brown eyes half-lidded, lip caught under a canine tooth. Like he was mad at you for existing and also turned on.
You whispered, “Cal… are you… sure?”
He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.
“Just shut up.”
And God help you, you did.
What happened next was messy and desperate and clumsy, but it was real. It was Cal’s hands in your hair, Cal’s weight on top of you, Cal’s breath hot against your neck. It was the kind of hookup you only ever imagined at 2 a.m. when you thought no one in the world would ever want a kid like you.
Cal wanted you.
Or at least he wanted something from you.
And for thirty dizzy minutes, you let yourself exist in that fantasy, in the feel of his body, his heat, his sweat, his ridiculous strength.
When it was over, he rolled off you with a grunt, eyes fixed on the ceiling, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished sprints.
You lay there, flushed and shaky, your glasses somewhere on the floor.
You whispered, barely audible,
“Cal… that was—”
He cut you off instantly.
“Don’t.”
The word hit you like a slap.
You sat up, confused.
“Sorry, I just—are you okay?”
His head snapped toward you. His expression twisted, panicked, angry, feral. Like he realized what he’d just done and needed to erase it immediately.
“Dude,” he growled, “you’re not telling anybody about this. Got it?”
Your heart sank through the mattress.
“Cal… I wouldn’t—”
He was already sitting up, running his hands through his hair like he was trying to tear the thought out of his skull.
“Fuck. Fuck. I can’t— I can’t be that guy. I ain’t gay. I ain’t—”
He shoved off the bed so fast he stumbled, pacing the room, muttering curses, chest heaving.
You hugged yourself, small and shaking.
“I won’t tell anyone,” you said softly. “I swear.”
But he didn’t hear you.
Or he didn’t believe you.
Or he didn’t want to risk it.
His eyes snapped back to you—hard, calculating.
And then they drifted toward the pile of junk on his unmade bed.
His face changed.
A decision formed.
“Oh,” he muttered. “Oh… yeah. That’ll fix it.”
Before you could even ask what he meant, he grabbed something from his bed—a ratty, sweat-stained red snapback, the kind of cheap cap you’d expect to see abandoned in a frat house sink. The brim was bent, the fabric greasy-looking, like it had absorbed years of his sweat.
He turned to you with that ugly, triumphant grin jocks get when they’ve solved something by hitting it with a brick.
“You’re not leaving here the same way you walked in,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“Cal… what do you mean?”
He walked toward you slowly, rolling the hat in his hands like he was warming it up.
“This thing?” he said, shrugging. “My uncle gave it to me. Said it ‘fixes problems.’ Never believed him.”
He stopped in front of you.
“But then… tonight… you? This?”
He gestured between you both.
“Nah. I ain’t dealin’ with that. Not havin’ shit hangin’ over me.”
He held the hat over your head.
“Cal—”
“You’re a good kid, Evan. Kinda sad, but… good.”
He smirked.
“But after this? You won’t be that anymore.”
He lowered the hat toward you.
“You’re gonna be fine. Better than fine. Just… different.”
You tried to pull back. You really did.
But he cupped the back of your skull with his other hand—big, warm, terrifyingly strong—and pressed the hat down over your hair.
The fabric hit your scalp like static, like warm air, like something crawling under your skin.
A pulse throbbed behind your eyes.
A sour, hot dizziness flooded your stomach.
You gasped, clutching the bed sheets.
Cal leaned in, voice thick and lazy:
“Yeah… there we go. That’s it. Just let it in.”
“What—what’s happening—?”
His hand patted your cheek almost affectionately.
“That little brain of yours? It ain’t gonna matter soon.”
Your thoughts blurred, slipping around like loose marbles. Something warm slid down the back of your neck, like liquid confidence, like arrogance dripping straight into your spine.
You blinked up at him, dazed.
“Cal… I feel… weird.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Smirk wide.
Proud of himself.
All you knew was that suddenly your heartbeat felt slow and heavy, like it was syncing to some stupid, cocky rhythm. Your breathing deepened. Your shoulders tingled. Your posture slouched into something looser, lazier, more careless.
You felt… cocky.
Why?
Why the hell did you feel cocky?
Cal watched you, arms crossed, nodding to himself.
“By tomorrow night,” he said, “nobody’s gonna remember some skinny little gay kid named Evan.”
Your lips parted, too dazed to argue.
“And you?” He tapped the brim of the hat.
“You’re gonna be a whole different dude.”
“What kinda… dude?” you whispered.
Cal grinned cruelly.
“The kind who thinks exactly like I need him to.”
The room swayed around you.
Your vision fuzzed at the edges.
Your head felt heavier by the second, sinking into the hat like gravity was pulling you down into it.
You didn’t even notice your legs spreading a little wider on the bed, or your jaw slackening, or the faint sticky warmth of sweat blooming along your chest.
You just stared at Cal, confused, dizzy, strangely relaxed.
He stepped back, satisfied.
“Get some sleep, bro.”
Bro?
You opened your mouth to ask him why he called you that.
But the dizziness pulled you under, swallowing the question, swallowing your fear, swallowing everything except the faint, dumb pulse of something new forming inside you.
You blink hard, groggy, trying to figure out where the hell you are.
There’s a weight on your head.
A hat.
A nasty, stiff, sweat-caked snapback sitting crooked on your hair.
You try to push it off, but your arm doesn’t move right. Your hand flops lazily, like it forgot how to aim. And when you finally get your palm to your head, you stop halfway because—
“What the… fffuuuck…”
Your own voice sounds wrong.
Too deep.
Too gravelly.
Too slow.
And your arm—
What happened to your arm?
Your bicep is swollen, thick, veiny, rising like a boulder under your skin. Your forearm is ropey and strong. There’s hair on your knuckles.
You stare at it, confused.
You were skinny yesterday.
Right?
Were you?
“Yo, bro. Damn.”
The voice comes from the other side of the room.
You turn slowly — everything feels heavy, like moving underwater — and see Cal, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, looking you over like he ordered something online and it finally arrived.
He bites his lip.
“Man… you turned out even better than I thought.”
Your heartbeat thumps, slow and stupid.
“Cal… dude… what the… what happened…?”
He steps forward and taps the brim of your cap with two fingers.
“That. Happened.”
You reach up again, but your hand freezes right before touching it. Your fingers twitch like they’re scared.
Or like they can’t remember what they were trying to do.
Cal grins.
“Yeah. Don’t even try takin’ it off, bro. It’s part of you now.”
You try to speak, but your thoughts slide around like grease on a stovetop. Your tongue feels heavy. Words don’t line up right.
“Bro… I feel… uh… dumb.”
Cal shrugs.
“That’s kinda the point.”
He walks over and flicks your forehead lightly.
You don’t even flinch — you just blink, slow and blank.
“See, Evan—”
He pauses.
Smirks.
“Ah. Never mind. You ain’t that anymore.”
The name doesn’t spark anything in you.
Just a hollow, empty space.
You rub your eyes, confused.
“I’m… not who?”
He laughs — a mean, loud bark of a laugh.
“Oh yeah, you’re definitely in phase two.”
He grabs your face in both hands, squeezing your cheeks together like you’re a goldfish begging for pellets.
“You’re not Evan. Evan was some little artsy gayboy nerd. Dude wore sweaters. Sweaters, bro. Can you even imagine that kinda loser?”
You shake your head without thinking, disgusted.
“Fuckin’ sweater nerd…”
Cal nods proudly.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
He pulls you to your feet — and your feet land harder than you expect.
You’re heavier.
MUCH heavier.
Your quads press against each other.
Your chest bounces — literally bounces — as you stand.
You look down and see slabs of muscle stacked across your torso, thick abs rising like bricks.
“Holy… shit…”
You touch your chest.
It’s warm.
Huge.
Dense.
Cal laughs again, slapping your back hard enough to make your teeth rattle.
“Bro, you’re JACKED. And you ain’t even seen the best part yet.”
He grabs your chin and tilts your head toward his mirror.
You stare.
A stranger stares back.
Not skinny, shy Evan.
Not soft features, big glasses, anxious expression.
No.
This face is square.
This jaw is sharp.
This stubble is thick.
Your eyebrows are heavier, your eyes half-lidded and cocky like you’re permanently smirking at someone’s girlfriend.
And the hat—
The hat sits like a crown of stupidity on your skull: red, greasy, curved brim, the faint outline of some faded sports logo. It looks baked into your hairline.
You swallow hard.
“That—… that ain’t… me.”
Cal smirks.
“It is now.”
He tosses you something.
A tank top.
Black, torn, size XXL.
You catch it clumsily — your reflexes feel strong but dumb, like you’re built to throw kegs, not think.
He nods at your bare torso.
“Put it on, bro.”
You obey before you can even question it. The fabric strains instantly, hugging your pecs, your traps, your biceps so hard the seams whine.
Cal whistles.
“Daaaaamn. You look ready to shot-gun a dozen beers and call someone a slur.”
You grin without meaning to.
A big, dumb, lazy grin that feels natural.
“Yeeeah dude… hell yeah…”
The words feel thick and slow coming out.
Simple.
Mindless.
Cal crosses his arms, satisfied.
“So, bro. You know what kinda dude you are now?”
You blink.
Try to think.
It hurts.
He cups your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“You’re straight.”
Your cock twitches instantly in your sweatpants.
You gasp.
“Y-Yeah. Straight. Fuck yeah.”
“Good,” Cal says.
“And you hate, like… all that gay shit now, right?”
A hot, angry pulse fires through your skull, like a knee-jerk reflex.
“YEAH bro. That shit’s gross as hell.”
“Attaboy.”
He pats your chest.
“And you’re a fuckin’ jock, man. A real one.”
Your smile widens into something sloppy and proud.
“Dude… I’m a jock…”
“Louder.”
“I’M A JOCK, BRO!”
“Good. And what do jocks do?”
Your chest swells.
“We lift… we party… we… we… uhhh…”
Cal leans in.
“We fuck chicks.”
Your whole body shudders with need.
“Fuck chicks,” you repeat, voice hoarse. “Fuck sooo many chicks…”
“And what kinda values you got now?”
He taps the brim of your cursed hat.
Your brain pulses red.
Your mouth opens automatically.
“Makin’ America GREAT again, bro! Praise Jesus! Right-wing shit, man! Like… like guns n’ chicks n’ AMERICA!”
Cal grins like a wolf.
“There it is. That’s my boy.”
You’re panting now, cock thickening, dumb heat building behind your eyes.
Thoughts you used to have — movies, art, fears, memories — shrivel and blow away like ash.
There’s only bro now.
Only testosterone.
Only instinct.
Cal places his hand on your shoulder.
“Alright, dude. Tell me your name.”
Your mind goes blank.
Totally blank.
Then something pops into place — stupid, loud, perfect.
“Uh… Brody…? Brody Steele?”
Cal laughs.
“Hell yeah you are. Brody fuckin’ Steele.”
Your grin is enormous. You flex automatically.
“And what’s your deal, Brody?”
You don’t even have to think.
“I’m a straight… Christian… conservative… pussy-hunting… frat BRO, dude!”
Cal squeezes your shoulder.
“And Evan?”
Your face scrunches in confusion.
“Who the hell’s Evan?”
Cal smirks.
“No one, bro. No one at all.”
Your hat tightens on your skull like it’s sealing the last of your old life away — crushing it, grinding it down, burying it under dumb muscle and MAGA slogans.
You inhale sharply, chest swelling.
And then—
Everything snaps into perfect, dumb clarity.
You’re Brody Steele.
A loud, obnoxious, horny, American-as-fuck frat bro.
A straight dude.
A Christian.
A Republican.
A jock.
A douchebag.
Proud of it.
You smack your chest.
“BRO let’s HIT THE GYM! I gotta PUMP somethin’ before I go FIND some CHICKS!”
Cal laughs, proud of his creation.
“Go get ’em, Brody.”
And with a dumb, swaggering strut, muscles bulging, hat glued to your skull, grin wide and empty—
You stumble out of Cal’s dorm room, ready to terrorize campus as the newest, dumbest jock ever cursed into existence.
With summer break on horizon I have decided to create trilogy about college sports. We are starting with everybody's favourite, the wrestling. If you have other sport you want to have story about, type it to the comments.
Also, as you may know, I created an account on Ko-Fi. If you like this or any of my other stores. You can tip me there.
The office smelled of stale coffee, wintergreen liniment, and the heavy, intoxicating musk of raw testosterone.
Johny stood just inside the door, nervously clutching the straps of his oversized backpack. Short, with a thin, angular frame and a perpetually shy demeanor, he looked like the academic nerd who spent his life buried in library basements rather than athletic halls. He was decidedly not an athlete.
Behind the heavy oak desk sat Coach Marcus. The man was a mountain. He was mature, ruggedly handsome, and built like a literal bear – tall, dense muscle, broad shoulders that stretched his polo shirt to its absolute limit, and a huge chest that surged forward with every breath. He projected an aura of absolute dominance.
Coach looked up from a file, his deep voice vibrating through the room. "Have a seat, Johny."
Johny swallowed hard, remaining standing. "Is something wrong with my academic standing, Coach?"
"Not your academics," Coach rumbled, a slow, knowing smile spread across his handsome face. "But you're short on your physical education credits. It's mandatory for graduation. A lot of you high-IQ guys forget about the body while feeding the brain. But I have a way you can fix it. Right now." Coach reached into a sports bag on his desk and pulled out a spandex wrestling singlet. It was vibrant red with deep blue stripes running down the sides. He held it out. Johny looked at the skimpy piece of fabric, his face flushing a bright, nervous crimson.
"Coach, I don't think..." Johny stammered.
"I need you, Johny," Coach interrupted, his eyes locking onto the younger man with an intense, heavy gaze. "My best wrestler, Dane Mercer, just dropped out of tonight's intercollegiate match."
Johny’s eyes widened behind his invisible anxiety. "Dane Mercer? As Dane 'The Anvil' Mercer? Coach, he’s a beast! He competes in the heaviest weight class. How could I ever replace him? I weigh next to nothing."
Coach stood up, towering over Johny, casting a massive shadow. He placed a heavy, warm hand on Johny’s shoulder, sending an unexpected spark of heat straight down the boy's spine. "Don't worry about that. You can handle it. Go to the locker room, put it on. The match is about to start. Trust me." Dazed, Johny took the singlet and retreated to the locker room. He pulled off his baggy hoodie and jeans, feeling acutely vulnerable in the chill air. He stepped into the wrestling boots and pulled the red singlet up over his thin shoulders. The fabric hung loose, sagging against his flat chest and slender thighs. The boots felt like clunky buckets on his feet. He looked down at himself, feeling utterly ridiculous, his mind racing with panic about the humiliation awaiting him on the mat.
Then, a strange, suffocating heat flared in the center of his chest.
Johny gasped, clutching his stomach as a sudden, violent surge of raw energy ripped through his veins, hot as liquid fire. His vision blurred, the sterile grey tiles of the locker room swirling into streaks of light and shadow.
Thump. Thump. His heart hammered against his ribs like a heavy war drum, echoing in his ears, drowning out the distant ambient noise of the gym. It wasn't just a pulse; it felt like an engine turning over, pumping something potent, thick, and unfamiliar through his entire body.
Suddenly, the floor seemed to drop away as profound dizziness took hold. Johny gasped as his narrow, boyish skeletal frame began to violently stretch. It started with a deep, internal ache in his marrow. His joints popped, clicking loudly in the quiet room as his bones lengthened at an impossible speed. He watched, terrified yet mesmerized, as the lockers appeared to shrink around him. He was shooting upward, his perspective shifting rapidly as his head rose higher and higher toward the ceiling tiles, forcing him to look down at surroundings that suddenly felt incredibly small. He kept growing until he finally stabilized, a towering, giant shadow of his former self, looking down from a staggering new height.
Before he could even fully process this vertigo-inducing vertical growth, his flesh began to swell, responding to the immense new skeletal frame. It started as a deep, primal ache, a stretching of tissue that quickly turned into an intoxicating rush of fullness. Beneath the loose crimson spandex, his once non-existent muscles began to balloon with explosive power. Lean, sharply defined lines carved themselves into his torso, but they didn't stay slender for long; they were immediately buried under thick, dense slabs of hyper-masculine mass that seemed to pack themselves onto his frame by the second.
His collarbones elongated, forcing his shoulders out into a massive, wide V-shape that completely redefined his silhouette. His chest erupted outward, expanding exponentially to form huge, thick pecs that pushed hard against the thin fabric of the singlet until the seams groaned and cried out under the strain. Down his arms, the transformation was just as fierce. His biceps surged, knotting into hard, heavy peaks of solid muscle that flexed instinctively. Below his waist, his slender legs exploded with new mass; his thighs thickened into powerful, solid trunks, packed with heavy muscle that filled out the wrestling boots perfectly, stretching the leather until it gripped his ankles with absolute, unyielding support.
The singlet was no longer baggy. It was stretched to its absolute limit, plastered tight against his massive, muscular body, highlighting the absurd thickness of his new physique. He was a heavyweight titan.
Then sharp short headache hit him. His head started to feel different. He reached up, his large, newly calloused hand brushing against his hair. The floppy, unkempt nerd strands were gone, replaced by a sharp, aggressive, clean-cut fade. His hand slid down to his face, his fingers tracing a massive transformation—his soft, receded jawline had hardened into a heavy, square, ultra-masculine chin, thick and rock-solid.
But the physical transformation was only half of it. Inside his brain, something was being rewritten. The anxious thoughts, the library catalog numbers, the complex mathematical formulas – they were violently overwritten, burned away by a flood of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. In their place rushed an instinctive, flawless understanding of leverage, takedowns, pins, and physical dominance. His shy, submissive nature vanished entirely, evaporated by a sudden, intoxicating rush of supreme confidence.
He didn't feel like Johny the nerd anymore. He felt like a god. A cocky, dominant alpha predator.
A slow, arrogant smile spread across his newly chiseled face. He flexed his massive arms, feeling the terrifying, raw power coiling tightly in his chest. He looked down at his tightly clad, hyper-masculine body, his chest heaving with anticipation.
He knew exactly what he was going to do to his opponent out there. He knew how he was going to dominate him, pin him to the mat, and hear the crowd roar his name. Tonight's tournament wasn't going to be a disaster. It was going to be pure, thrilling fun.
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As part of a trade for @occamstf. Also, some of my stories are old, and if you wanted to rewrite them, use similar concepts, do a "remake" etc please reach out! Happy to collab and get your spin on one of my old stories!
Tristan tried to weave in between the sweaty bodies of several shirtless frat bros, doing his best to avoid spilling the beer in his red solo cup. The smell of beer and cheap cologne clung to them, which only made Tristan feel dizzy. Worst yet, the music was loud, so loud that he could barely hear himself think.
"This was a mistake." He thought as he escaped the crowd of people and leaned up against the wall in the corner of the frat house, "At least I gave it a try."
Tristan was never someone who imagined he'd enjoy the party scene, but given that it was nearing the end of his freshman year, he figured he should at least give it a try. At least he knew now that parties were not his thing, and neither was the beer in his still nearly full red solo cup.
"Where'd they go?" He preened his neck to see if he could locate his friends from the dorm, "I shouldn't leave without them."
But after a few minutes of searching, he decided to give up. He'd text them and check in on them in the morning. And with that, he made his way towards the door. But before Tristan could reach the front door, somebody bumped into him, splashing the beer across his hoodie.
"I'm sorry!" Tristans squeaked out, looking down at his beer soaked shirt, "I didn't mean..."
The apology died in his throat. The guy he'd bumped into was huge. Not just tall. Huge. Broad shoulders stretched the sleeves of a gray fraternity shirt. Thick forearms crossed over a chest that looked like it had been carved out of granite. A backwards baseball cap sat low on his head, and even in the dim party lighting Tristan could see the confident grin spreading across his face.
"Dude."
"S-sorry."
"Damn dude." The guy barked out a laugh, "There you go again."
"Wh-what?"
"Apologizing."
"S-sorry?"
The guy burst out laughing, as did the group of jocks behind him. Tristan felt his face turn red and he looked down. But he felt a muscular arm thrown around his shoulders and he was pulled in close to the guy's sweaty, muscular torso. Up close, Tristan could smell sweat, deodorant, and stale beer clinging to the guy's shirt. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but somehow the guy seemed completely unaware of it. Or maybe he simply didn't care.
"Name's Ryan." He said, "You?"
"Tristan."
"Freshman?"
"Y-yeah."
"Figured." Ryan smirked, and Tristan could see something predatory flash through the frat bro's eyes, "You gonna take that off." He nodded towards the beer-soaked hoodie.
"I-I'll change when I get home." Tristan replied quickly.
"No you fuckin' won't." Ryan pulled Tristan towards the stairs, "I ain't letting a freshman walk home soaked in shitty beer. I've got something for you in my room."
"I really don't need..."
"Yeah, you do."
Ryan didn't even slow down. He kept a hand planted firmly on Tristan's shoulder as he guided him up the stairs. Tristan was struck by how easily the larger man moved through the crowded house. People stepped aside without even seeming to realize they were doing it. A few called Ryan's name. Others nodded in greeting. Ryan answered every one of them with the effortless confidence of someone completely at home.
"Seriously," Tristan said as they reached the second floor landing, "you don't have to do this."
"Yeah. I do."
Ryan pushed open a door near the end of the hallway and stepped inside. The room looked exactly how Tristan imagined a fraternity president's room would look.
"You like?"
Sports memorabilia covered the walls. Framed photographs showed Ryan posing with teammates, fraternity brothers, and various championship trophies. A collection of baseball caps hung above a dresser. The room smelled faintly of detergent, deodorant, and the lingering musk of somebody who spent most of his time either at practice or in the gym.
"It's... nice." Tristan replied.
"Good, glad you like it."
"You play football?" Tristan asked, nodding toward one of the trophies.
Ryan laughed, "Played. Graduating in three weeks."
Tristan watched as Ryan yanked his shirt off, revealing his physique. The guy was built. Not in the exaggerated way movie superheroes were built. Ryan looked real. Years of football, lifting, and hard training had left thick muscle packed across his shoulders, chest, and arms. Ryan caught him staring.
"What?"
Tristan immediately looked away, "Nothing."
"Bullshit." Ryan laughed and tossed the fraternity shirt onto the bed, "You were checking out the gains."
"N... No... I..."
"It's okay." Ryan walked up to him, "You like it, don't you?"
"It's not..."
"C'mon bro, stop fuckin' playing." Ryan grinned, "Everyone wants this." His hands suddenly pulled at the hem of Tristan's shirt, "Let's see what we're working with here."
Before Tristan could object, Ryan grabbed the hem of his beer-soaked hoodie and peeled it over his head. The cool air of the room immediately hit Tristan's skin. He instinctively folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of how much smaller he looked standing in front of the jock. Ryan slowly nodded. A smile spread across his face.
"You'll do."
"What are you...?"
But Ryan was suddenly on his knees, looking up at Tristan with a smirk. And before Tristan could react, Ryan was fumbling with his belt.
"I need this, bro." Ryan said.
"Wait... I..." Was this really happening? Tristan could never imagine that a guy as hot as this would ever...
"You want this, don't you?"
"Y-yeah..." Tristan bit his lip.
"There we go, bro."
As Ryan pulled Tristan’s pants down, letting them pool around his ankles, he leaned forward and looked up. His eyes locked onto Tristan’s with an unyielding, dominant confidence. The heat of Ryan's breath hit Tristan's cock just a second before his lips made contact. The moment Ryan took Tristan into his mouth, a strange, electric jolt shot through both of them.
"Oh god..." Tristan moaned. This was his first BJ and god it felt better than he could've possibly imagined. Ryan's tongue worked the head of his hard cock, and he could feel the jock's firm hands grasp his skinny ass.
And as Ryan rhythmically bobbed his head, his hands gripped Tristan’s thighs tightly. And as he gripped harder, Tristan’s thighs, typically lean and soft, felt a sudden, internal surge. The muscle fibers beneath the skin began to swell and density doubled. At the same time, Ryan grunted as his heavy, square jawline that had defined his face for years began to soften, the sharp angles rounding out. His grip on Tristan's thighs wavered as his own fingers lost a fraction of their calloused thickness, shortening and becoming smoother.
"Wait..." Tristan choked out, his hands trembling as he gripped his own newly expanding legs. "Ryan, what... what are you doing to me? What is this?"
Ryan didn't answer. He couldn't. His lips were wrapped firmly around Tristan’s cock, his head bobbing with an intense, deliberate rhythm. But looking down, Tristan saw a frightening yet mesmerizing change overtaking the older man. Ryan’s massive, boulder-like shoulders were visibly losing their breadth. The thick, rigid muscles of the jock's back were softening, compressing inward, collapsing into a much smaller, slighter frame.
A sudden, sharp pressure bloomed in Tristan’s own chest. He arched his back, crying out as his ribcage expanded with a loud, deep pop.
"Ah! Oh god, my chest!"
Tristan watched in absolute awe as his narrow torso erupted outward. Layers of dense, heavy pectoral muscle sheeted across his skin, stretching his pale flesh until it turned a healthy, sun-kissed golden-tan. His collarbones broadened, pushing his shoulders out so wide that he had to brace his feet against the floor just to keep his balance. He felt massive. He felt heavy. And he reached up to give his new pecs a squeeze with his increasingly thicker hands. He grunted at the feeling of the firm flesh beneath his palm and let out another moan as Ryan's pace quickened.
"Ryan... fuck..."
Down below, the hands gripping his thighs had completely changed. They were no longer the rough, calloused hands of a football captain; they were smaller, the fingers shorter and smoother. They were Tristan's hands.
Ryan let out a muffled, desperate grunt against Tristan's length, his eyes squeezed shut. The backward baseball cap sitting on Ryan's head suddenly slipped, sliding down a face that was rapidly losing its sharp, hyper-masculine definition. Ryan's jawline was shrinking, the bone structure shifting and rounding into a softer, much more delicate shape.
"Ryan, stop! Look at me!" Tristan pleaded, but the voice that left his throat completely shocked him. The high-pitched, nervous squeak of a freshman was gone. Instead, a deep, resonant rumble vibrated through his expanded chest... a rich, commanding baritone that belonged entirely to the man on his knees. "My voice... I sound like... you?"
Ryan squeezed Tristan's thicker ass, as if to reassure him. And then, without hesitating, continued to suck him off. Tristan moaned as he felt his cock start to lengthen in Ryan's mouth. Becoming girthier, thicker. All the while, the bulge in Ryan's pants became less impressive.
"S..Stop... wh-what is this?"
He looked down at his arms. His thin, spindly forearms were ballooning, thick veins pulsing beneath the skin as rock-hard muscle packed itself around his bones. Right before his eyes, a faint, dark ink began to bleed upward through his skin, settling into the exact shape of the fraternity tattoo Ryan was sporting earlier.
Ryan finally pulled back, gasping for air, and looked up at Tristan.
Tristan stared down, his breath catching in his throat. He was looking at himself. Ryan’s face had completely transformed into Tristan’s own fresh-faced, wide-eyed freshman features. His messy, soft brown hair fell into his eyes, and his expression was entirely devoid of his previous swagger, replaced by a vulnerable, submissive awe.
"I'm... I'm you," Tristan whispered, his large, heavy hand instinctively reaching up to touch his own face. His fingers brushed against a rugged, broken nose bridge and thick jaw, "And you're... you're me."
The boy on his knees smiled, a soft, tired, yet incredibly satisfied expression crossing his newly acquired, youthful face.
"I'm graduating, bro," Ryan whispered, his voice now carrying Tristan's exact light, breathless tone. He looked up at his own former body with a mixture of relief and envy. "I don't want to leave. I'm not ready for the real world. But now, I don't have to leave." He looked at his now lankier frame, "Might take some work, but I'll rebuild everything I had here."
"No... no, please. I didn't agree to this." Tristan begged, his voice a heavy, vibrating rumble that practically shook his own newly expanded ribs.
But even as the desperate plea left his lips, his new body was completely overwhelming his senses. The physical reality of being Ryan was staggering. Tristan gasped as a sudden wave of heat rolled over him, bringing with it a whole new sensory world. He didn't smell like himself anymore; he could smell the heavy, masculine scent of expensive sport deodorant, deep musk, and the faint, bitter tang of dried sweat from a long workout.
"This is how it is now, bro," Ryan whispered from below. He used Tristan’s small, smooth hands to brush a strand of soft, messy brown hair out of his eyes, looking up with a serene, relaxed smile. "Look around. You liked my muscles, right? You were checking out the gains. You liked my room, the trophies. It’s all yours now. I get to restart as you, and you get to be the big man on campus. It’s a fair trade."
"No, it's not!" Tristan protested, tears of pure panic forming. "I don't want to be the big man on campus! I want to be a student! I want to live my life, go to my own classes, hang out with my roommates... I can't just occupy your life! I'm not you!"
Ryan let out a soft, youthful chuckle, shaking his head. Tristan's old face looked so innocent, so small from up here. "Too late for that, man. Look at yourself. You are me now. In three weeks, you're walking across that stage with a degree. You need to start acting like me so my brothers and teammates don't get suspicious. Walk tall. Stop stuttering. You've got practice tomorrow morning."
"I can't," Tristan whispered, his massive chest heaving as a cold sweat broke out over his broad, tanned shoulders. He felt completely disconnected from the timid freshman he was supposed to be, trapped inside a prison of pure, unyielding muscle. "I don't know how to be you. I don't know how to act like this. I can't do it, Ryan..."
"Let me help you adjust," Ryan whispered softly, his eyes darkening with a quiet, deliberate intent.
Before Tristan could even think to push him away, Ryan leaned back in. The motion was slow, incredibly sensual, and deeply intimate. Tristan’s massive, throbbing cock slid past Ryan’s new, soft lips, and the moment the wet, intense warmth enclosed him, a gasp tore from Tristan's throat.
Ryan didn't rush. He bobbed his head with a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm, swirling his tongue around the hyper-sensitive, engorged head. Tristan’s knees buckled slightly, his massive thighs trembling under the sheer sensory overload. As the warmth of Ryan's mouth worked over his length, Tristan felt his mind begin to fracture. His core memories... the long nights studying in the library, his quiet dorm room, his nervous anxiety around crowds... began to haze over, melting away.
In their place, a torrent of foreign thoughts, impulses, and memories rushed in to fill the void. Tristan choked out a moan, his thick fingers tangling in his own soft brown hair on Ryan's head, but he wasn't trying to pull him away anymore. He was remembering the roar of the stadium crowd. He was remembering the exact weight of a football in his palm. He was remembering the absolute, unshakeable certainty that he owned every single room he walked into.
"Oh god... fuck..." Tristan groaned, but the panic in his voice was rapidly dissolving, replaced by a dark, heavy, confident heat.
His internal monologue was shifting. The anxious, overthinking voice of the freshman was being utterly crushed, flattened beneath a rising tide of raw, unadulterated jock confidence. The world was reorganizing itself in his mind. He looked down at the boy giving him pleasure, and he didn't see his old self anymore. He just saw a freshman. A cute, soft little freshman who belonged on his knees, doing exactly what he was told.
Ryan... the original Ryan- finally pulled back with a wet, heavy sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his small hand. He looked up at his old body with a submissive, wide-eyed awe, completely content to be small, young, and entirely free of the real world.
The man standing above him didn't look confused or scared anymore. He adjusted his stance, his broad, shoulders squaring perfectly as a cocky, predatory smirk spread across his rugged face. He looked around at his sports memorabilia, his trophies, and then down at his freshman, feeling completely, utterly at home.
"Damn, bro," Ryan rumbled, his deep, dominant baritone dripping with an effortless authority as he reached down, his heavy hand firmly gripping the freshman's hair. "You're pretty fucking good at this. Who told you to stop, bro?"
Tim was a bit of an introvert and never really felt like he fit in with the popular crowd. He often wished he could be more attractive, but never thought it could actually happen.
One day, while walking home from school, Tim stumbled upon an old, mysterious lamp. Without thinking, he rubbed it and out popped a genie.
"I am the genie of the lamp," said the genie. "I can grant you one wish."
Excited by the opportunity, Tim quickly said, "I wish to be more attractive."
The genie nodded and with a puff of smoke, Tim was transformed. But as he looked in the mirror, he realized something had gone horribly wrong. He now had massive pecs and a jock-like appearance, but his intelligence had been greatly reduced.
"Bro, what the heck happened to me?" Tim exclaimed, smacking his new fat tits. “I can’t leave the house like this! I look like a freak!”
"You wished to be more attractive," said the genie. "You should always be careful for what you wish for, as it may not be what you truly want."
Tim's new appearance drew the attention of the popular crowd at school, but not in a good way. They teased him relentlessly, calling him the “dumbest boy in school”. And it was for good reason too.
Tim struggled to express himself properly - unable to finish a sentence without a vacant ‘bro’ or ‘bruh’. His grades dropped from straight As to straight Ds. His former friends felt bad for the ape of a man, staying after class to tutor him. But no matter how hard Tim tried, he could never focus long enough to learn anything. All he could do was sit back, smell his stink and unknowingly drool on his pecs.
Tim begged the genie to change him back, but the genie told him that the wish was permanent. Tim is now stuck in his hulking ape body for the rest of eternity.
Tim had always wanted to be a doctor but now a job in construction was looking a lot more likely - at least he’ll blend in because of the smell.
I don't normally take part in this sort of thing within the community as it sort of retracts from the reason we are all here; getting off; But I just had to say it is really nice seeing you post again. I didn't quite realise how much you had opened to my eyes to kinks and interests I now carry around with me at all times, I always knew they were there but articulating them without sounding like an outsider or traitor to my sexuality always seemed pretty impossible. Thank you for your amazing work and I hope you have a really lovely day whenever you get this.
This is an incredibly kind message! Thank you for the sweet words, and I’m so happy I’ve helped you come in touch with your kinks. That’s the beautiful thing about our community; there’s such a wide range of transformation triggers and their unintended results, from guys becoming sweat stained underwear to gay boys becoming straight bros. Everyone has that thing that excites them, and there’s no shame in it!
Have a treat for making me smile this morning:
As you’re reading this you’ll start scratching your chest, feeling the fabric of your shirt rub across forming bristles of hair. You’ll clear your throat, hearing your voice deepen and crack as you do so, suddenly feeling your fingertips scratching a bare chest as your shirt vanishes. Your new curls of body hair are directly beneath your skin. Maybe it should shock you, cause you to panic and look down, but you just feel so good. You grin, enjoying the itch of armpit hairs curling out from your pits, a drip of sweat falling down the side of your torso as your bones pop and crack, skin stretching as your body widens with bulk.
You can smell the musky scent wafting up, a locker room’s worth of sweat and testosterone rushing up your nose, but instead of gagging, you just smirk. Now your fingers are moving from your firm, muscled pecs and traveling to your rank armpits. You scratch them and grunt in satisfaction, not bothered by the slick wetness of the long hairs making your fingers damp and smelly. You’re so proud of your scent, of your size. Your eyes have glazed over reading this, your thoughts feel so tight, so empty, as a red ball cap forms around your head and squeezes on your old personality. Dirty blonde hair that reeks of sweat pushes messily out from beneath the cap, spreading your scent further through the room that changes with old gym clothes and crusty cum rags littering the floor, busty babes touching their breasts and smiling down at you from posters on the wall.
Caught up in the moment, you begin flexing. Your arms are so thick now, a vein running across the surface of a bulging bicep, your grin and your body are both so large. You feel your hips stretch and ache, a pleasurable hurt, like how your balls feel when they’re swollen and you so desperately need to bust a load. You moan, a sound so low and stupid, ignoring the crack of your jaw as your features rearrange, stubble breaking through your chin and your eyebrows becoming thick, aggressive. You reach your callused hand into your sweatpants, wrapping your much longer and thicker fingers around something else that has become much longer and thicker. You throw your head back as you moan, the sensation of your palm rubbing up and down your beer can sized shaft is almost as good as a wet, warm, slick pussy. Your cock instantly twitches in excitement, your suddenly bare feet shooting forward as they stretch and pop, size 13 and hairy and reeking of your foul body odor. You pay it no mind, all of it.
You’ve always been this way, haven’t you? Just a sweaty, horny frat bro. And you’re no longer looking at my page, my horny ramblings, you’re pumping your cock as you watch your favorite lesbian porn. Two beautiful women with their huge breasts smooshed together, their cunts rubbing against one another, smiling at the camera, almost right at you. Their lips are so kissable, their bodies so curvaceous, their pussies so wet and open and empty. You want to fill them with your seed, a breeder’s cock throbbing in your hand, attached to you.
You’re a breeder. You’re a straight man. You’re gonna bust a load all over yourself, and then you’re gonna meet your bros at the gym right after. This is your life now, this is the man you were destined to become, controlled by your cock and your desires and your insatiable appetite to stick your frat bro tongue into wet folds. You’ll never go another day without realizing just how much you love pussy.
Well, almost as much as you love your muscles and your smell and your cocky style. Enjoy knowing that no one will ever look at you and think you’re anything but a pussy hound frat boy ever again.
Biology was my favorite class this semester. Not only did I find science to be interesting, but I also shared the class with one of the hottest guys in the school: Aaron Moore. He was the star of the school’s baseball team as a pitcher and he was the talk of the school. Girls were always swooning over him for how tall and handsome and athletic he was. He was good at every sport; football, basketball, and so on, but in school, he played baseball. He was a major source of envy for a lot of guys. A lot of guys wished they could be him. I, however, wanted to be with him. Fortunately, I sit behind him in class, so I get the best view of him, despite being from behind. At least it meant he wouldn’t see me watching him.
I often found myself getting distracted by him. Even if I couldn’t see his face, I could see his broad shoulders, which were built like mountains, as well as his arms which were shaped like mounds of muscle. His tall stature sometimes made it hard to look at the board, not that it was the main place my eyes were looking at in the first place. His favorite baseball hat, adorned with our school team’s logo on it, was worn backwards like most of the jocks at the school. He didn’t come off like the rest of them though. His relaxed vibe made him easy to talk to and he could be quite funny compared to the rest of the meathead jocks. He got along with everyone really well, making him very well-liked. Although he was far from the smartest guy in the class, I could tell that he tried. It was no wonder why he was so popular.
Today, I was daydreaming when I was disrupted by our teacher, Mr. Martin. I felt him stare directly at me, almost as if he knew I wasn’t paying attention. It was like he could read my every thought, and honestly, if that were true, that’d be extremely humiliating. The last thing I needed was for my crush on Aaron to be exposed to the rest of the class. Knowing how embarrassing he could be, I wouldn’t put it past him. He asked me a question, and I thankfully already knew the answer, as I awakened from my daydream.
“Correct! I wasn’t sure if you were paying attention or not,” he chuckled. “You always look like you’re off in your own little world. But you still manage to do well. You gotta tell the rest of your class your secret.” Looks like someone has caught on to my tendencies. Mr. Martin was a middle-aged guy, probably in his 30s. He looked good for his age, and was a pretty relaxed and carefree teacher.
The class went by as usual, and eventually we were dismissed. All of the other students dispersed, but I needed to ask our professor a question about the homework. He helped clarify things for me thankfully. I was about to leave, but then he pointed out something on the ground.
“Hey Aiden, doesn’t Aaron sit in front of you? That’s his hat, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I always see him wear it.” It was unusual for him to have left it here by accident.
“Do you know if you can bring it to him today? If not, I can keep it here until next class.”
“I’ll hold onto it until I see him next. I have a feeling I’ll run into him later.” I don’t know why I said that. We don’t have any other classes together and we certainly aren’t close enough to be friends, even if I wished we were. I’m also not on the baseball team. Either way, my professor smiled for helping him out.
Regardless, I grabbed Aaron’s hat, but instead of chasing after him, I realized I really needed to go to the bathroom. He was probably long gone anyways. After I went, I noticed that I was still holding onto his hat. I went to observe it and I noticed that it smelled a little like him, with a mix of sweat from wearing it all day and whatever shampoo he used. I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt a sudden urge to put Aaron’s hat on. Despite the fact that I would feel really embarrassed if someone saw me wearing it, I knew I would likely never get this opportunity again. I was completely alone, so it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it. It wasn’t just any hat, it was Aaron’s. It’s not like he had lice or anything. What’s the worst that could happen?
And so I put it on, wearing it backwards like he would. Strangely, for a few seconds, I felt as though time had completely stopped. The leaky sink faucet paused its rhythmic dripping. The stomping of feet in the hallway deafened. My watch skipped a tick. But as time seemed to return to its natural course, I was able to see how I looked. I had to admit, I looked really good in it. I wouldn’t call myself an unattractive guy, but Aaron was way out of my league. Despite that, a smirk appeared on my face. A wave of confidence washed over me, almost like a little bit of Aaron had rubbed off on me. Suddenly, I didn’t really feel like taking it off anymore. I wasn’t too worried about what would happen if Aaron or one of his friends saw me wearing it.
After admiring myself in the mirror for a few minutes, I realized that I was late to my next class, algebra. I had no idea I had spent so much time checking myself out. I must’ve lost track of time. As I walked to my seat, I felt like all eyes were on me for some reason. I never used to make much of an impression on most people. I was quiet and had only a couple friends. Normally, I would’ve felt a little anxious with so many people staring at me, but I didn’t really give a shit now.
“Late as always, aren’t we Aiden?” the teacher remarked. Very funny. I always showed up on time. I sat down in my seat, but it didn’t feel right. My body squeezed tight into the desk. I felt like I was sitting in a chair meant for a middle schooler. Weird. Something weird is going on, but I can’t figure out what it is.
The class was just as weird because I felt like my classmates were a little more talkative. I couldn’t focus during class due to being distracted by someone whispering. I still felt a couple of their eyes on me. I looked over and made brief eye contact with one of the girls on the far side of the room. She immediately looked away and giggled towards one of her friends. Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, the color of passion. She was cute, but definitely out of my league. I wasn’t straight either way, so I didn’t care if she was into me.
Normally, I was good at math, even if I didn’t like it, but I felt myself struggling to answer questions today. Something must be wrong. The room felt hotter than usual, and I felt myself sweat a little and my body started to ache. I noticed that I smelled a little like Aaron’s cologne. I’ve recognized his scent from sitting behind him, but for that smell to linger and for me to smell like him is really weird.
Class was dismissed, and this was usually when I went to lunch. I received a text from one of my friends, Bryan, from half an hour earlier.
Bryan: Hey, me and the guys are getting food. Wanna come with?
Normally, we always got lunch at the same time. But for some reason, I didn’t really want to? That’s weird for me. I felt my fingers move on my own as they typed out a message.
Me: nah bro i dont feel like it mayb sum other time dude
I didn’t text like that normally. Nor did I turn down my friends. Is it the…Before I could finish my thought, I was interrupted by the booming sound of two guys further down the hall, with one of them calling my name. They were two jocks. I recognized that they were both friends with Aaron because they hung out together a lot. What did they want? I didn’t really get along well with either of them or the rest of their kind. Hopefully they didn’t think I was a pervert for wearing Aaron’s hat and beat me up.
“Sup bro, we were just about to get some food before hitting the gym. Wanna come with?” the other jock asked me. Judging from his tone, he seemed surprisingly friendly with me.
Were they serious? Did these jocks actually think I was one of them? I would never get an opportunity to hang out with them again, so I agreed. Part of me felt guilty for ditching my nerdy friends to hang out with the jocks, but I knew they were cool guys. My perspective on these two big jocks changed as I walked with them. For some reason, I felt a strong sense of camaraderie with them, almost like I’ve known them for a long time. I’m not sure why I was so intimidated by them before. They were really chill.
I saw another one of my friends as I walked with my new friends. I waved to him, but he barely seemed to notice me. Was he mad at me for skipping lunch with them or did he seriously not recognize me since I was hanging out with the jocks? It almost felt like he didn’t know me at all.
I pulled out my phone to see what was up with him, until I realized that Bryan had finally responded to me.
Bryan: My bad. Thought you were someone else. He must’ve given me the wrong number.
Was this some kind of prank? He obviously knew my number. Of course he knows who I am. Whatever, I don’t care what a nerd like him thinks. I put my phone away and resumed chatting with my jock friends. You know, my real friends. I noticed as I walked with them that they didn’t look as big and menacing as they seemed. Either that or maybe I hit my growth spurt recently.
We went and got food, with the jocks making sure I got enough protein. I swear I almost never eat this much. The jocks must eat a lot to stay in shape, I thought to myself. But did they seriously want me to go to the gym with them? I had class soon. But these guys were cool and I didn’t want to disappoint my bros. I figured I could miss a day and go lift with them. As long as it doesn’t turn into a habit.
I realized as we stepped into the gym that I had never worked out before nor had I stepped into an actual gym. I was worried about coming across as weak and humiliating myself in front of them. I changed into some clothes that I'm not really sure when I bought, a tank top and gym shorts. To my surprise, I simply followed the motions of my bros and I was able to work out with them just fine. I noticed that I was able to keep up with their workouts, and I surprised myself with how much I could lift. It shouldn’t have been possible to lift as much as they did but maybe they were just going easy on me because they knew I was a beginner. By the time we finished, I was just in time for my last class. But just before I parted ways with my new friends, one of them said something that caught me off guard.
“Later, Moore.”
Must’ve been a slip of the tongue. There was no way in hell they mistook me for Aaron. At least it gave me a mental reminder to give Aaron his hat back next time I see him. Although…his hat is so nice that I’m a little tempted to keep it for myself. He could always just get another one, right? I just don’t want him to see me wearing it though, so I’ll only do it when he’s not around.
In class, everyone was still staring at me as if I went to school in my underwear. Maybe there was something weird about me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I did smell a little bit since I came from my workout, but I don’t think it was that. I shrugged it off. They can stare all they want for all I care. I felt incredibly sore after my workout, and my arms looked unnaturally swollen. If I had to be honest, I almost felt as big as the two jocks I worked out with. But in such a short amount of time? With no prior lifting experience? That was impossible.
I found myself completely zoned out and indifferent to class today. All I wanted to do was leave and uh…What was it that I had going on later? I pondered that thought throughout the entire class period. Eventually, we were dismissed and I was free to leave. I was walking towards the dorms until I ran into, guess who? Aaron Moore.
“Hey bro, you still coming to practice?” he asked.
“Practice?”
“Yeah, baseball practice, you big dummy! You know, you’re always so forgetful, dude. Good thing I always was the smarter one, bro.”
“Yeah, you’re right, bro. My bad.” I’m not sure which statement I was agreeing with. But as I looked at him, I realized something. He was wearing his hat! But then how was I wearing his hat if he was wearing it? “I thought you lost your hat. How are you wearing it?”
“I was wearing my hat all day, dude. One day you decided to copy me and wear your hat to school like I do. But honestly, I think you rock it better than I do, so keep it up. You’ll impress the ladies.” But I was gay. And I’ve only had this hat for a day. If it wasn’t his, then how was it actually mine? I was overwhelmed and full of questions after everything that had happened today, from my growth spurt, to me hanging out with the jocks, to my old friends barely knowing who I am, but I didn’t seem to have the brain power at the moment to seek the answers to them.
As we walked, I kept chatting with Aaron as if it was natural, as if we always knew each other. Something felt off, but I couldn’t figure it out. Was it because we were going to practice? I’ve never played baseball in my life. Nah, that can’t be right. I feel like I’ve swung a bat before… We went into the locker room to change. I looked in the mirror and paused for a second.
My reflection wasn’t there. Someone else’s was. Someone much stronger and much taller than me. That wasn’t me. It was Aaron Moore.
No, except it wasn’t an exact match. There was enough different about the guy in front of me to know that it wasn’t Aaron. This figure was a little stronger than him, and still stood probably a little over 6 feet tall. I walked closer. “Aaron” walked closer. I moved my hand to feel my face. So did “Aaron”. A dull, confused look appeared on his face. Had I really become him? But Aaron was over on the other end of the room changing. Then who am I? Was I like this since I put the hat on earlier? I reached into my wallet and pulled out my ID.
Aiden Moore...That’s not my last name. That’s…Aaron’s? Normally I wouldn’t have minded taking his last name, but we definitely WEREN’T married. As far as I knew, Aaron was as straight as an arrow.
Date of Birth: 08/17/2003…If I recall, that’s Aaron’s birthday. I knew my birthday, and it was in January. Don’t tell me…Are we…?
I compared the face in the ID to the one in the mirror. It wasn’t an illusion, and it wasn’t a dream. It was like I was his twin! Aaron was an only child though and I only had sisters. At this point, I was so confused and overwhelmed. Panic was the only emotion I could feel as I felt like I was going through an identity crisis. I realized that this all started when I wore his hat. I reached to grab it off of my head…until I felt a hand touch my shoulder. My bro…I mean Aaron.
“Admiring yourself in the mirror, bro? Yeah, you’re a pretty handsome dude just like me. I think it runs in the blood, you know. You like that, right?” He placed his other hand on my head, pushing the hat tighter on my head. I nodded. I proceeded to flex, as I became self-absorbed with my own reflection. I always thought rather highly of myself, especially about my body. At this point, I couldn’t comprehend the paradox of me somehow being his own non-existent twin brother.
“You know, not every guy is lucky enough to have a cool brother like I do, let alone a twin. The two of us can play ball together, work out together, and even get all the chicks we want together. This is all you ever wanted, right?” He wasn’t necessarily wrong, but I wanted to be “with” Aaron, not be him. Whoever granted me this wish got it all wrong. But as I listened to him, I started to realize that maybe it wasn’t my wish to begin with.
“Yeah bro. This shit’s the life, dude.” I noticed Aaron’s face light up as I said that. The way I talked sounded like it came out of the mouth of some dudebro. I noticed his irresistible smirk that was always on his face when he was in a good mood. As I kept admiring myself in the mirror, I felt my mind slow…down...like it was on autopilot…
“That’s right…Just let it happen… I know it’s been a while, so it’s okay if you don’t remember, but you know that one trophy we won a couple years back? During senior year?”
“Fuck yeah, bro. I remember.” But I’ve never played baseball before…But…I have right? I know I have.
“You know you were the reason we won, right? One lucky hit in the bottom of the ninth, and you practically won us the game. I’ve never been more proud of you bro.” Aaron patted me on the back. I remembered that game fondly, even though I should have no recollection of it. That year, our baseball team was the best in the state. And I…led our team to a championship? As much as I tried to deny it in my head, the memories felt real. But why was he reminding me of this now?
“You didn’t do half bad yourself, bro.”
As Aaron and I kept chatting, the memories of being his twin brother kept flowing into my brain, as memories of my former life faded away. Turns out that I was the brother he never had. We were a pair. We complemented each other perfectly. I was actually the twin brother of the most popular guy in the school. I remember I thought he was hot…wait, what the fuck, bro? That’s gay as shit. And weird. This was my own twin we were talking about. Although I guess if I was a handsome stud, then he’d have to be too. After all, no girl can resist either one of us.
“So the hat is working…” Aaron whispered under his breath.
“What hat?”
“Nothing, bro! I was just saying how good your hat looks on you. Come on, let’s go.” I followed him, as my transformation was now complete.
From this day on, I was Aiden Moore, Aaron Moore’s twin brother. Except that’s who I was technically born as and that's who everyone already knew me as. Although we had a lot in common, I definitely felt more like a stereotypical jock. I was loud, cocky, and masculine, almost to the point of brutishness, compared to my brother who was a lot more laid-back and charismatic. Not that it was a bad thing, although most nerds and weaker men would disagree. But what me and Aaron did have in common was playing sports, working out, fucking chicks, and being the most popular guys in the school. I know I wanted to be closer to Aaron, but I never expected this. But at the same time, it felt good, almost pleasurable at times. I realized that in my new state, I could hardly last a day without an orgasm, whether it was in my grip or in some bitch’s pussy.
Two days later, I had biology again. I remembered I kinda struggled with this class. I sat behind my bro as usual. I was grateful for him since he always helped me with the homework. I noticed him talking to the professor in private when we got to class. When I asked him, he wouldn’t say. It wasn’t like him to keep secrets from me. We practically knew everything about each other after all. After class, I was called to stay after by Mr. Martin.
“Aiden Moore…Your brother told me to check up on you. Is everything alright? Did you need any guidance on the homework, too?”
“Never felt better, bro. I think I was just up too late partying the other day. And nah, I eventually figured it out, dude.” I conveniently hid the fact that I copied the answers off of some nerd.
“Good, good.” Mr. Martin smiled. “I won’t leave you too long. I know you two have your hands full with practice today. Hmmm…Still wearing that hat, I see. It suits you well, Aiden.” I saw him write something down in a notebook as I left. Mr. Martin was always cool. I felt like he understood me and my brother better than most teachers here. I couldn’t help but feel grateful for him, but for what? I quickly discarded that thought because it wasn’t important to me.
What was important to me was hitting the gym with my bros. I ditched class again, I don’t even remember what the class was anyways. Probably nothing important. As long as I pass and get to stay on the team, I couldn’t care less about how badly I do in school. I’m basically only here because I got some fancy scholarship.
At the gym, I always pushed myself to lift the heaviest weights. All of my bros were impressed with how much I could lift. Must run in the blood. After school, I went to practice with Aaron. We shared a room at the dorms, and on the weekends, we always went to the biggest parties our school had to offer. We always bragged to each other about what girls we slept with that night, almost like it was a competition. Man, this was the life. I never felt like I understood Aaron on a personal level until recently, but man, we were the luckiest pair of brothers in the school.
I'd been couchsurfing and doing odd jobs since my parents kicked me out after I came out of the closet, when I saw a classified for a truck driving gig. I had basically zero experience outside of getting my driver's license, but figured a full time job was better than nothing, so I went for it.
I ended up getting the job. Thought it was pretty funny, since I didn't look the part - kinda incongruous having a fresh faced twink as a truck driver, right? Just look at me.
So it was my first real long haul trip solo hauling some produce interstate. I was kinda terrified of having to lease a truck or something, since there's no way I'd have a vehicle remotely suitable, but the company gave me a truck for free. I had to sign this huge contract that made me go a lil crosseyed when I tried to make sense of it. Something about being the right driver for the truck, driving safely, making some lifestyle changes - on the road, I guess? Didn't really make sense, so I skimmed through it and signed.
Anyway, not even half an hour in and I start feeling a lil hot under the collar. Not around, just... hot. Sweaty, itchy even. Keep finding myself scratching my chest, my chin, adjusting myself in the seat. Takes me a couple minutes to notice that I keep touching scruff when I rub at my face.
I usually can't grow much of a beard, and I was clean shaven to begin with. Right? I thought I was, but now I'm not sure.
Anyway, I'm feeling kinda weird, so I pull over to stretch my legs, take 5. Don't know if I'm really supposed to do that, but the company did say to take a rest if I get distracted. They'd rather I get in late over me crashing the truck falling asleep on the road.
So I still feel kinda weird, heavy, almost bloated but not quite? Doesn't really go away. So I hop back into the truck, reach for the steering wheel, and...
What the actual fuck? Since when was I buff? And when the hell did I get this tattoo?!?
I quickly flip down the little shade and eye myself up in the dinky lil mirror. I look totally different. Kinda masc, all stubbly, like a big jock instead of the twink I'm supposed to be. And I'm so sweaty!
So I keep driving, because what the hell else am i supposed to do, mind going a mile a minute, and i keep heating up. I can feel myself sweating more and more - first a little, then a lot, then enough that I can feel it dripping from my chin, down my neck, my chest, sinking into the fabric of my shirt.
When I'm on an empty stretch of road I have a look down to see the damage.
I see a stranger's body where mine should be. This body is sweating like a stuck pig, perspiring so heavily that it's soaked through the sleeveless shirt I'm wearing - hell, is that a hint of plaid I see starting to come through?
Now instead of just a jock, I'm giving more exjock. Or, like, fat jock. Strongfat? Fuck, I don't know. I look like a musclebear, is what I mean. And while I'm looking down, I can see myself swelling even bigger, and bigger. "What the fuck is happening," I say, except it rumbles out of my now-massive chest and comes out far deeper than I'm used to. "Shit, is that my voice?"
I can't spare more than a glance every few seconds or so, since I'm on the highway - there really isn't anywhere to pull over. But with every glance, I feel like I notice more details... or maybe I'm just changing more and more.
By the time I get to where I'm supposed to go, this is how I pull up.
Fuck, man. All those lifestyle changes, becoming the right driver for the truck, those things about consenting to modifying my habits as the company saw fit... it's starting to click.
I should've read that contract a bit more thoroughly. Guess I've really trucked myself.
I was fed up with having Nate as a roommate. Not to come off as bigoted, but I thought gay guys were supposed to be clean! That was why I had decided to get an apartment with Nate in the first place. When he had pulled up with two massive trucks on the move-in day, I held my tongue. But it had been nearly six months and his stuff was still everywhere. Piles of crop tops, colorful jewelry, and always "too busy partying" to ever resolve his business. One time, I even found a dildo in the living room. It was still wet.
Typically, this kind of clutter did not bother me. If a drink spilled onto the carpet, I was not going to make a fuss. And I had a mess of my own too, but I kept it contained in my room. I simply could not believe how much stuff one man could have, especially one so small that he was frequently misjudged to still be in high school. It had gotten to a point that I could no longer see the floor–instead I stepped into the sea of different fabrics that were all submerged in the same sickly-sweet perfume. I knew I could not break the lease, so instead I decided to take action.
To be honest, it was a bit frightening how little research I had to do to find a viable solution for my problem. The website I had landed on was not anything particularly special, just displaying the product. A tiny red pill, that was it. The website promised to help “every man discover how to use his influence to bring the world into order.” With a single payment of $19.99, I had the drug shipped straight to our apartment in less than 24 hours.
I did not actually believe the pill would do anything, let alone even arrive. I was honestly surprised to find a package on the doorstep the next afternoon as I returned from the gym. The drug was even tinier in person, its red diameter barely half the nail of my smallest finger. After investigating it for a few moments longer, I placed the pill down onto the kitchen counter. I still did not know what the drug exactly did, but it could wait until Nate came home to take it. The shower was calling my name, the grime from my workout still slimy on my skin.
While soaping myself down, surrounded by steam, I heard the front door open and close, signalling Nate’s arrival. After toweling down, I adorned some new clothes before making my way out into the shared space. I proceeded into the kitchen, ready to finally pop the pill. I did not expect to find my roommate standing right over the counter where I had placed it, his bleached hair reflecting the light of the setting sun outside.
“Nate?” my throat tightened. The smaller man turned around, a rush of blood instantly coating his cheeks. My eyes shifted to the counter, which was devoid of any objects.
“Did you…?”
“Was that not for me?” Nate asked innocently.
My temples bulged. “No! What did you think that was, some sort of party drug?”
Nate remained silent.
“It’s a Tuesday!” I shouted. “That was a-uh-prescription.”
“For what?” Nate questioned.
My brain began to provide numerous different possible answers, but I did not have a chance to respond. With a groan, my roommate keeled over, his stomach gurgling obnoxiously. His hair immediately darkened into a rich brown. Furious cracks echoed through the room as Nate began to expand in front of me. Not bloat, but literally lengthen. His torso and legs stretched painfully, forcing Nate’s bottom higher into the air as he was still bent at the waist.
There was nothing I could do as the effects of the pill rapidly progressed. Musculature bulged across the once slim frame. Nathan’s body began to thicken, passing through stages in mere seconds. What was once referred to as “twinkish” was now toned, then athletic, and then near jock-like. The masculinization only continued in other forms: facial hair, a more pronounced package, and even body odor. And Nate’s funky musk was intense! I remained silent as his bare feet inched further out before me, each shoe size up only compounding the inescapable reeking sour.
Soon, that new sharp scent was flooding our apartment. All of Nate’s existence was being rewritten, shaped into what the pill promised. The colorful, skimpy clothes that covered our floors writhed as it was corrupted. Sparkly jockstraps to crusty boxers, exciting tanks to monochrome tees. Even the items on Nate’s body were shifting. My roommate slowly regained his composure and straightened out his back, now wearing a black workout shirt with soft running shorts that did nothing to hide his newly prominent shaft.
In a flash, the new man drove his fist into my stomach, knocking the wind completely out of me. I fell to the floor, gasping for air.
“My eyes are up here, faggot.” His voice was deeper, more commanding. I looked up, fearful of what the mystery pill had done to my roommate.
“I think we both have recognized the apartment has been getting a little messy, so as the natural alpha of the house it's time I take some action.” As I was still on the floor, my roommate was able to kick me in the same spot he had landed before. The blow sent me even lower, my whole body stretched out on the cold tile at the feet of the new man.
“I expect you to do all the cleaning from now on, roomie. That means whatever I want it to mean: sweeping, laundry, sucking my dirty crusted piss off the toilet rim. Daddy Nathan is gonna put you back in your place.”
I did not dare respond as my roommate lifted up a giant sole over my face.
“For starters, my beautiful foot just touched your disgusting perverted body, twice. Why don’t you lick it clean for me? Unless, you would rather have me continue rearranging your insides.”
My tongue was out before my roommate had a chance to reconsider.
My mom remarried a total jock. I totally cannot relate to him at all as a nerdy guy who is not interested in sports or exercise at all. I feel like it would be so much easier if he wasn’t my step-dad. Can you help?
So, just to make sure I understand, you’re a nerdy guy who can’t relate to his new, studly jock stepdad, and well you are not specifically telling me what to change, you ended on ‘it would be easier if he wasn’t my step dad?’ Do I have all that right?
You have to know where this whole thing is going.
I mean, talking about how different you are, and how you wish he wasn’t your stepdad, but not actually asking me to get rid of him or change him in any specific way, you had to realize that you’d be the one I ended up transforming, not him. That instead of changing your stepdad to someone more your liking, I’ll be making you a true father and son, with you taking on some of his more athletic qualities as you transform into the frat boy jock son he’s always wanted. I mean, c’mon, it’s so obvious. Heck, it was so obvious that I actually avoided this request for a while because I thought that it had to be some sort of trap, set up by The Master or one of my other enemies. Until I realized what was really going on. You aren’t trying to trap me, you’re trying to goad me. Because even though you’re a geek, and even though you act like you’re constantly annoyed by your stepdad… you actually want to be his son, don’t you?
Your dad left when you were only 3 years old, and ever since then it’s been you and your mom on your own. You’ve never exactly suffered from not having a Dad. Your Mom has done an amazing job of raising and providing for you both, and from the little you can actually remember about your biological dad, his leaving was probably the best thing he ever did for you. But when he left, it did leave a bit of a hole in your life, one that you never quite seemed to be able to fill. With your naturally geeky personality and tendency to ramble for hours on end about whatever you happen to be into that month, you never truly fit in with other guys, and without your dad you didn’t really have any male role models growing up. Now, I’m not saying that a guy has to have a male role model growing up. There tons of men who were raised by single mothers, or who had two moms, that grew up just fine. But with your difficulties fitting in, and your lack of any close relationships outside of your Mom, you felt a disconnect from your own masculinity that left you feeling like you weren’t a real man. Over time that confusion and loneliness turned into something more bitter, and you grew a disdain for anything and anyone who was traditionally manly, to the point you began to hate most men in general, something that only got worse as you found like minded people on the internet who reinforced your angry views. You had even started looking around some incel message boards, when you met your Mom’s new boyfriend, West.
Your Mom hadn’t dated much in the last 16 years since your father had run out on you, and so far she had never introduced you to anyone she was dating, as no relationship she started ever got that serious, so you were shocked when she told you she had invited her new boyfriend over to dinner. It took less than a minute of your mom talking about him for you to decide you absolutely hated him. He sounded like a classic example of the macho jocks you had come to despise, and you were prepared for dinner to be absolutely awful. Except, it wasn’t. Because even though you loathed to admit it, even to yourself, you actually really liked West. You couldn’t really explain it. He was a personal trainer, literally a professional meathead, who was so physically intimate with your mom it made you want to puke. But when the dinner actually started and you got to know him, you couldn’t help but like him! Sure he was a total meathead, and was ridiculously cocky, but he was also really kind. He took your cold treatment of him in stride, with this sort of unshakeable confidence you couldn’t help but admire. He obviously didn’t know anything about the geeky stuff you were into, but he listened to you talk about it, and was patient and didn’t dismiss anything you said like everyone else seemed to. He was surprisingly intelligent, and the way he talked about exercise made even you feel a little like going to the gym. By the end of the night, the two of you had actually hit it off, much to your moms surprise and utter delight. The problem was, you absolutely hated yourself for it. How did you let yourself get so friendly with some meathead? Why did you like him so much? Over the next 6 months you struggled with this strange feeling of being caught between your normal beliefs and this growing fondness for your Mom’s new boyfriend, something that only got worse when she and West announced they planned to get married. You tried to talk to your friends online about it, but they seemed to think you were a traitor because you didn’t despise your jock stepdad as much as you were supposed to. You tried to talk to other guys at school, but they couldn’t really relate, and it turned out that getting along with your stepdad hadn’t really fixed your issues with connecting with other guys. You felt trapped, like you had finally met someone who could teach you, guide you, show you how to connect with other guys, help you become a real man, but you were just too old to learn. Sure a 20 year old guy still had plenty of time to change and grow, but you were just so scared to step out of your bubble, and kept thinking about all the milestones you could have had if West had entered your life just a bit earlier. That was when you found out about this blog, found out what I do, and decided to ask for help, even if your pride wouldn’t allow you to be as direct as you wanted to be.
You should count yourself lucky that I saw what you were really asking for, since if I hadn’t there is a real chance you could have ended up in a very different situation. You should feel even luckier that I actually have the perfect thing for this. You might remember in an earlier post I helped a guy rewrite his history by using a magical artifact known as a ‘family tree’. It’s this medium sized silver tree statuette, one that allows you to see, and alter, your family tree. It’s a dangerous thing to mess around with, but I think it’s perfect for this situation, especially since we’re only making one change. We’ve just got to cut out your scummy birth father, and make it so West is your biological dad. We don’t have to keep it this way forever, but by doing this you’ll at least get a chance to see what it would be like to be his full son.
As the change takes hold, you’re going to feel it wash over your life, going down your timeline, through your memories one by one as it alters your entire life, from the moment of your birth to this very moment. Memories of being abandoned at 3 are replaced by memories of West, memories of being a little boy and being cared for by a strong, kind man who always made you feel so safe. Your memories continued to shift as your relationship with West solidified, remembering when you were 4 and he taught you to ride a bike, when you were 5 and he and your mom dropped you off at school the first time. Memories of healthy dinners, of watching sports with your dad, of learning how to work out, how to approach people, how to talk to girls. Your youth as a bitter loner was rewritten, piece by piece, into you being a happy young boy, who would eventually grow into a scrappy tween, and eventually a confident, muscular young man. You still had a couple of your old nerdier interests, but most of that had been replaced, washed away by your new natural athleticism and an inherited love of working out and watching sports. You had started working out with West, with your Dad, at a young age, and you had the huge, manly muscles to prove it. You were larger than any 20 year old had any right to be, and the ladies definitely noticed. You weren’t the virgin sitting in his room ranting about girls online anymore. You weren’t even just an average guy. You were the quarterback, the prom king, the life of the party, the fucking man, a reputation you had earned in highschool and had brought with you into college, along with a full wrestling scholarship and a shit ton of cocky confidence. The best part is that you and West have the father-son relationship you had always dreamed of. He was your idol growing up, the man who taught you how to be who you wanted to be instead of who you thought you should be, and now that you were an adult too, you two were going to be the ultimate father-son duo.
I can tell by the cocky smirk on your handsome face you definitely want to keep this new reality. I get it man, even I didn’t think West’s genes would look this good on you. You’re muscles are so fucking thick, and from the hard bulge snaking its way down your shorts, I think we both know that no one is going to wonder if you’re a real man ever again.
When Madison finally arrived at the gym, he found himself underwhelmed. He had never held a membership before–the raffle granted free entry for the duration of the program–so he was unfamiliar with how monotone fitness facilities could be. The indoor track back in his collegiate days had held some color; a muddy reddish brown for the inner loop and a sturdy forest green for the outer. This gym however lacked any such character: a factory-like gray box with machines scattered around like a child’s toys. The personality was dictated by composite wood and mirrors upon every available wall. Somehow, even the small puddle a few feet away from Madison was a hazy white, perfectly matching the aesthetic.
When Madison had pulled up, he had gone and double checked the address on his phone. The building was located on a forgotten suburban side street, sticking out like a sore thumb between the rows of older houses. There was not even a parking lot, forcing his sedan onto the curb. Everything inside at least met the standard gym protocols. A first scan identified various machines, mats, and industrial fans to efficiently cool everything down. Everything looked clean, besides a layer of dust over the treadmills.
“Looks like our raffle winner finally made it.”
Madison's eyes fell upon the person approaching him. Although of similar age and almost a head shorter than Madison’s even six feet, this man nearly doubled his weight in musculature. A step below bodybuilding, the presumed personal trainer was straight from a fitness magazine. Natural good looks, singular earbud glued in. He was bulging in all the right places, the name brand black tank and shorts displaying massive shoulders, bulbous pectorals, and husky legs to support the sturdy frame.
“Mason, right?” His voice held a natural confidence, one that assumed it was always correct.
“Madison,”
“Yeah,” the personal trainer did not falter. “I went and scrolled through your social media. It’s great that you’re already familiar with exercise.”
Madison was a bit embarrassed at first, but he realized it was completely logical for the man to have done some research. Madison had not really updated his feed since his college days, which had been years ago, but he was still slim, yet not bony, as his daily runs had kept him in shape.
“Usually the guys that come in aren’t familiar with the gym at all, not attending our church if you know what I mean,” the man illustrated. “But a former track star, now that will be a fun challenge! Gonna spend these next three days trying to convert you.”
The metaphor was strange, but it worked. “I guess it’ll be nice to try something besides just cardio.”
“Not just something: everything, bro.” The man threw out an arm as if he was surveying conquerable land. “Our X-Treme All-Out UltraTestosterone Bundle offers you unlimited access to our playground and promises to make a real man out of you in less than 72 hours!”
The man’s energetic voice burst out as if the pair were at a monster truck rally: loud, macho, and boisterous.
“Lucas,” the man offered his hand. Its size easily dwarfed Madison’s own. “What made you sign up for the gym’s raffle anyway?”
Seeing that Madison was already in his workout clothes–a bright blue long sleeve that suctioned itself to his body and a pair of white shorts that loosely flowed around the stickish legs–Lucas began to lead him towards the machines. Madison's lucky necklace bounced with every step, a small golden key inspired by one of his favorite romance novels. While not a big box venture like some of the cheaper options out there, the gym itself was still sizable. Because of this, Madison was perplexed to realize that there was no one else there. Were Friday afternoons always so quiet?
“Um, I don’t know if I have any specific reason,” Mason started. “The ad came up on my feed and once I realized it was all free, I just kind of went for it? I don’t know, I’ve always been active but I wanted to try something different. And it would be nice to put on a little muscle, just to bring something new to the dating scene. I guess there are a lot of factors…”
Lucas chuckled freely. “Since you’ll be with me this whole weekend, I can guarantee you will be experiencing a lot of new things.”
Madison liked the sound of that. He was highly skeptical that he would actually see any results, but thankful that he would at least learn a thing or two.
“I’ll just need you to trust me, bro. Be along with me every step of the way. Remember, I’m your trainer, aka to train you. Not embarrass you or break you, but to make you better. Got that?”
“Sure, I guess,” Madison replied. He did not know if he believed Lucas because of the miniature speech or because of the giant muscles. Either way, the trainer certainly knew what he was doing.
“Let’s start on this machine here,” Lucas pointed to a futuristic-yet-medieval-looking torture device of a tower. Madison could not prevent his nose from wrinkling at the smell of fake leather as they approached. It was at least better than any body odor, something Madison had been fearful of before entering the almost-empty gym. He had even lubed himself up with extra deodorant before leaving his car.
“I think the cable machine is always a great place to start,” Lucas remarked as Madison took his spot. “Cable machines incorporate a lot of different motions and exercises into a workout. Generally, they engage the upper body, like your lats and traps, but if you know what you’re doing, you can also strengthen your core and lower back muscles. With dedicated work, you can even improve stability and dramatically increase muscle mass.”
Lucas took a breath before finishing, “As a runner, should I assume that you are already familiar with all this stuff?”
Madison was definitely not. He ran often, but he was no scholar of physical health. His degree had been in social work. “Totally, yeah.”
Lucas smirked, “Then I’ll try to abbreviate my speeches in the future. Anyway, I’ve got the weights all set. Why don’t you give that a try and let me know how it feels?”
Madison followed the instructions. He went for the double pulley first, grabbing the two handles before pulling them towards himself with little effort. There was a noticeable resistance, but not much.
“I think we can go a bit higher,” Madison said as he returned the pulleys back.
“That’s always a good thing to hear, bro.” Lucas moved forward, adjusting the clasp a few notches lower to add on more weight. This time, the pressure was much more apparent. Madison was already struggling after just a couple of reps.
“Is that better?”
“It’s definitely harder,” Madison confirmed. “Maybe we need to Goldilocks this thing?”
“I disagree,” Lucas frowned. “Focus on your form and have your feet firmly planted on the ground.”
A bit disgruntled, Madison fulfilled Lucas’s request. He stabilized his lower half before engaging his upper counterpart. By the time Lucas stopped him, Madison had gone through another five reps.
“And a new gym rat is born,” Lucas grinned. “Now typically, you should do two to four sets of these with 10-15 reps. I like to follow it up with the lat pulldown too, forward and back and then up and down. Like a yin and yang sort of thing.” Lucas motioned to the machine he was referring to.
“How many days do you work out?”
“Every day.”
“‘Every day’?”
“Do you not run every day?”
“Well...” Madison was caught. “I mean, running is kinda different though. Like I’ll be taking different routes and there's always new terrain to explore. And the weather is constantly changing-”
“But that is still exercising every day, right?” Lucas insisted. “Some guys do, some guys don’t. I think it’s obvious which kind I am.” Lucas took his own bait and flashed his massive guns, exposing two hairy thickets underneath his arms in the process. “Which kind do you want to be?”
“I guess I am already in the latter category,” Madison surrendered.
“Exactly, so why not engage that good habit right now?” Lucas smiled, giving a brotherly pat to Madison’s shoulder. “Just from those few reps I can already see that your shoulders have widened.”
Madison stood up straighter as Lucas bent over and notched the weights up just a bit higher. He did not believe Lucas’ comment, but he rotated his head to locate a mirror anyway. The nearest reflection was too far away to confirm anything. Upon close inspection, Madison did not notice anything peculiar from the shirt’s fabric. It did appear a bit tighter, having usually just graced his skin. But after moving a bit, the fabric released.
“Let’s see how you do with that,” Lucas finished, stepping away. “And try a full three sets for me.”
Madison went through the motions. Draw back, slow release. Each attempt felt a little more restrained then the previous one, but he was able to manage the stress. Pull in, let out. He had not been counting his reps like he should have been, but Madison was able to complete Lucas’s assignment. It was an accident however, as he had paused momentarily when he heard a slight tear.
“Nice work, dude!” Lucas came over to investigate the newly exposed bicep. The rip was barely an inch-long, but it was still enough to flush Madison’s face. Lucas noted the reddish color right away.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, man. In fact, you should be proud!”
Madison looked back over at the mirrors, and this time, was surprised to see that his upper arms appeared a bit distorted. The shaping was noticeable from a distance, something that had never happened before.
“What…how is that possible?” Madison stuttered a bit.
“Impressed?”
“I think I’m just…” Madison turned back to face Lucas, a bit disoriented. “I’m just seeing things.”
“You’re seeing gains, bro,” Lucas replied. “That’s just how our X-Treme package works.”
Still a bit unsettled, Madison let the personal trainer lead him around the cable machine to the lat pulldown. The seat was harsh and cold, unkind to his flat buttocks. That was one of the downsides of constant cardio, the lack of a juicy bottom. Maybe Madison would ask Lucas later for some tips, as the other man’s backend was certainly packing.
Already seated, Madison stretched his arms up, careful to not aggravate the tear.
Lucas stopped him, “Before you start, make sure you have good posture.”
With his hands above his head and arms frozen, Madison felt Lucas’s palms brace onto his shoulders before slowly pulling them back. An audible pop from Madison’s spine signaled a better alignment.
“There we go, doesn’t that feel better, man?”
“Yeah, I guess it does,” Madison replied honestly.
“And stop with this weak attitude.” Lucas shifted gears momentarily. “Carry yourself with some testosterone, bro! You work out, you’re fit. If you’re a man, then act like it!”
Madison did not typically associate with this kind of hypermasculine behavior, but for the sake of the free program, he decided to go along with it. “Yeah, I’m a man!”
“Now don’t be so sarcastic,” Lucas directed. “I’m serious. Take some control, show some confidence.”
Madison took a deep breath, doing his best to dispel his awkwardness. “I’m a…I’m a man!” Unintentionally, his voice came out a little lower than usual.
“Better, one more time.”
“I’m a man!”
Suddenly, Madison’s voice descended into a depth it had never reached before. The tenor had fallen heartily into a flat baritone. Its color was a bit simple, but Madison was too surprised by the sudden change to care. Had it always been this easy to lower someone's range?
“That’s more like it!” Lucas gave Madison’s back a hard pat of approval. “People will listen and respect that voice now, man. Straight and to the point is the key to success. Now, back to the machine.”
With confidence, Madison extended his arms a bit further and latched onto the bar. Lucas smiled as the small tear creeped out a bit wider, but he did not comment on it. Madison went through the motions as instructed, pulling the bar down to his body before slowly extending his arms back up. By the end, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that his arms did not ache like he had expected them to.
“Those arms and that back are already looking stacked!” Lucas applauded, directing Madison to look at his reflection. Madison was a bit bewildered by the curvature around his shoulders, the lines that even from a distance defined the separations between the biceps, triceps, and their transition into his upper torso.
“Should they already be that prominent?”
“Doubting your personal trainer already?”
Madison fell back. “Of course not, I just didn’t know that working out was this effective.”
“Well that’s because you're used to cardio.” The final word was spat out in a glob of disdain. “Your body is already primed for muscle, practically hungry for it. Now you are finally testing your muscles rather than ignoring them.”
Madison shrugged, “Running has always maintained my body.”
“But the gym is here to build it,” Lucas countered. Together, the two made their way to the next machine. “Think about it, bro. Instead of those stick-like arms, what if you had absolutely stacked ones like mine.”
Softly, Madison’s eyes wandered over to the personal trainer’s upper body. His arms were huge, as if there were four baseballs tucked underneath the skin, one on each side of each ligament. Madison then flexed his own in comparison, surprised to find a bit of muscle bunching up underneath his sleeves. A small grin escaped his usual contained demeanor, but it disappeared as soon as he heard another rip. Once again Madison went red, but Lucas did not comment on it, instead presenting the next machine.
“Time for curls and extensions.” Madison proceeded forward, scooting himself around to align his arms onto the cool pad. There were multiple handles before him to choose from. “You may not believe me now, but after this, you won’t want to go for a run tonight.”
Madison frowned, rolling his shoulders to let the fabric release from his arms. “Are you trying to persuade me into a membership already?”
“Of course not,” Lucas replied. “I’ll have just worked your upper body so much that as soon as you get home you’ll pass out.”
“I’ve done quite a few marathons and lived to tell about it.”
Lucas smirked, “Nobody is impressed by marathons. But all the guys I know are impressed by muscles.”
“Really?” This piqued Madison’s interest. The sleeves of his shirt once again grew taught against his skin, tight enough to begin displaying individual threads.
“Yeah, bro. Dudes love muscles. Guys are attracted like magnets to leaders, men who are independent. And that is associated with size and strength.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Madison responded. A third tear began to silently stretch out near his collarbone.
“The other thing they love is hair,” Lucas added.
“Unfortunately, I’m shaved everywhere for ‘aerodynamics’,” Madison joked. “But I thought serious gym-goers shaved so they could ‘show their gains’ or whatever.”
“Only pussies got time for that,” Lucas rolled his eyes. “Muscles bring confidence, but the hair is what sets us apart as a different species.”
“‘Us’?”
“Men, real men, bro.”
Madison made a face, he did not follow.
“Don’t believe me?” Cockily, Lucas lifted one of his arms over his head, revealing a dark and hairy pit. Although he had not been on any of the machines (to Madison’s knowledge), there was a notable wet gleam to the long, unruly strands. “Take a sniff.”
“W…What?” Madison was caught off guard. He could not tell if his personal trainer was coming onto him, or pranking him. Either way, Madison was uncomfortable and not into body hair or odor whatsoever.
“Remember what I said at the beginning of our session, dude? Just trust me.”
Madison hesitated and remained put. He was bewildered, unable to comprehend the situation presented to him. His eyes wandered from Lucas’s armpit to his eyes, then back to the pit, and then to a nearby mirror. In just a short timespan, the personal trainer had already helped him build up a considerable amount of strength. It was undeniably impressive.
After taking a calming breath, Madison closed his eyes and slowly leaned forward. A smug grin smeared onto Lucas’s face as his wet pit hairs smeared across Madison’s face. The musk was intense, but not disgusting. Well-bodied, rich, and complex. It was tangy and sweet, with a little bit of salt.
After a minute of marinating, Madison felt Lucas place a hand upon the back of his skull, slowly removing him from the armpit. His face was moist, as if he had just removed a cleansing mask. Madison felt a little dazed, the edges of his mind were a bit softer.
“Now do you understand, bro?”
Lucas watched as peach fuzz broke through the skin of Madison’s upper lip and chin. The wispy hairs rapidly grew in number and volume before lengthening out and unfurling. After a couple more seconds, Madison's mouth was framed by a thick black caterpillar and goatee.
“Yeah…bro…”
—
Just as Lucas predicted, Madison had collapsed onto his bed the moment he had arrived home. Assisted pull ups, seated dips, shoulder press, and cables galore. The list went on, and somehow Lucas had gotten Madison through the entire workout. Madison could not understand how his arms had been able to withstand the constant exertion, but they had. And the benefits were more certainly visible.
“Glad the first day didn’t scare you away, man!” Lucas shouted from across the gym as Madison entered. He stretched his arms and ventured toward the personal trainer, unconsciously flexing his massive muscles and showcasing their prominent bulges and valleys.
“Sorry I’m late, I struggled to find a shirt.” Madison was wearing an oversized tee that he typically only wore in bed.
“No sweat, bro. And you’ll get used to it.”
“That better not be true,” Madison laughed. “I don’t know if I can afford that.”
“Why do you think so many of us guys are always wearing our gym clothes?” Lucas led Madison to a new section of the gym, hosting a slew of unique machines. “When you can only pay for one or the other, a man’s gotta pick his priorities. And if anything, you can always go shirtless.”
“I guess.” Madison had not been able to fit his upper body into any of his usual workout gear this morning. Every shirt ended up either torn at the shoulders or sleeves. He was thankful his shorts did not succumb to any such problems.
“Let’s get your chest warmed up on a press first.” Madison positioned himself onto the seat accordingly, leaning back. Just by pressing lightly, he could feel his own ribs. “We are going to lock in that upper area. No balancing, no guessing, just pure meat.”
“Well, my chest can’t get too bulky,” Madison noted. “I still gotta have breath support for running after all.”
“But how will you be able to support all the work we did yesterday?” Lucas leaned forward and stepped between Madison and the weights for the machine. Without warning, Lucas led Madison’s head right into his armpit.
“Think less about what you’ve done in the past, and more about what I want you to do now,” Lucas began. “You’re not here to sustain, but to grow. Don’t you want to grow, bro?”
Madison took a deep breath without a second thought.
“This program is here to make you into a man. And real men not only have bodies that display strength, but support it too.”
Gradually, the skin underneath Madison’s shirt tightened and bulged forward. The flat expanse began to show signs of variance from underneath the fabric.
“If you want to be better, manlier, we will need to add some mass to your torso, right?”
Madison twitched slightly as Lucas pulled away. His upper chest now held a registerable weight, as if it was supporting two individual pillows. He was unaware of his nipples descending slightly due to his pecs' more mound-like nature.
“Sorry.” Madison shook his head slightly to regain focus. “what were we going to work on?”
“You had mentioned you wanted your chest to be as thick and bulky as my knockers,” Lucas responded, stepping back.
“I did?” Madison honestly could not remember. But he knew he should trust his personal trainer. “Mine are pretty hefty already. A guy I once hooked up with joked that I should start wearing bras.”
Lucas snorted. “They do kind of look like a chick’s rack.”
“Really?”
“It's kinda hot, right?” Lucas asked. “Knowing that your chest is as big as a girl’s?”
Madison felt neutral about it at first, but something in his brain clicked softly when he breathed in. Lucas’s scent was still on his face.
“Yeah…that is kinda hot…”
“And there’s only one thing separating them, right?”
“Muscle?” Madison’s pectorals hardened slightly.
“Two things,” Lucas corrected. “What did I say yesterday? What sets men apart?”
Madison considered this. “Hair?” Although it was not visible, a dusting sprouted out around his nipples.
“That’s it, bro.” Black curls sprung out from Madison’s skin, tickling the inside of the tee. “Men appreciate it, and chicks dig it.”
“They do?” The tiniest of hairs leapt out from underneath his collar.
“Yeah man, bushes too. Drives ‘em wild. Imagine lying in bed with someone playing with your pit hair…”
Like magic, two raven-hued forests sprouted up underneath Madison’s arms. The hairs snaked out hungrily, putting themselves on permanent display. “I’d have to shave it off if I want to run, though.”
“You wouldn’t have to if you stopped running.”
Madison faltered slightly. Before he could muster up a response, Lucas cut back in. “But let’s get back to business. You wanted to work on that chest, right, bro?”
With a huff, Madison extended his arms to the handles. He pushed with little resistance, enjoying the way his muscles contracted and then released. Each pump forced his chest forward a bit more, half by muscle and half by pride. With every set, Lucas increased the weights, watching the progression continue.
The chest presses continued through different modes: incline, decline, horizontal. Soon came cables, broadening Madison’s shoulders a tiny bit with every pump. During his time at the butterfly press, his skinny abdominals popped out with distinction before forming a tight midsection. Finally, an extended period at the power rack restructured Madison’s core, perfecting the once-rectangular torso into a formidable triangle.
“You’re about to bust out of that shirt, man!” The two had moved to the locker room, having worked up more than the average perspiration. Madison could not discern if the tee was sticking to him because of his sweat or his size.
“It’s not that bad, dude,” Madison deflected, latching his fingers underneath the bottom. “It's just-”
He was interrupted by a loud rip that echoed out into the room. Madison had accidentally shredded his shirt into ribbons. The scene was comical. Tears had instantly formed across the sleeves and collar when Madison had begun the motion, forcing the seams apart. Now shirtless, a line of black hair was revealed, trailing from Madison’s belly button down into his shorts.
Not to be outdone, Lucas split apart his shirt with a mighty roar. The fabric fell away to reveal his muscular, golden body.
The pair laughed, embracing the moment. “Don’t worry, bro, if you got it, flaunt it."
“Wouldn't that infringe on some kind of public indecency?”
“Those rules don't apply to men like us.”
While Lucas stripped, Madison looked back and forth between their chests, a bit shocked to realize they were nearly identical. He was jolted back to reality by a distinct smell, his own funk. Timidly, Madison lifted his arm to reveal a greasy, tangled mess. The musk was appalling, especially because he was typically diligent about keeping deodorant regularly applied. But Madison did not find it disturbing. He had just finished a massive workout after all. Lucas had said that he was supposed to be a man, and was this not manly?
“Are you done basking in your own glory?” Lucas shouted from the shower, having already left the common space. Caught red-handed, Madison quickly finished removing his clothes and rushed to the stalls. He intended to find his own, but a hand suddenly reached out and dragged him into another.
“Yeah, right there. Don't resist it.” Lucas pushed Madison down onto his knees, watching as his client’s eyes emptied out. With each instance of exposure to Lucas’s musk, Madison was succumbing faster. Except this time instead of the armpit, Madison was in front of a much more potent bush.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t wash out any of that smell,” Lucas stated. The intense odor dulled out Madison’s senses, slowing his thoughts down dramatically.
“I think it’s time we take things to the next level, get more ‘X-Treme’.” Lucas’s tone was both serious and mocking. “Be honest, what do you think of the work we’ve done so far?”
“I…I like it…” Madison mumbled. “It’s impressive…”
Lucas shifted his pelvis a little closer without letting Madison touch his manhood. “But something is holding you back, isn’t it?”
“...yes…”
Lucas smirked. “And what’s that?”
Madison paused, but continued after taking a deep breath. “I still want to be able to run.”
Lucas let his flavorful scent waft through Madison’s mind. “No, Madison, you’re never going to run again. Cardio is for betas and losers, not for real men.” Lucas reached one of his hands down and let his fingers glide through his pubes, releasing more of his pheromones. “You’re going to be the type of man that grunts with every exertion of your muscle. You will have a body that makes every item of clothes appear skin-tight. You won’t exercise to maintain, you will do it to impress.”
“‘To impress’...” Madison repeated slowly.
“Think about it this way, bro. Guys like me are so strong and virile. Don’t you want to be around other manly men like that?”
“...yeah…” Madison processed this. A dark shadow began to surround his privates.
“Don’t you want to surround yourself with the dudes who encourage you to embrace your masculinity and challenge you to be better?"
Inky prickles began to spring up from Madison’s groin. “Uh huh…”
“Why don’t you come home with me tonight, bro? Catch a preview of how real men live outside of the gym. No extra training, just one-on-one exposure.”
Lucas watched Madison’s curly pubes twist and turn as they grew out like wrathful vines.
After exiting the showers, the rest of the night was a blur for Madison. He was surprised to find his clothes had magically disappeared during his time away. Following a fruitless search, Lucas offered up a pair of compression shorts that, on Madison’s skinny legs, lost the “compression” aspect. The two left in Lucas’s car, leaving Madison’s on the street for the night.
The personal trainer's apartment was barren, the definition of a bachelor pad. Cheap, easy-to-assemble furniture from online, a similar grayscale palette to the gym, and miscellaneous clothes strewn across the floor. There was no room for frivolities or distraction.
Madison collapsed as soon as he located the bed. Lucas stayed awake for a few hours, but when he finally decided to rest his head, he placed it at the opposite end of the mattress. He then proceeded to neatly tuck his meaty feet underneath Madison’s pillow, allowing his funk to continually seep into his client’s brain overnight.
—
“Wakey, wakey bro.”
Madison slowly stirred as two soft, warm bodies pleasantly massaged his face. His nostrils were awakened by a fragrance with dark, earthy notes. Plush, goaty, and…cheese? He immediately opened his eyes, revealing Lucas’s large soles caressing his face, the fat toes dancing upon his skin mischievously. Madison looked further on, his personal trainer flexing and smirking widely, obviously proud of himself.
“Smells real manly, right bro?”
“Yeah bro…” Madison groggily replied. His voice held the self-assured, yet hollow color of Lucas’s.
"Real men stink, don't they?"
Lucas’s eyes drifted to his right, watching as the two feet beside him gradually expanded. After a few moments, Lucas was able to register a new scent. It was not coming from his own body.
After another minute, Lucas rolled out of bed and began grabbing his things. “You ready for our last day of training, man?”
Madison’s mind recalibrated, although still a bit fuzzy. “I think so, dude. Just lemme change and grab a shirt.”
“No need, bro,” Lucas said. “You’re already in gym gear.”
“But I’m wearing what I slept in.”
“Remember what I said about priorities, bro? From now on you sleep, eat, and live in your workout clothes.”
Madison processed this. Lucas was delighted to see how easily it was accepted.
“And don’t even think about that deodorant crap either.”
By the time they arrived back at the gym, the sun was just barely rising over the horizon. Besides a large SUV (which when questioned about Lucas had asserted was in fact Madison's), there were no other vehicles around. It appeared their workout would go uninterrupted again. Madison did not mind this however; he wanted to best utilize the last day of his free package and personal trainer.
“Arms, chest,” Lucas started as they stopped in front of an unfamiliar machine. “What’s the last category, dude?”
Madison itemized in his head. “Legs?”
“Bingo!”
Madison placed himself onto the seat, feeling his femurs against the plastic padding. Once his knees were aligned and thighs in the correct position, he turned to Lucas, waiting for instruction.
“Hip abductors are crucial to your stability, mobility, and strength. Practically the key to building strong, sculpted legs.”
Madison remained silent.
“Think of how big they could be, bro, all thick and juicy like mine," Lucas recognized the hesitation. "And if you don’t like it, you can always try cardio again.”
With a grunt, Madison pushed his legs outward, moving his knees away from his body. A sensational flurry sparked across his legs, as if he had awoken a mechanism that had laid dormant for years. His glutes activated, followed by his hips, quads, and finally the calves. With ample control, Madison closed his legs back into the starting position.
Lucas smiled, stepping over to the weights and bringing them up to the next level. The reps were completed one by one, and with each new set the results became more noticeable. Muscle slowly piled onto Madison’s legs, burying away the delicate hybrid vehicles he had spent nearly a decade creating. But Madison did not care, he was too busy focusing on his reps.
Once he was finished with the abductor machine, Lucas moved Madison to its twin, the adductor. The personal trainer set his client on the widest angle possible, enforcing a permanent manspread into the muscle memory. Squats followed, plumping out Madison’s bottom. After that came the standing calf raise, which brought out a sharp diamond shape. The leg extension machine bunched up the fabric of Madison's shorts, and the leg press was able to reinstate the definition of "compression."
“The results of this program never cease to amaze me,” Lucas remarked as Madison finished his final set. Madison smiled at the compliment, an erection sprouting up in his shorts and forming a long, hard lump. Although seated, his legs still bore a trunk-like quality. The man in the reflection before him was big, tall, loud, and proud. “Thanks, bro.”
“I made you into a man, didn’t I?” Lucas beamed proudly, to which Madison nodded. He then firmly planted his hands unto Madison’s shoulders. “But it's all about proportions, bro. You don't want anything getting in the way of making your muscles really pop, right?”
Madison did not exactly follow, but he agreed anyway. Lucas’s grip grew a bit tighter, almost electric on his skin. Still trained on the mirror, Madison watched as his reflection distorted. It appeared to become broader, more compact, as if he was being slowly squished down. He assumed it was just a hallucination from dehydration. When Madison stood up however, he was surprised to find the dimensions of the gym off. It was like the room had grown a little bigger, if that was even possible.
“Headrush, bro?” Madison looked over to Lucas, finding it strange that the personal trainer’s eye level slightly above his own. “Drink some water.” Lucas held out a water bottle. Madison accepted, although he still felt as if he was missing something.
“Tell me,” Lucas began. “how do you feel about your crew cut?”
Madison rubbed a meaty palm across his head as he took a swig, the short bristles tickling his calloused skin.
“I assume you kept it short for running, right?”
Slowly, the follicles began to push out and extend. The once tight cut began to flow into loose waves, curling as it swept over the forehead and ran down the back of Madison's neck, creating a glossy modern mullet.
“Much better,” Lucas affirmed. “The chicks will be all over you now.”
“I hope the guys will be too.”
Lucas frowned. After a calculated breath, he carefully changed directions.
“But do you actually want that, bro?” Lucas questioned. “Wouldn't you rather be around guys who you can assert your masculinity with? Men that can challenge you as equals, rather than just exist beside you in a lower class?”
“I guess, but,” Lucas could feel Madison slipping. “I can hang out with real men and be gay. I'm still a part of the community."
“And that community is holding you back, man. By comparing yourself with lean, flimsy wimps who dedicate their lives to staying thin, you became invisible. You were a runner, bro, and people who run are just running from something. Their past, their obligations, and for you, your potential. You were always meant to be muscular, dude. You should want to be around guys who appreciate that and push you to be better.”
Madison absorbed this argument, allowing Lucas to continue. “ You cannot hide anymore, you cannot blend in with that community that willingly made you a sheep. Your muscles, your body hair, your musk: you now take up space. You are now someone who is built to be in control, not to just follow the trends. Your masculinity makes you different, makes you someone that people acknowledge and respect.”
The erection, which was already visible in Madison’s shorts, throbbed.
“Don’t you see, bro,” Lucas smiled. “Being a man is the best. It's being in control of your own destiny.”
Placing an arm around Madison’s back, Lucas led him over to the closest mirror. “Look at me, dude.” Madison’s eyes investigated Lucas’s reflection; every perfect angle, rugged curve, and manly feature. "Do I look like a follower, a member of some movement? No, bro. I'm a stud, a hulking beast who people look up to."
Lucas grinned, “And now, look at you.”
The side-by-side comparison came like a jolt to Madison’s system. They could easily be mistaken for brothers.
“We both know I’m a real man, so what does that make you?”
A dumb smile broke out on Madison’s face. Lucas continued, “You want to be a real man, don't you, bro?”
The smile grew even wider. “Yeah bro!”
Lucas went for the final push, “Then I’ll ask you again, what do you want bro? You’ve already got the body of a real man, so what should a real man want?”
A tiny, chemical reaction burst off inside Madison’s brain. Like a light bulb blowing out, a key section of Madison’s being suddenly crumbled to dust, its rubble flowing away into the bloodstream. He suddenly felt a bit lighter, as if something important had just been lifted off his shoulders.
“...girls.”
“Why would a real man want girls?”
Madison struggled, but the answer gradually became clearer. “Their…their big boobs.”
“There you go, bro. What else?”
“Their…mmm…pussies.” The golden chain around Madison's neck sparkled ever so slightly. Its treasured key gently warped, sustaining the general "t" shape and amplifying it. Embracing a new message, a new purpose.
Madison began massaging his enlarged member. The feminine curves in his imagination were drawing closer, their coos sweetly filling his ears.
“What would a real man do with those pussies?” Lucas asked.
Madison moaned. A heavenly rush embraced his body as a new realization dawned on him. Real men were straight, which meant he was straight. Real men were proud to be straight. Real men hung out with other real men, engaged in sports, obsessively worked out, and mercifully spread their seed. And Madison wanted to do all that too. He was always meant to be a real man. There was nothing better than being a real man.
Lucas watched as Madison’s face slowly reformed. The once pointed jaw widened, stretching out into a diamond but continuing further into a strong square. The blunt angles proudly brought out his brow. His nose grew larger too, more prominent to establish a stronger, unapologetic presence. But Madison was too lost to his own dreams to realize any of this. The multitudes of women continued to overload his senses until with a triumphant yell, he blew out an enormous load, creating a hazy white puddle at his feet.
After his client had recovered, Lucas started walking towards the front desk, not bothering to clean up the mess on the gym floor. The other man soon trailed behind.
“Now that we have reached the end of our program, I’ll just need you to complete an exit form.” Behind the counter, Lucas picked up a clipboard. Attached was a stapled packet with a font smaller than anything the other man had ever read before. “I have gone ahead and filled out the registration details for a gym membership. You’d be joining our premium class, getting access to the best amenities 24/7.”
“I’ve already got your name on it.” Lucas handed the man a pen. “All you need to do is sign.”
The mass of tiny words on the contract confused the man, causing a slight headache, so he decided to skip to the tiny line at the bottom. As Lucas had noted, a name was already written out in manuscript beside where a signature was supposed to go. Without hesitation, the man scribbled his answer down and handed back the document.
“Thanks, Mason.” Lucas placed the clipboard back on the other side of the desk.
“Nah, thank you, bro,” Mason said. “So like, what should we do now?”
Lucas sighed, "Unfortunately I got other plans, dude. Another client is coming in pretty soon.”
“Oh, should I like, wait for you then, man?”
“If you want you can hit up the treadmills," Lucas tested.
A grimace of pure disgust painted Mason’s face. “Heck no, bro. Cardio sucks dick. You think I’d ever risk losing these gains?”
Lucas held back the tiniest smile.
“So, I guess I’ll like, see you around, man?”
“Sure.” The reply was despondent, as if Lucas no longer had any interest in the other jock now that the job was completed. Mason was a little offput, but held himself steady as he walked out of the gym. He reminded himself that real men would never get bummed out over another man. That was some homo crap, and Mason was not some homo.
After hopping into his SUV, Mason took a quick sniff of his pits, pleased by his own musk. Following Lucas's dejection, Mason knew just the pick me up he needed. Some slut bouncing up and down on his lap would certainly do the trick. It would feel so good to shove his already-erect schlong right up into her. Raw of course, like a real man would.
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