Occam's Revue

Wanted a second blog to respond to my readers and reblog some of my favorite stories!

[casanovaproject-deactivated2026]

FCA Files: “Campus Homogenization”

Federal Containment Authority
File: AE-1292
Nickname: “The Campus”
Status: Under Investigation

Acquisition Log:

AE-1292 refers to an ongoing anomaly centered around a private university campus located in Atlanta, Georgia. The institution has come under FCA suspicion following multiple reports [REDACTED] over extended enrollment periods.

Patterns observed include [REDACTED]. Reports suggest these changes occur gradually, often going unnoticed until advanced stages.

Due to the slow nature of the anomaly, direct observation has proven difficult. As such, the FCA has initiated a controlled long-term monitoring process under the guise of a documentary study.

Subject Daiki Nakamura, a 19-year-old incoming student from Japan, has agreed to participate in a series of recorded interviews. The subject has been informed that the interviews are part of a documentary about the international students in the university and has no knowledge of FCA’s involvement or existence.

The subject will be interviewed at three intervals over a six-month period. A photograph will be taken at each session for comparative analysis. All interview questions will remain consistent across sessions to any track cognitive, behavioral and identity-based changes.

—————————————————————————-

Scientist [REDACTED] Moore’s Note:

Let’s not pretend we don’t already know what this place does. Everyone here has read the reports from [REDACTED] and read his family member’s testimonies.

What we don’t have is something clean. Something we can point to and say, there it is. This is it happening.

Daiki Nakamura is here to give us that.

Call it observation if you want.

Realistically, he’s a guinea pig.

Or more like a sacrificial lamb.

—————————————————————————-

Interview Log – AE-1292

Subject: Daiki Nakamura
Interview #: 1 (Baseline)
Date: [REDACTED]
Location: On-campus media room, Atlanta, Georgia

Image of Daiki Nakamura (1 month):

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Alright, we’re recording. Whenever you’re ready, just answer naturally. First question—state your name, your age, and where you’re from.

Daiki:
Uh—okay. Um. My name is Daiki Nakamura. I’m nineteen years old, and I’m from Yokohama, Japan.

Sorry, my English is… not so fast yet. I’ll try my best.

Interviewer: You’re doing fine. What made you move to this university?

Daiki:
Ah—yeah. So… I always wanted to study abroad. My parents also, um… encouraged it. They said it would be good for my future, especially for work.

This university had a strong computer science program, and also… it looked very, um… American.

I know that sounds strange, but… I wanted that experience. Like in movies. Campus life, clubs, people talking freely… that kind of thing.

Interviewer: That makes sense. What are your hobbies?

Daiki:
Hobbies… um…

I like programming. Mostly small things—games, tools, nothing big. I also play a lot of video games. Strategy games, mostly. I love Pokémon. And I read manga… sometimes light novels.

Ah—and I like learning languages too. English, obviously, but I also studied a little Korean before. Not very good though.

I’m not very… uh… athletic.

Interviewer: That’s fine. What are you hoping to get out of your time here?

Daiki:
I think… confidence.

In Japan, I was always… how do you say… quiet? Not very noticeable. I had friends, but I was not the kind of person who speaks first.

Here, I want to try to be different. Maybe talk more. Maybe not be so nervous all the time.

Also… better English. Definitely that.

Interviewer: Have you made any friends yet?

Daiki:
Uh… not really.

I mean, I talk to people in class. They are nice. But it’s still… surface level, I think.

Sometimes I don’t understand jokes, or I respond too slowly, and then the conversation moves on.

It’s okay though. It’s only been a few weeks.

Interviewer: What do you think of American students so far?

Daiki:
They’re very… confident.

Not in a bad way. Just… they speak very directly. They don’t hesitate. Even if they are wrong, they still say things.

In Japan, I think people are more careful. We think before we speak.

Here, it feels like… speaking is thinking.

It’s interesting. But also… a little intimidating.

Interviewer: Is there anything about the culture here that surprised you?

Daiki:
Um… yes.

People are very open. About everything. Opinions, feelings… even personal things.

Also… the way people dress. It’s more casual. In Japan, at university, people still try to look… put together, I think.

Here, it feels more… relaxed.

Interviewer: Last question—do you feel like you fit in here?

Daiki:

Not yet.

I think… I’m still observing. Watching how people act, how they talk.

Sometimes I feel like I’m… outside of it. Like I’m studying it instead of being part of it.

But… I hope that changes.

I don’t want to always feel like a visitor.

I want to belong here, eventually.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Observer Note:
Subject presents as expected baseline: polite, reserved, culturally intact. Strong awareness of self as “outsider.”

No observable anomalous influence at this stage.

Recommendation: Proceed with scheduled follow-up.

—————————————————————————

Interview #: 2
Date: [REDACTED] (Approx. 3 months after initial intake)
Location: On-campus media room, Atlanta, Georgia

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Alright, same as before. State your name, your age, and where you’re from.

Daiki:
Yeah—uh, DeAnr- uh. Hold on, um. De- DeDaiki Northmura. Twenty-one. From Atoranta, Japan.

Interviewer: What made you move to this university?

DeDaiki:
Uh…

I mean—yeah, like, study abroad. Same as I said before. My parents wanted me to, and I thought it’d be good, you know?

It’s a good school too. For…

For computers. I think? Yeah—like computer stuff. Programming.

I don’t know, it’s kinda all blending together now.

Interviewer: What are your hobbies these days?

DeDaiki:
Honestly, it’s changed a bit.

I still play games, but not really the strategy ones anymore. They feel kinda… boring? I don’t know, bruh.

I’ve been playing a lot of NBA games lately. Like, 2K and stuff. My friends got me into it.

I’m not even that good, but it’s fun. Way more chill.

Oh—and I’ve been working out.

Not seriously at first, but my brothers dragged me to the gym, and now I go pretty regularly. It’s… kinda addicting.

Interviewer: You mentioned your “brothers”—have you made friends here?

DeDaiki:
Yeah, yeah.

There’s a group from my dorm. Dwayne, Wendell, a couple others. They kinda took me under their wing.

Like, first few weeks I didn’t really talk much, but they kept including me. Inviting me to stuff, gym, games, just hanging out.

They say I’m like… “their one Asian guy.”

I think they mean it in a good way. Like—it’s different, I guess.

Interviewer: How so?

DeDaiki:
I don’t know, they joke about it sometimes. Like how I talk, or how I act.

But it’s not mean. It’s just…

That’s how they are.

They’ve been helping me loosen up, I think.

Interviewer: What are you hoping to get out of your time here now?

DeDaiki:
Honestly? Just… living it.

Like, before I was stressing about everything—grades, future, all that. Now it’s more like… just experience stuff, you know? Meet people, have fun.

I’ll figure the rest out.

Interviewer: Do you still spend time programming or studying?

DeDaiki:
Uh… yeah.

I mean—some. Not like before though.

I think I still have classes for it.

Actually… yeah, I do. I just—

I don’t know, it’s not really what I think about anymore.

Interviewer: What do you think of American students now, compared to before?

DeDaiki:
They’re cool.

Like, before I thought they were intimidating, but they’re not really. They just… say what they think.

It’s kinda better, honestly. Less pressure.

You don’t gotta overthink everything.

Interviewer: Has anything about you changed since you got here?

DeDaiki:
Uh…

I guess.

Not as… try hard as before.

People say I look different, but like—I don’t really see it.

Interviewer: Final question—do you feel like you fit in here?

DeDaiki:
Yeah.

I mean—I’m not like, fully there, but…

I got people. I know how things work now.

I’m not just watching anymore.

I’m kinda part of it.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Observer Note:
Subject displays increased social integration and confidence. Noticeable physical changes (increased muscle mass) and behavioral shifts linked to peer group influence. Noticeable scratching of armpits and groin. Subject emits odour.

Emerging linguistic drift observed, including early adoption of localized slang.

Subject shows mild disorientation when recalling academic focus and prior routines.

Recommendation: Continue monitoring. Identity destabilization progressing as expected.

Image of Daiki Nakamura (3 months):

—————————————————————————-

Interview #: 3
Date: [REDACTED] (Approx. 6 months after initial intake)
Location: On-campus media room, Atlanta, Georgia

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Alright, same as before. State your name, your age, and where you’re from.

DeDaiki:
Aight, bet—uh…

Man, name’s DeAndre but folks be callin’ me D, fr. Ain’t nobody really sayin’ all that other shit no more.

I’m twenty-three—yeah, twenty three, fasho.

From where?

Man, I’m from out here. Like… Atlanta side. Been out here wit it.

Interviewer: What made you move to this university?

D:
Move?

Nah, you trippin’, I ain’t “move” nowhere. I been locked in here. This my spot.

Like, I been tapped in wit the campus, classes, allat. Ain’t no other place fr.

Interviewer: What are you studying?

D:
Sports science, yeah.

Tryna get my body right, you feel me? Learn how muscles work n’ shit, recovery, all that.

Coach be sayin’ I got good build for it too.

Interviewer: What are your hobbies?

D:
Man, shi—

Hoopin’ mostly. We be runnin’ games late, like 2AM runs, real ones know.

Then we slide back, hop on 2K, run squads—Dwayne always sellin’, swear to God.

Be chillin’, scrollin’, watchin’ clips, music loud as hell.

Lowkey been tryna get my followers up too—postin’ lil vids, gym shit, game clips, whatever hit.

Just vibin’, fr. Ain’t tryna do too much.

Interviewer: Do you remember what you used to study?

D:
Used to?

Man, nah. This what I’m on.

Sports, body, allat. Ain’t nothin’ else really stickin’.

Interviewer: How have you been settling in socially?

D:
Man, I’m straight.

Got my circle—Dwayne, Wendell, couple other dudes. We locked in.

They had to look out for me too, ‘cause like—

Bruh, I woke up one day, none of my shit fit no more. Like at all.

Shirts tight, pants done. Whole closet dead.

So yeah, they slid me some clothes—hoodies, shorts, allat.

We be matchin’ sometimes, no cap.

Interviewer: Can you describe any changes you’ve noticed in yourself?

D:
Changes?

Nah, I’m just chillin’.

Been like this.

Interviewer: Is there a reason you keep pawing at your groin, sir?

D:

When you got a babymaker like this between your legs, it be takin’ up ALL kinda space, on God.

It stay leakin’ and drippin’ and actin’ up and shit, bruh, I swear.

I’m just sittin’ there like… man what even IS this.

I guess my body just be tellin’ me loud and clear like, ‘yo… you ready to be a dad frfr.’”

Interviewer: Do you still speak Japanese?

D:
Japanese?

Man, what is you talkin’ ‘bout?

Nah, I don’t be on that.

Interviewer: Final question—do you feel like you fit in here?

D:
Fit in?

Man, I ain’t tryna “fit in,” I am this.

Like… this regular. This how it be.

Ain’t no other way fr.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Observer Note:
Subject exhibits full linguistic, behavioral, and identity assimilation. Speech patterns now entirely localized, with heavy slang usage and reduced clarity.

No recognition of prior identity, nationality, or language.

Cognitive function appears further degraded compared to Interview 2.

Subject no longer presents as Daiki Nakamura, but as ‘DeAndre North’

Image of Daiki Nakamura DeAndre North (6 months):

—————————————————————————-

Closing Analysis Note – AE-1292

Earlier this year, a federal diversity initiative was mandated across state universities. This particular institution was among the most openly resistant, citing its already majority black demographic composition and questioning the necessity of enforced demographic balancing measures for caucasian and other ethnicities.

Internal FCA correspondence has raised concern that, in response, the university may have implemented a forced homogenisation effect on incoming diversity initiative students, effectively overwriting their DNA and memories to keep the school entirely African American.

While this remains unconfirmed, current longitudinal data from Subject Nakamura strongly supports the presence of a structured, environment-driven assimilation process occurring at the campus level.

FCA will be deploying two field investigators to the university tomorrow for direct observation and informal inquiry. Both operatives are black males, selected specifically to reduce the risk of our white personnel having their identities rewritten into horny black male college students.

[occamsrevue]

Hey man who are your favorite tf/male body swap writers? It's so sad since many of my favorites are gone. Got any good leads?

Thanks for the ask ! If you're already following this blog than chances are you're aware of most of the writers I'm about to mention but I'll bite-

MiscTfs and Salmonskinroll are some of my longtime favorite writers still kicking around here who write a good variety of TFs ! I'm also remiss to not mention HairyJockTF who is truly a master of making men hirsute

As far as new writers go I enjoy Catton, FrozenThrall and TwistedTFs who, warning, dabble in Gay to Straight !

I'm unfortunately not nearly as tapped into body swap creators- I'm reallyyy picky about the body swap stories I'm into :/ Saying that if anyone has a writer they want to put me on just shout haha !

[coyotes-rules-of-change]

Author's Note: A version with photos is linked below. Scroll down—if that is what you desire.

Uh oh. It's getting pretty hard isn't it...

Get it? Hard? Because your cock is getting so hard and I bet it's getting harder and harder to keep yourself from touching it.

I mean, if I'm giving you the hot muscular body and the confidence and charisma for you to shake loose the bonds of your rise through the ranks but you can't get it without a cost, or at least a trial. Frankly in transformation circles, the rule is common: wanna keep your brains? You don't get to cum for 24 hours while the magic of the transformation... "cures."

I guess I didn't tell you how hard it would become. And the willpower you've gotta wield to keep those precious smarts in your head is drawing thinner and thinner as it gets harder and harder.

I gotta be honest, you're doing so well even though it's so hard. You have just a half an hour left—thirty minutes before you can cum. Thirty minutes and you don't have to worry any more. I believe in you; it's not that long, it's not that hard, you can wait for that sweet release. Even though the time seems to slow, even though the pleasure builds... you can keep your hands off that long hard—

Oh dear. It got to be too much, didn't it. You thought a quick graze, a light touch, the briefest of moments would release the pressure and keep you going. You felt that jolt, that hot flash, that pulse of pleasure— no! It's too hard. It's too long. It just feels too good...

...but it helped. It bought you another minute. It's only... twenty three minutes now... so you could try it again...

Feel the wave of pleasure course through you as you give it a rub, two rubs, thr— no. That's enough... let it settle, let it wane, let it swell again, and another three minutes gone.

You can touch it again—once, twice, three times. You let the wave flow through your body—cloud your mind, settle. Two minutes gone.

And rub again, swell, relief, wane.

And rub again, swell, relief, wane.

And rub again, and again, and again.

It's so hard. It's so long. It feels so good, but the only way to keep it at bay is to give in just enough, rub just slowly enough, release only a little of that pleasure as time stretches longer. The last minutes slow to an agonizing fog of horniness as you keep yourself edging on the precipice of release without crossing over. Closer and closer to climax until...

Though the fog, you hear your alarm. Time was up. Release. Relief. You did it. You have the body, the charisma, and the brains, and now you could afford to take it all in. You could finally take that new dick through it's first test drive. It was time to...

Release, relief, pleasure. It overtakes your body and mind all in one instant. It pulses through you in waves and clouds your mind in horniness while cum shoots, and shoots, and shoots. out of your cock. You long cock. Your hard cock. Your beautiful cock. The pleasure recedes and your muscles relax and your mind settles... and clears... and empties in the post climactic bliss. It just felt so good. You've never felt so good. You sat for a moment... a minute? an hour?

You knew you wanted something... a job... a position... something else? But all you could process was that orgasm... your throbbing cock... your pleasure... your horniness swelling back into you. It gets harder. It gets longer. It just keeps feeling better and better...

————————

I suppose I should explain... That common rule: you can't cum or you'll ejaculate your brains outta your dick—that's not a real thing. No, unfortunately for him, the best way for him to have kept his smarts was to cum immediately. I've never had anyone make it the full day, though. He is so horny, he doesn't have room in that braincell of his to process much more. He's gonna be rubbing that cock of his all-day, everyday. Aww, seems kinda pathetic really. Maybe I'll send in a few guys to suck his dick and make sure he drinks some water or something. And maybe help him set up a Grindr and an OnlyFans.

Hey all, This story had pictures but certain censors found them to be to dangerous for this community—you know, erotic content. Blah blah blah. As a result I've taken a step common in the community and created a Blogspot.

[beausstuff]

Engine Light

Inspired by @artificial-transmutations

"FUCK MAN!" Mark screamed, slamming the hood of the silver 2023 Audi A4 back down. The sound wasn't the solid thunk of German engineering he expected; it was a tinny, rattling clang that vibrated in his teeth.

Drake stood by the guardrail, scowling. He picked at his cream polo, which was already damp with sweat. Not a very flattering look

"I don't even know why you opened it, man," he said, his voice tight with the specific anxiety of the privileged. "It's not like you’d know what to do. The most car work I've seen you do was pairing your iPhone."

Mark wiped his hands on his beige chinos, leaving a faint smudge of road grit. He stared at it, horrified. Feeling overwhelmed for a moment.

"My dad is going to kill me, Drake. If we miss the orientation at Deloitte in Chicago, the internship is gone! We have to call a tow truck."

The wind blew the fumes back into their faces, causing their eyes to water.

"No signal," Drake said, holding up his phone. "Dead zone. We have to push it. I saw a sign for a garage a mile back.... I think."

"Push it?" Mark looked at his loafers, "Are you stupid? In this heat? It’s like a hundred degrees!"

"Do you have a better idea, counselor?" Drake snapped.

Mark stared.

They pushed.

It was a grueling, embarrassing shuffle. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on them. The Loafers were definitely ruined.

By the time they rolled the Audi into the bay of "Sal’s Auto & Repair," they were drenched. Their crisp clothes stuck to their skin like wet tissue paper. The air here was thicker, smelling of rubber, sulfur, and old oil.

The mechanic had rolled himself out from under a truck. He had wiped his hands on a rag.

Didn't speak; he just pointed to the card reader as Mark breathlessly explained the radiator issue.

Mark swiped his platinum card. The machine beeped in the heart dropping way.

"Locked," the mechanic grunted. "System says fraud. Card's dead."

"That's ridiculous," Mark said, his voice cracking. "Run it again. It's a gold account. My father..."

"I don't care about your daddy. Cash or labor, boys. I got a backlog of transmission work and my guy quit yesterday. You want the radiator fixed? You work."

The Mechanic Stared them down, his bulky frame seeming to fill all of their vision. He wasn't the most agreeable, and he definitely could use a refresher on how to use deodorant.

Drakes spirits crashed. Maybe a few hours of work could save them from the embarrassing call back home. Just to pay off the bill. The mechanics weathered lips flitted for just a split second, almost like a quick grin.

*****

"I feel… fucking sick," Drake murmured.

They had been working for four hours. Mark had insisted they just do enough to get the bill paid and leave, but he swore the clock in the garage was broken. It felt like it had been days.

Drake was scrubbing a pile of hubcaps in the back. He had taken off his polo to save it, but his undershirt; a flimsy white tank top, was already ruined, stained yellow with sweat and grey with brake dust.

"It's the fumes," Mark said. He was under the lift, wrestling with an oil pan. He slid out on the creeper. His glasses were fogged up, so he took them off and shoved them in his pocket. He blinked, squinting at Drake. "We just need to get through a few hours. What was… what was our ETA for Chicago?"

"Tuesday," Drake said. Then he frowned. "Wait. Was it Tuesday? Or Thursday?"

"It doesn't matter," Mark snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a thick streak of grease across his brow.

"Hand me the… the twister thing."

"The wrench?" Drake asked, looking at the tool bench.

"Yeah. The wrench." Mark stared at his own hand. It was trembling. Man I need to moisturize. The hand in front of him looked different. His knuckles seemed swollen and broad. The undersides of his nails were stained black, and his hands were so caked in oil, you couldn't even make out his fair pale skin...

in fact his skin looked real dark...

"Here," Drake said, handing him the dirty wrench. Their fingers brushed.

He looked at Mark.

...When had Mark taken off his shirt?

His chest glistening with sweat. Drake felt a strange tightening in his gut.

"Thanks," Mark grunted. His voice sounded lower. Rough. He didn't pull his hand away immediately. He looked up at Drake,

Damn he looked good in this garage,

"You missed a spot on that rim."

"Make me clean it," Drake laughed.

Mark just laughed,

a low, gravelly sound that didn't belong to a pre-law student. "Keep it up, pretty boy."

****

Drake woke up on a cot in the back office. He reached for his phone to check the stock market, the same as every other morning. But his hand felt clumsy. He dropped the phone. When he picked it up, he frowned

The app must have glitched out, because none of the numbers made any sense to him...

The S & P 500 is.... huh what is that anyway?

"Yo, Duke! Get your ass up!"

Drake flinched. Duke? Who the hell is Duke?

He walked out into the bay. The heat hit instantly. He immediately felt a wetness under his arm pits. Hadn't he put on a T shirt this morning.

The wife beater stretched tight over his skin, hugging his chest.... his impressive chest, and showing off veiny arms from years under the hood.

Mark was leaning over the fender of a car. But it wasn't the Audi.

It was a '69 Chevelle. Smokey grey.

A sexy mother fucking vehicle.

"Mark?" Drake asked, his voice cracking into a deep baritone.

Mark turned around. He had a cigarette dangling from his lip. He inhaled deeply, the tip glowing cherry-red, and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that mingled with the shop's haze.

"Its Mac, Dumbass" the man grunted. He looked at Drake with hooded, predatory eyes. "And grab a rag. We gotta tune the carb before noon."

"since when do you smoke? You know I..." Drake stammered, staring at the pack of Reds in Mac’s pocket. "I have asthma man."

"You ain't got asthma," Mac growled, walking over. He moved with a heavy, hip-rolling swagger, his jeans riding low on his hips, revealing the adonis lines of his pelvis.

He pulled a cigarette from the pack and shoved it between Drake’s lips. "Light up. And get yer ass to work."

Drake let him light it. The smoke filled his chest, burning, searing. It should have made him cough. Instead, it felt like oxygen. The rush of nicotine quieted the screaming voice in his head that remembered Chicago.

"The car…" Drake pointed at the Chevelle. "That aint what we rode in on... is it?"

Mac looked at the car, then back at Drake. He stepped closer, invading Drake’s personal space. The smell of him

sweat,

stale tobacco,

musk

it was overwhelming. It made Drake’s knees weak.

"It's always been a Chevelle, Duke," Mac whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, irrational anger. "You hit your head or something? We been fixing this piece of shit for a week."

"A week?" Drake’s mind reeled. It’s been a day. It’s been a lifetime. "But the internship…"

"Fuckin wake up man" Mac growled. He grabbed Drake’s chin with a grease-stained hand, forcing him to look him in the eye. "You shittin with me? Or you just come in high again?"

Mac Pushed Drake Duke aside and turned around to face the car again, Displaying his massive back, clearly defined through his soaked through wife beater...

Drake Duke stood there fore a moment reeling, before walking up behind him... waiting for the work to begin.

*****

The shop was a furnace. The fan rattled uselessly against the wall.

Duke was under the chassis, tightening the suspension. He slid out on the creeper, his body slick with oil and sweat. He wiped his face, smearing black grease across his cheekbones.

Mac was standing by the workbench, wiping down a socket set. He was shirtless, his back muscles rippling as he moved. He had a mullet now

thick, dark hair curling over his neck, damp with sweat.

Duke stood up. He walked over to Mac. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the bench, shook one out, and lit it. Mac turned. He looked at Duke.

"She running rich?" Mac asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Lean," Duke corrected. He took a drag, blowing the smoke into Mac’s face. "Need to open her up."

Mac laughed, before looking Duke up and down, playing with his crotch.

"You talking about the car, or you talking about me?"

"Both," Duke growled.

Collision.

He shoved Mac back against the tool chest. The metal drawers rattled with a crash, Tools spilled in every direction

Duke fumbled with Macs stained Jeans, slipping his hands to grope Macs enormous, straining cock.

His mouth worked lower and lower,

His tongue soaking up all the oil

Grease,

And sweat

Mac grasped Dukes rounded shoulders with his oil stained hands, Shoving him lower and lower.

"Get to Work Boy," He said, Grabbing a fist full of Dukes Hair,

"We got about 8 minutes before our next Service ticket shows."

Duke choked in response

From the garage window, The shop owner grinned. Illuminated by the glow of a cigar.

He sure was glad those good ol boys had shown up when they did.

Always loved guiding the Rising generation towards the trades.

*****

Hey Guys! Hope you enjoyed the story! Had a lot of fun exploring this idea while I was on vacation haha. Feel free to message or submit in my inbox, story ideas, or how you would Transform me (profile pic)

[transformhim]

Superfood

“You know, these actually ain’t bad,” Philip remarked with a stoned goofiness, his words somehow several octaves lower and distorted with the next berry between his teeth, as thick hair sprouted all over his body.


Derek and Jerome looked at each other with shock and utter speechlessness. ‘Was this really happening?’ each of their looks conveyed.


———


Philip, Derek, and Jerome were high school friends who had found their way to the same university by some stroke of luck. The three were inseparable through their years of friendship, spending most weekends at each other’s houses playing FIFA or Smash Bro’s and taking part in the same activities (theater, academic decathlon, lit mag, Model U.N., you name it). With their interests, they were also all equally bullied throughout their years, often called nerds and queers—which wasn’t really far off from the truth: they were all very bookish and bright, plus Philip and Derek were both famously bisexual while Jerome was proudly gay (much to the chagrin of his bigoted parents, who hid their hate behind their faith). None of them were knockout gorgeous, but none of them were butt fucking ugly either. As a matter of fact, they were all perfectly average, and each was content in that fact. They didn’t really have eyes for each other—or at least no one was going to admit it—but they did occasionally experiment with one another on the weekends. You know, the “practice” make out sessions here, the “practice” handies there, plenty of group masturbation in the name of “bro stuff.” They didn’t know why they bought into heteronormativity, but it certainly helped to not complicate things. More than anything, they were dear friends, each of them trusting enough with the other to confide in and find comfort when they needed it. And high school was pure and total torture to people like them, so they needed a lot of it.


But as luck would have it, these three friends were now freshmen at the flagship university of their home state, their dutiful years in high school finally paying off. As soon as each of them moved into their respective dorms, they reconvened in the main quad, wrapping each other in a hug, thrilled to begin this new chapter of their lives together.


They were about two month into their first semester and the weather was starting to change. The unbearably hot, muggy, humid days were finally behind them, and the crisp autumn air was finally starting to make its debut. Not too hot, not too cold—the most perfect time of the year. The three decided that now would be a good time to go camping at Derek’s family farm land, just to catch up on what everyone’s been up to in their respective degree fields. Derek would pay for the gas/provide the locale/provide the materials, Philip would buy the weed, and Jerome would get the food.


As each of them went about their chores gathering supplies that Saturday morning before they left, Jerome made his way to the town farmer’s market to pick up some fresh bites. In addition to the deli meats, bread, and condiments for sandwiches he had bought at the supermarket, Jerome picked up some fresh fruits and veggies, a few artisan snack items from local vendors, and some fresh-pressed bottled juices. ‘Not a bad setup,’ Jerome thought as he gathered his bags and made his way to the bus stop.

In the parking lot, Jerome heard a few “Yoo-hoo!”s from the corner of the parking lot. He surveyed his environment and his eyes landed on a sweet looking old black woman near the tree line. She was wrapped in a shawl and had a slight hunch to her frame. Jerome would never trust an invitation like that from some rando white lady in a parking lot, but this woman reminded him a lot of his grandmother. ‘She must need help,’ Jerome concluded as he made his way towards her.


He arrived a few feet from her and lowered his bags gently to the ground, “You need some help, ma’am?” His parents were mean as dirt, but they did instill some good manners in him.


“Well, ain’t you kind,” she cooed, “No, no, I’m just looking to sell you some of my wares.” She gestured behind her at a wide bucket full of greenery wrapped in rubberbands. Each bunch looked like a bundle of twigs with many bright red berries attached to each sprig.


“Ah, no, but thank you, I think I have enough, I don’t want to miss the—“


“Oh, but you just got to, child! A strapping young man like you would really benefit from berries like this…”

Jerome blushed with a grin and scratched the back of his head. 


“Tell ya what, son… I’ll sell a whole heap of ‘em to you for… well, let’s keep it simple and just say a dollar, now how’s that sound?” she offered with a motherly tone.


“Hmm.. well, what are they?”


“Oh, let’s just say they’re a-a.. what do y’all call it now?.. oh-oh, a superfood!” she responded with infectious enthusiasm.


“Superfood, right?” Jerome considered for a moment. He reached for his wallet, “Alright, deal! What’s a dollar, anyways?” He handed her a crisp dollar bill with a grin.


“That’s the spirit! Coming right up,” she pocked the dollar and turned and picked out several rubberband-wrapped bunches of the berry-rich twigs, placing them in a plastic bag she pulled out her her pocket.


“Woah, woah, now I don’t want to rob you of your-“


“No, no, no, nonsense! I got plenty more where that came from!” she put the bag in his hand and gave a few cheery laughs, patting his hand.


“You’re very kind, ma’am. Why me, though? I didn’t see you talking to anyone else.” 


She thought for a moment, “Ya know, I got what they call a sixth sense,” she explained, thinking she must’ve been the first to think of such a description. “I called out to you, you were so kind to respond—offered to help me, even!—and you’re just the sweetest thing, so a young man like you deserves something as special as these.” she gave him another heart-melting grandmotherly grin and took his hand to pat it some more.


“Well, thank you ma’am. Have a nice day!”

He picked up his bags, setting the bag of berries inside, and started walking to the bus stop, hearing the bus distantly approaching. Wait till he tells Derek and Philip about this, some old lady offering him an army’s portion—and for just one dollar—of… wait, what even were they?


He turned to ask, “What kind of berries did you sa-…”

He looked where she was when he saw her first, but she was gone. Her, her wide bucket of berries, gone. He looked quickly around the parking lot but didn’t see a trace of her. ‘She’s like 90,’ he thought, ‘she couldn’t have gone that far.’


He heard the exhaust of the bus hiss as it slowed to a halt. He turned and broke into a light jog to make the bus. Didn’t want to keep Derek and Philip waiting.


———

The ride to the farm was easy and quick, just two hours away from campus. They listened to some great music on the way there (Philip had always been an incredible DJ for their long car rides), cracked jokes, and talked about the sites they saw along the way.

They finally arrived in the early afternoon. It was a gorgeous piece of land, with wide open skies, clean air, and rolling hills. They decided to set up camp right outside Derek’s family farmhouse, a rickety little shack with at least some running water and an indoor bathroom. What?! They came out here to be out in the air and reconnect, not to rough it, piss on trees, and drink from streams; “camping” was just the easiest way to put it!

Jerome sat the bags of food on the picnic table they kept on the side of the house, setting everything out in a buffet style. He put the berries among the other fruit, thinking nothing of it.

Derek set up the tent: a small circle of 3 camping chairs, a dinky little 4 person tent he’d used all through high school during these types of outings. To say it fit 4 would be generous; they would definitely be sleeping body to body tonight. Whatever, it would keep them warm, and when you’ve swapped tongues had each other’s dicks in your hands, personal space didn’t really matter anymore. He brought some wood from the wood pile over in case they wanted to make a fire later.

Philip sat at the picnic table, unpacked his chunky baggie of weed, his purple metal grinder, and a little marble-designed tray he used for rolling from his backpack, and went to work rolling joints for the three of them. He started with 6. That ought to be plenty for today, tonight, and tomorrow for the three of them, but he had more than enough for rolling if they wanted it.

Derek and Jerome were talking about their classes, each expressing dismay with the oversimplified nature of intro classes. As Philip licked the paper at the end of the roll for the last one, Derek reached over his shoulder, still locked in conversation and grabbed a banana. Jerome listened attentively, nodding in agreement occasionally as he picked up an orange from the pile, immediately pealing it. Jerome and Derek had ditched their shirts, free to violate social norms now that they were out in the country, and Philip considered doing the same for a moment. ‘Fuck it,’ he thought and removed his shirt too. He always felt cautious being too showy around Derek and Jerome. They were all regrettably hairless and, again, fully average in every way, but Philip had a slight leg up on them. He had a slightly more pronounced chest and abdomen, plus the very slightest hint of toned arms of the bunch, all of which he credited to working as part of the crew during theater all through high school (crew usually did all the hard work and heavy lifting). He hated making Derek and Jerome feel smaller, but he wasn’t going to be the only one fully clothed. He wasn’t going to be the only one not eating, either. Philip stood up from the picnic table and surveyed his options. There was plenty to choose from, but a bag of what looked like berries on stems caught his eye.

“Fuck’s this?” he interrupted Jerome and Derek.

Jerome looked back, “Oh, funny story. Some old woman at the farmer’s market sold me them for dirt cheap. Said they were a ‘superfood’ too.”

“You’re right, hilarious story,” Philip responded deadpan, looking at the berries. ‘Superfood, eh?’ he thought and shrugged, plucking himself a stem containing about 4 berries. Best not take too much if he didn’t care for them.

He took a joint from the table and sparked it up. He blew out the flame and kept blowing so that the tip of the joint lit with an angry, bright red ember and inhaled deeply. He held his breath for a second, waiting to feel his lungs tickle a bit, looked over the berries in his other hand, and exhaled. He stood up and stepped towards Jerome and Derek, taking another huge hit of the joint, holding it…. and exhaling, starting to feel the familiar buzzing in his head. ‘There we go,’ he thought as his tapped Derek’s shoulder to pass him the j. Derek said a small “Thanks,” as he paused in his conversation just to take a hit and pass it to Jerome, but continued his diatribe immediately after. Philip walked back over to the picnic table and sat backwards on the seat, facing the two of them. He looked at the berries again, and plucked one of the berries from the stem with his teeth.

———

“And anyways, it’s just a waste of our tuition money if we’re just doing the same work we did in high school,” Derek insisted passionately, punctuating his thought with another hit of the joint and holding.

“No man, yeah, you’re right,” Jerome nodded sympathetically.

Derek exhaled a big plume of smoke, “I know! I’m just glad as hell I have scholarships footing the bill for a lot of this shit, could you ima-” he stopped, cocking his head as he heard a strange sound. A creaking?

Derek looked a Jerome with a quizzical face, Jerome’s eyebrows furrowed, clearly hearing it too.

They paused for a second and waited. *crreeeeeaak* There it was again! They turned to say something to Philip.

“Philip, do you-” Jerome began and stopped immediately. Philip was sitting several inches higher than he was earlier, staring off at nothing in particular. 

Philip turned to face the two of them, “Hmm?” 

“Uh,…. uh-I said, do you hear-” Jerome words were cut off by another *crreeeeeaak*.

The bench of the picnic table groaned and creaked as Philip rose another several inches, his legs, arms, and neck extending noticeably. Philip only adjusted his sitting position slightly.

“Hear anything?… Uh.. No…” Philip responded, looking at each of them as they were saying something absurd.

Derek and Jerome looked at each other, stunned surprise in their eyes.

Philip lifted the sprig to his mouth and plucked another berry with his teeth, bringing it into his mouth to chew and swallow it. Jerome and Derek watched speechless as thick hair sprouted from his skin across his chest seemingly out of nowhere. Philip brought his hand up to scratch his chest absentmindedly as he continued staring into the rolling hills. The hair growth spread down his chest, cross his arms, under his pits, into his crotch, down his legs, over his feet and hands. Philip brought his hands up to scratch his chin, seemingly unaware of all of these changes, as hair sprouted all over his jaw and around his mouth, meeting his hairline by his ears. He coughed/cleared his throat, and it sounded to Jerome and Derek like his voice dropped several octaves in the process.

Philip giggled, apparently enthused by the high he was getting, and plucked another berry from the sprig, “You know, these actually ain’t that bad,” he remarked to Jerome and Derek with his mouth full, as he brought the berry in to chew. 

Jerome and Derek stared open-mouthed at one other, in complete disbelief of what was happening. They learned into whisper to one another.

“Jerome, what the fuck did you buy?” Derek whispered accusingly.

“I don’t know man, don’t pin this on me! What the hell is going on?” Jerome whispered back.

“Is he seriously not aware of what’s happening to h-” Derek paused. Both of them could feel a presence behind them. 

Philip had approached the two of them without them knowing, standing awfully close to the two of them between them. He was no longer chewing the berry.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told either of you that s-*EEeeh*-crets don’t make fr-*Eeh*-nds?” Between “secrets” and “friends,” Philip’s neck and shoulder’s made hard, meaty, thudding sounds as they exploded outward with hard muscle. Jerome and Derek looked up at him with their jaws dropped.

Derek and Jerome heard more wet thudding and Philip uttered a few strained grunts as both of his arms and his chest tripled, almost quadrupled in size with pulsing, rising muscle. His abs were slower work, rising up slowly to his skin and hardening and not making as big of a display about it, but giving him a torso that would put all of the football jocks at their college to shame. 

“It’s just rude *grunt, sucking inhale of air* you know,” he continued, this time his back and sides molding rippling and hard against this body. “To talk about someone like they’re nah-*Hhhooouugughoo*-haut even there.” He concluded as his hips bucked a little bit with his ass pushed against the fabric of his shorts, threatening the strength of the threads. During his last sentence, his hairy thighs swelled to the size of tree trunks and the threads along his legs tore up the side.

Derek and Jerome looked at each other, both of them fucking hard and shit in their shorts, their mouths still hanging open. No one knew what to say to one another. Philip plucked the last berry from the sprig and popped it in his mouth, quickly chewing and swallowing.

“Wh-wh-what should we do? He’s-” Jerome started. 

“You’re still doing it!” Philip exclaimed, adjusting his stance so he was looking at Jerome. Derek got an incredible view of Philip’s absolutely sculpted new ass and thick, hairy thighs, and noticed that Philip’s calves were just finishing their growth as they swelled to massive diamonds. Derek was drooling at this point, he couldn’t fucking help it. One of his best friends was hulking out and becoming a walking wet dream, and didn’t even seem to notice it happening.

Jerome, on the other hand, was now at face level with Philip’s crotch, just inches away from his nose. He had seen Philip’s cock and balls, hell even held them, plenty of times, and he noticed their familiar shape nestled between his now-gargantuan thighs. Wait- he swallowed one more berry, what does it d-

Before he could even finish his thought, Philip interjected “It’s unbelievable! My best friend! I can’t believe yooUUUuuuOooOoooouUUuuUuuooooo…” Philip seemingly involuntarily lightly bucked his hips and Jerome got a full show. Philip’s cock, which was already pressed tightly against his now-ridiculously tight shorts grew thicker, longer, thicker, longer, thicker, longer, thicker, longer, with each consecutive tiny thrust of his hips. He again grunted deeply as Jerome saw Philip’s balls swell to the size of large eggs in his shorts. He swore he could hear a light but unmistakable churning coming from within Philip’s shorts. His cock and balls were now pressed so tightly against the shorts that it left absolutely nothing to the imagination, so tight it must’ve hurt, and this impressive bulge was now touching to the tip of Jerome’s nose.

Jerome gripped the sides of his chair and moaned loudly as his knees and hips shook. He fired an extremely pent-up load into his shorts. 

Derek finally spoke up. “Hey Phil?”

“Yeah? What’s up buddy?” Philip turned to face him, his massive bulge lightly hitting Derek’s cheek. Derek fired a load into his pants as well, gritting his teeth and swearing as his hips bucked and unloaded.

“Did you need something?” Philip continued.

Derek sucked in a few panting breaths, “It’s just… I mean… I mean fuck, man, do you really not realize what just happened?!”

Philip slowly shook his head, “What, uh.. what do you mean?”

Derek and Jerome exchanged a furrowed brow, impossibly confused look. Was the weed laced with something? Magic berries? For real?

A silence fell over them for a few moments.

“AAARRGGHH, I got you guys!!” Philip loudly broke the silence laughing thunderously and rubbing his meaty paws together. In his hilarious, excited fit, his muscles were flexing and contracting in ways that Derek and Jerome had never seen before, on Philip or literally any other man they’ve seen.

Derek and Jerome left out a satisfied exhale they felt like they had been holding for the last several minutes. “You seriously had us convinced we were tripping hard!” Jerome laughed, standing up awkwardly and letting his cum drip out of his shorts leg. Derek did the same. “So you knew the whole time? Felt the whole thing?”

“Ohhhh yeah,” Philip responded with a shuddering breath and a slow but intense nod. “OOOHHH yeah. Every single exhilarating second of it. Fuck, I could feel everything. That was hard as shit not to break character during the last bit of it. Speaking of, I feel like I’m losing blood flow here, let me just…” 

Philip hooked his thumbs under his waistband, his shorts hugging his legs impossibly tight. He looked like he exerted just a tiny bit of pressure outwards and, *SNAP!* his shorts split and fell to his side. His absolutely inhuman 13″  cock swung up and slapped wetly against his abs, leaking pre. Jerome and Derek immediately went hard again. 

“Aaaaaahhhhh, that’s so much better.” Philip leaned his head back and wiped his copious amounts of pre into his muscles. “Like, guys, this is ridiculous, I mean WHAT?!” Philip giggled did several poses with his arms and legs, striking every pose that got him off when he was about 140 lbs. lighter. “Wait, hold up, lemme..” he concentrated and slowly…. slowly but surely… ah, there he goes. He expertly popped his pecs and made them do a little dance for Jerome and Derek, winking and sticking his tongue down his chin at them. Philip noticed the wet spots on Derek and Jerome’s shorts, their still-rock hard dicks forced up against the fabric underneath.

“Hang on, did I…. did I make you guys cum? Just by… like changing?”

The two slowly nodded to each other and then to Philip.

Philip took a few staggering steps back. “Awwwwhhhwwwhhhww fuck,” he started. “Fuck, man, awwww, that is so fucking hot, I just… Sorry, I need to…”

He grabbed onto his impossibly huge shaft and started yanking. He sucked in small mouthfuls of air, moaned, moaned, grunted, moaned, closer, closer, and then…

“GGGRRWWAAAAHAHARRAH” he leaned his head back and rocketed unnaturally massive volleys of cum into the sky, much of it landing in heavy, wet, massive splatters on Jerome and Derek, who of course creamed their shorts at the same time.

Derek and Jerome were soaked. Derek put a finger into Jerome’s hair and scooped out a plentiful sample of the spunk, and Jerome did the same, wiping his sample off Derek’s chest. They both brought it into their mouths and inhaled deeply.

Panting, with an idiot grin, Philip asked, “How do I taste, gentlemen?”

Derek and Jerome responded, “Unreal” simultaneously, their mouths still full with Philip’s seed as they chuckled at another.

Philip wiped off massive puddles of cum all over his god-like body and slung them to the ground with heavy, gooey sounds. “Sorry, guys, it’s just… This feels absolutely surreal, it’s just… Oh, my god, you guys have to-”

Philip stopped his thought.

“We still have like 80 of those berries, at least.” Philip announced and a silence fell over the group.

They exchanged horny, excited, lusting, impossibly happy looks with one another.

Derek and Jerome broke into a sprint towards the picnic table. Once they reached the bag, they both started picking and devouring the berries from the bag like starved men. Philip watched in lustful, excited anticipation as his best friends, still filling themselves with berries, start grunting and moaning with deeper and deeper voices, watching their legs and arms grow hairy as their bodies started comically pulsing obscenely larger and larger with muscle, their frames stretching into their air. He heard a firecracker crack as he watched his friends’ shorts explode off their swelling bodies, their asses growing thicker and rounder. He couldn’t wait to see what was going on with their front ends.

“Hey guys, wait up!” Philip called after them with a small laugh, jogging towards them with his absurdly huge cock slapping against his abs. “Don’t let me be the small one of the group!”

The three ravaged the bag of berries. Fuck the tent, they wouldn’t even fit in it. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even fit in the cabin. And they didn’t worry, they were sure to find a way to keep warm tonight. Not that they’d be getting much sleep anyways. Sun was setting normally on the farm, but the shadows were getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and…

[megachiraztfs]

Pumpkin Spice

‘Are you sure this is the right drink for me?’ Adam asked suspiciously.

‘Of course, it says your name, D O N N Y, sweetie,’ said the barista, sprinkling orange glitter over the milk foam. ‘And a little extra pumpkin flavour for you.’

‘Whatever.’ Adam took a sceptical sip. He coughed. Gasped and fell to the floor. His body began to shake as a cosy warmth spread through him. His jacket, shirt, everything except his sports trousers flowed down his slender body.

‘No... that... what,’ Adam croaked, but his convulsing body interrupted him. His chest muscles broadened, popping out of his hips, resting above his forming abs.

Adam closed his eyes. He felt... he felt... he was... he was... Don...Don..ny... DONNY! Ginger hotness on two legs.

The hair on his entire body curled. Red-blond curls crept down his swaying thighs, covering the lighter skin. His forearms filled out, covered with thick growth.

His face crunched and tingled as the same red hair pierced his skin and snaked its way out. Filling the gaps and adorning his face with a quite impressive beard, a perfect addition to his reddening hair that was slowly coating his chest and abs. Pride washed over him. Showing off was natural. Everyone loved Donny.

Suddenly, the barista was standing over him. ‘Come on, ginger boy, show me your spice.’

[bigification]

The Father of the Group - TF Short

"Hey Danny! Want some?" Jake yelled over the blaring music.

"What is it?" Danny asked.

"It's coke, c'mon try it." Jake insisted.

"No! Why the hell are you doing coke!?" Danny replied, shocked.

"Don't be lame, it's a party. Let loose, have some fun. You're not even a DD tonight." Jake brushed him off.

"I'm not being lame, I just respect my body."

"Ha! David was right about you." Jake scoffed.

"What did David say about me?" Danny said with a bit of sadness in his voice.

"That you're the dad of the friend group."

The words echoed loud and clear over the blaring music, as if they were trapped inside his head. He stumbled back, his eyes wide. Suddenly his arm started to tremble, causing the spiked punch in his hand to begin spilling out.

"Woah man! You okay?"

Jake grabbed Danny's arm and stabilized him. He went to grab the drink from his shaky hand, but something was off. Jake watched in horror as his friend's hand started to grow. In mere moments, his thin fingers became thick and meaty, and his hands doubled in size. Soon his hand was easily wrapped fully around the solo cup, making it look tiny in comparison.

"Danny, what's going on?" Jake started to freak out.

The transformation continued up Danny's forearms. His boney arms swelled with strong muscles, making his forearms larger than his biceps, at least for a moment. Almost immediately, his biceps followed, growing larger than footballs and nearly ripping through his sleeves. And as a cherry on top, a thick pelt of dark hair covered his once hairless arms, spreading from his sleeves all the way to his hands.

"Dude, you look jacked!" Jake seemed a little less concerned.

Danny's shoulders broadened, giving him the build of a football player. His shirt tightened even more when his flat chest suddenly puffed out, leaving him with a strong set of pecs. And his chubby belly melted away, leaving him with a flat stomach and a tight waist. Similar to his arms, dark curly hairs grew dense under his shirt, covering his shoulders all the way down to his crotch.

"You actually look... really hot bro, not gonna lie." Jake seemed to lose focus on the situation.

The transformation rapidly spread through Danny's lower half. His flat ass expanded until it perfectly filled out his jeans, and his unimpressive dick snaked its way down his pant leg as it surpassed 10 inches, leaving a thick bulge in his jeans. His thighs thickened until they looked like they were about to burst through his pants, further adding to his jock build. And his feet grew from a measly size 9 to a hulking size 18, causing his toes to burst out the end of his shoes. Thick dark hairs then grew over the exposed part of his feet, quickly spreading up his legs.

"Damn bro, I didn't know you were packing that much." Jake said, nearly salivating at the sight of his friends bulge.

Finally, Danny's facial features began to change. His jaw widened as his jawline became sharp as a knife. His nose and ears grew larger as his cheeks slimmed down. Wrinkles formed on his forehead and cheeks as his hairline receded slightly, making him look significantly older. And a five o'clock shadow created a clear outline of his beard, which would grow big and bushy if he didn't shave everyday.

"You're pretty jacked for an old guy." Jake said while rubbing Danny's arm.

"Well I'm the father of the group, I gotta look out for my boys." Danny responded, his voice deep and buttery.

"Good, cuz I'm gonna need a DD tonight." Jake chuckled.

He leaned towards the small pile of coke he was preparing in the table in front of him, but Danny held him back. His grip was strong and his expression turned serious.

"You know you don't get dessert before your vegetables." Danny smirked as he unzipped his jeans, making his hard cock spring up, pointing up at Jake.

[catton346]

Peyton

fanfic for Occamstfs "Model's New Mustache" Peyton had made a career out of his twinkiness. He had cornered the market on gay men (and closet cases) who enjoyed watching his lithe body get fucked from behind by larger, hairy, masculine men. Despite being in his mid-twenties he played much younger, something he wasn't very proud of. His small, lithe, hairless body locked him into this role. He didnt, or tried not to, imagine how things would be different if he wasnt so small.

The sex had always been work, just work. He wasnt really a horny guy. Sure he knew how to stretch his ass, sure he knew how to make it feel good, but the moans were for the camera, for the twitter page, and not for himself. He didnt jack off at all, even before he got into this line of work. He started as a model which quickly became an a number of accounts on websites where people could subscribe to NSFW videos of him doing anything they requested. Even if he wasnt really that horny his body responded to the stroking and fucking so he always put on a good show.

The ad bothered him for some reason. He had just finished a long day of making video after video with his cast of daddies and bears. It was late, he was tired, and he couldn't stop thinking about the career he built for himself. He wasnt envious of them, the tops he works with, just bored of his role. He wanted, if not just for a little bit, to be like them. Why couldn't he be on top? He clicked the like. Yeah sure it might give him a virus but he was due for a computer upgrade anyway. Peyton is prompted with a white page and an empty text box. In gray letters the box says: "a masculine man you envy." Peyton types in the name of one of the daddies from earlier, a muscle bear with a nice dad-stache named Zack.

He overslept his alarm the next day. Zack was supposed to come over for an early morning shoot. Peyton's phone was exploding with dms and calls from Zack. Groggy and half awake Peyton sent Zack an audio message without looking at the messages Zack had send before. "Sorry, overslept. Come over whenever. Just getting a quick shower." Did his voice sound different? Maybe because his throat was dry or he wasn't fully awake? Peyton jumped out of bed only to find his cock hard as a rock. He never had morning wood! It was so thick and hard, throbbing like it never throbbed before. Was it longer? Must be! Peyton had the urge, for the first time, to jack off. But he had a shoot! But he had to be ready for Zack! But, he thought, if he's going to bottom there's no reason not to. He pulled the cock out of his pants, thick and dripping with pre. It stood at attention like it never had before, taller, thicker, harder, needier. He grunted and moaned like he never had before. Maybe he was getting sick or something? His voice sounded so deep. He didn't care really. It felt so good to rub his cock. As one hand grabbed his throbbing member another danced across his chest. The fear and anxiety that should have taken him, as he felt a forest of hairs grow across his chest, was replaced with an unending horniness. He should stop, he knew he should have stopped, but it felt so good to jack off to the feeling of hair growing all over his body. He exploded onto himself, feeling cum land across his chest and face. As he wiped it off he felt stubble, that's a first for him. He went to the bathroom to was it off and to take his much needed shower. He looked at himself in the mirror, his body covered in new hair growth everywhere except on the top of his head. In contrast to the stubble, the pelt of chest hair, and the thick hair on his arms, the hair on his head seems to have gotten shorter. Where he once had messy medium length golden hair he now had short brown hair that sat on his head like needles. Peyton jumped in the shower, his phone was still blowing up from Zack's texts. He didnt want to keep Zack waiting. There was a part of him that worried about his new look ruining his shoot today but his cock, his horniness, took over again. Peyton got off twice in the shower, feeling the wet hairs on his upper lip form into a thick mustache just like Zack's. It felt good, it felt masculine, it felt right. Each time he came some of Peyton's Pey's intelligence got lost. His brain was drowning in testosterone and horny thoughts about twinks. His cock hang half hard and thick, ready to fuck. Its a need now. The need to plow twinks and bears and daddies and otters. He's gotta spread the love.

So when Zack finally shows up, Pey has to fight every urge not to pull him inside and fuck him against the wall. It seems like Zack too has had a change. The once large, hairy, masculine man is now just a hairless lithe twink the way Pey used to be.

"I," Zack says, "came over to tell you I cant do the shoot today. Something happened and I..." Zack looks Pey up and down, "it looks like you get it though." Zack's dick, smaller now, twitches in his pants. Pey sees it and smiles. Without a word Pey pulls Zack inside. He doesn't even turn on the camera just throws Zack on the bed and goes to town. Pey cant help but breed Zack, again and again. Pey fills the smaller man's ass, his mouth, they even frott with Pey thrusting intensely against Zack's smaller cock. Pey cums five times and still his cock is needy for more and more and more. Zack finally gets the camera on for round six and the fans love the new Peyton.

[papermoon357]

Ha fuck yeah. Who woulda thought this hypnosis command shit would work. But here he is. My pretentious nerdy prick of a roommate just standing there frozen, obeying everything I say. And I mean obeying. Told him to lose the glasses, the shirt- no problem. Then demanded he gain some a few inches and put some muscle on that pathetic frame. And hot damn. Now look at him. Puny little body is gone and those arms and shoulders almost rival mine. Something’s still missing off. Sure that face of his got some angles and confidence to it now, but still looks like an innocent little smart ass. Might as well get a roommate I can really have some fun with. So… “Looking good bro but you can do better. See that body, you need a personality to match. Be a horny dumb cocky bro, bro. Every IQ point you let go, let that cock grow and I mean get dumb bro. You’re gonna be the perfect horny slut for me. Yeah we’re gonna have some fun. So let me see it. Give me a smirk and be a bro”

[misctf]

It is not original idea but I have it from an old story that forgot the title. There is an organization with agents working as reality correction. They change the fate of people to its "right path". So, What if, instead of being adopted by a wealthy family and having excellent degree, a young man's fate were "corrected" to be raised by a construction worker?

A bit of a longer one! Hope you enjoy and thanks for the requests! Any feedback is welcomed!

“This isn’t a road you want to go down.”

Looking back, maybe Thomas should’ve listened. At the time, though, he couldn’t even begin to understand what William meant.

“He was my father, just as much as he was yours,” Thomas had shot back. “You’re not cutting me out.”

Their father had been obscenely wealthy... real estate, contracting, the kind of empire that didn’t leave room for doubt. And like many men in his position, he’d had affairs. Thomas was the result of one of them. But instead of denying him, their father had claimed him, raised him, given him every advantage. Now, after his death, that decision was being dragged back into the light.

“Father should’ve never...”

“Well, he did,” Thomas cut in, already tired of the argument. “And he loved me. He wouldn’t’ve approved this. He would’ve wanted me to...”

“I warned you,” William interrupted coldly. “You’re not getting a thing from this estate.”

----------------

“Excellent report, Thomas.”

He smiled at his boss’s praise. “Thank you, sir.”

He hadn’t needed the family business to succeed. His work ethic and easy charm carried him forward at a startup where he was quickly making a name for himself. He was building something on his own terms. Something he could be proud of.

Later, changing for an evening walk, he queued up a philosophy podcast and grabbed an iced green tea.

“Alright, let’s...”

A knock interrupted him and when he answered, he was greet by two men in suits.

“Are you Thomas Lancer?”

"Yeah, that's me.” he said slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re with the Department of Ontic Corrections. You’ve been identified as a potential infringement.”

----------------

They were called "docs". Agents of the DOC. Most people didn't want to run into these guys.

“We ensure predictability,” one agent explained as proceedings began. “And in predictability, we find stability.”

Thomas sat in a stark room, surrounded by agents, judges, lawyers. William sat across from him, smirking. Thomas could only listen as his life was dissected into probabilities, reduced to numbers. And after several hours of discussion, the head judge spoke.

"Thomas Lancer, it is our belief that your existence itself deviates significantly from the expected trajectory based on the most likely statistical outcomes. Moreover, this anomaly has significant ramifications for the Lancer family and therefore confers necessary corrections."

Thomas swallowed hard. William had won. Embarrassed him. Demeaned him in front of everyone.

“Fine,” he said bitterly. “I don’t need his money. You can have it.”

“Ah,” the judge replied, “but removing you from the inheritance does not resolve the underlying deviation.”

Thomas frowned. “What does that mean?”

William smirked. “It means you shouldn't have been raised as my brother.”

The room went silent.

Thomas felt his blood run cold.

“Wh… what?"

------------------

Thomas barely had time to process what William's words meant before he was dragged by the DOC officers to a sterile white room filled with strange pod-like devices.

"Welcome Mr. Lancer." A man in a different suit greeted him outside the pod, "I'm DOC Assessment Officer Davis. I'll be overseeing your correction." He smiled and looked down at his tablet.

"Correction?" Thomas whispered, "I don't... what're you going to do to me?"

Davis didn't look up, "We reconstruct the life you were statistically meant to live, introduced directly through our system. As those layers integrate, the pod makes corresponding physical adjustments so your body aligns with that history. It’s comprehensive, seamless. You won’t experience it as loss, Mr. Lancer… if that’s what you’re worried about."

“But... I built my job myself... my life is mine now.”

Davis gave a small, almost sympathetic smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “But the core deviation is still there. This outcome was never part of your probable trajectory. We’re not taking anything from you, Mr. Lancer, we’re aligning your life with the outcome you were always most likely to reach.”

“That’s not restoration,” Thomas argued, pulse pounding. “You can't do this. I won't just...”

“You don't have a choice.” Davis replied softly, gesturing toward the pod as it hissed and opened, "Now please undress."

Thomas hesitated only briefly before complying, folding his clothes with trembling hands as if the small act of neatness might anchor him to himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the pod. Lean, toned, swimmer’s build, smooth skin, the careful maintenance of someone who had always had time to care.

"Please enter."

The interior glowed faintly, sterile and inviting in a way that made his stomach turn. He stepped inside, lying back as the curved surface molded to him, sealing him in.

--------------

At first, it wasn’t pain. It was… intrusion.

A warmth spread along his temples, threading inward, and suddenly there was a memory... Forceful, overwhelming something else that had been there. A cramped living room. The hum of an old TV. The sharp scent of cheap beer.

“Tommy,” a rough voice called, casual and familiar in a way that made Thomas’s chest tighten. “Grab me one while you’re up.”

The name landed wrong... Tommy- and yet, disturbingly, it didn’t stay wrong for long. He could see himself moving through that space, younger, grabbing a bottle from a fridge that rattled when it opened.

A man... Greg, his mom’s boyfriend, sat sprawled on the couch, broad, worn, solid in a way that radiated authority without effort.

“Atta boy,” Greg muttered, taking the beer.

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s body slackened slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased. The sterile hum of the machine blended with the low drone of that TV, the two realities overlapping until the difference blurred. The memory of his real father- tailored suits, polished offices- felt… distant. Thinner. Less lived in. Greg’s presence, by contrast, was heavy, immediate, grounding.

--------------

The next shift came harder.

Thomas... no... Tommy... stood in front of a mirror, but the reflection wasn’t quite right. The frame was thicker, the edges of muscle less refined and more functional, built through repetition rather than design. His hair looked less styled, more… neglected. He lingered there a moment too long, staring, trying to reconcile what he was seeing... trying to understand.

“Don’t just stand there gawkin’ at yourself,” Greg’s voice snapped from behind him, sharp with irritation. “Mirror ain’t gonna do the work for you.”

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s breath hitched sharply as sensation followed the memory. His muscles tightened, then shifted, a dull, spreading ache as fibers seemed to knit differently beneath his skin. It wasn’t dramatic, not all at once, but it was real. His arms felt heavier, denser. His chest expanded, rising with each slow breath.

"Dial it up." Davis said, watching Thomas's progress closely.

--------------

The shift into the next phase did not come gently. It hit like impact. Sudden, jarring, full of motion. Tommy was on a field, the ground uneven beneath his cleats. Someone slammed into him, and instead of fear, there was a surge... hot, immediate, good. Football. Not swimming or golf. A real man's sport.

“Get up!” Greg’s voice cut through from the sidelines, louder than anyone else’s, full of rough-edged approval. “That’s it! Hit ‘em back!”

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s back arched as sensation flooded him. His muscles tightened violently, then began to swell... not grotesquely, not all at once, but undeniably. His shoulders broadened, the clean, streamlined lines of a swimmer thickening into something denser, more impact-ready. There was weight to him now.

"Wait..." Thomas mumbled, voice flat and distant.

--------------

The next wave came rougher. A flick of a lighter in the dark. The sharp inhale of smoke burning down his throat, making him cough hard enough to double over while laughter echoed around him.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Greg muttered, though there was a crooked grin behind it. “You’ll get used to it.”

The burn dulled into something tolerable, then familiar. Again... and again.

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas’s lungs seized for a moment, a phantom irritation scraping through his chest before settling. And then he felt it. A craving. A need for a cigarette. And the memories didn’t stop.

--------------

A cheap bar, loud and crowded. The sticky floor beneath his boots. Someone bumping into him too hard... and the reaction was immediate. A shove. A shout. Then fists.

“Atta boy,” Greg said later, voice approving even as he handed Tommy something cold to press against his face. “Can’t let people walk all over you.”

--------------

In the pod, Thomas gasped as his face twitched, a deep, aching pressure forming along the bridge of his nose before settling. Not breaking, not fully, but changing. Less refined. Slightly off. His skin, too, seemed different. Less cared for, faint imperfections surfacing, the kind that came from sun, from work, from not paying attention to things that used to matter.

"How's his progress?"

Look for yourself."

Inside the pod, Thomas’s body had begun to tell the story before his mind fully caught up. His frame thicker now, muscle settling in with a denser, work-built weight. Fine hairs had started to gather across his chest and stomach, subtle but new. A faint shadow of stubble edged his jaw, and along his arms, the ghost of ink- half-formed lines of tattoos- lingered just beneath the skin, not yet complete, but no longer absent.

"Perfect."

--------------

This time, the memory didn’t force itself in. It settled. Tommy leaned against the side of a work truck, metal warm from the sun, dust clinging to his skin. He shifted and caught his reflection in the window.

Something felt off. He stepped closer.

His frame had filled out. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, solid rather than sculpted. His hair sat uneven, pushed back without care, and a rough layer of stubble shadowed his jaw. When he tugged at his collar, he noticed darker hair spreading faintly across his chest.

--------------

Inside the pod, Thomas grimaced as it happened. The itch across his chest, sharper now, as hair thickened. His jaw tightened as stubble coarsened.

--------------

“School starts next week.”

“Yeah… don’t think I’m goin’ back.”

No conflict. Just relief. Greg glanced over from where he stood, sizing him up for half a second before giving a small nod.

“Figured,” he said. “You’re already makin’ yourself useful.”

--------------

"St... stop..." He whispered, eyes half lidded. His awareness of the word around him overwhelmed by the memories he was being guided by.

Thomas tried again to hold onto something... an idea, a plan, the importance of what he was losing... but each attempt came up shorter than the last. Thoughts simplified... the need for anything more complex was fading. In their place came something steadier. The memory of a long day’s work settling into his muscles. The satisfaction of finishing something tangible. The ease of sitting back with a drink, not thinking too far ahead. His breathing slowed. Deepened. The panic flickered... and then faltered.

--------------

The pod’s hum shifted again. Lower, denser, like it was pressing inward rather than surrounding him.

“Final correction phase initiated. Cognitive resistance collapse accelerated.”

There was no space for thought anymore. Just overflow. Drowning out anything that was left of "Thomas Lancer."

--------------

Nights stacked into each other without edges. Cheap beer burning down his throat after work, laughter he didn’t need to explain, cigarette smoke curling out into streetlight haze. Ash flicked away with an easy motion. The weight of his body collapsing into whatever chair, curb, or bed was closest. Exhaustion, release, repetition. Each memory slid into the next without pause, stripping away anything that required reflection to hold.

The morning light woke him up. He dragged himself upright in a narrow, unmade bed, sheets twisted and half-hanging off the side. The apartment around him was dim and cluttered. Empty beer cans on a table, clothes tossed wherever they landed, the air thick with a stale, musky smell that clung to everything. He didn’t notice it. Didn’t care.

"Hell..."

He stretched slowly, arms pulling up over his head, back arching as something popped along his spine. His pits were damp, hair thicker there now, holding onto the smell of yesterday’s sweat. He exhaled through his nose, scratching idly at his chest, fingers dragging through the coarse spread of hair. A low grunt left him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He shuffled toward the bathroom, bare feet dragging slightly against the floor, and leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror without really thinking about it. Ran a hand through his hair. Messy, sticking out in places, flattened in others.

Scratched at his beard. Spat into the sink. For a moment, he just stood there. Not analyzing. Not questioning. Life wasn’t complicated. Get up. Go to work. Get paid. Grab a drink after if the day was rough, which it usually was. Maybe catch a game if something was on. Didn’t need much more than that. He snorted softly to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. "Could be worse."

--------------

Inside the pod, there was no resistance left to mirror. Only completion. His body settled into itself fully. Weight distributed differently now, thicker through the torso and limbs, every inch of him carrying the quiet density of years of labor. The last traces of softness gave way to something more permanent, more worn-in.

--------------

The site was already loud when he rolled in, gravel crunching under his boots as he hopped out and lit a cigarette.

"Harris!" someone barked.

He jerked his chin up. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Damn, can’t even get a smoke in first?"

A couple guys chuckled.

Tom Harris now... had been for years. "Tommy" didn’t stick past being a kid. He grabbed his gear, spitting to the side. "Alright, what're we hittin' first?"

--------------

Inside the pod, his eyes fluttered beneath sealed lids, a faint groan slipping out as his head shifted against the surface.

"Aw, damn… my head…"

--------------

Leaning against a truck during a break, cigarette hanging loose from his lips, someone nudged him. "You still lookin' for steadier work?"

Tom shrugged, flicking ash onto the gravel. “Long as it pays better than this crap.”

“Lancer’s crew is hirin’. Bigger jobs. Better hours.”

He squinted slightly, rolling the name around in his head for all of a second before exhaling smoke. “Lancer, huh? Yeah… sure. I’ll give it a look.”

The name didn’t stir anything... no memory, no connection, not even a passing sense of familiarity. Just another company, same as any other, another crew, another paycheck at the end of the week.

Later, filling out paperwork, he barely glanced at the logo stamped across the top.

Lancer Construction

His pen scratched across the line beneath it:

Tom Harris

Signed clean. No hesitation.

No idea.

--------------

The pod opened with a low hiss, and Tom stepped out slowly, his body heavy in that dull, satisfying way that followed deep sleep. He stretched without thinking, arms rising overhead as his back cracked, chest expanding with a slow breath that carried no urgency. The air felt cooler against his bare skin, but it didn’t bother him. His gaze drifted lazily to the folded clothes nearby, lingering only a moment as if trying to place them before the thought slipped. They didn’t feel like his. He turned instead to the rough denim and worn fabric set aside for him, already reaching for them without question.

“Everything checks out,” one of the DOC agents said, glancing up from the tablet. “Identification, employment, residency are all aligned. Tom Harris, you're good to go”

“Yeah?” Tom tugged on the jeans, rolling his shoulders as the fabric settled naturally against him, then pulled the shirt over his head. “Good. Didn’t feel like stickin’ around here anyway.”

--------------

Out in the hall, he slowed slightly when he spotted a sharply dressed man lingering nearby. Something about him stood out... clean, put-together, out of place.

“Hey,” Tom said, nodding. “You’re Lancer’s kid, right? Seen you on-site.”

William’s smile came easy, thin and satisfied. “I was curious how things turned out,” he said, voice smooth. “Seems you’ve landed exactly where you belong.”

Tom scratched at his chest through the fabric, frowning faintly. “Yeah… guess so,” he muttered, glancing him over. “Kinda weird you bein’ here, though. Don’t you got people for this stuff?”

William’s expression didn’t shift. “I like to stay involved.”

Tom huffed lightly, already losing interest. Still, as he walked past, a faint thought tugged at him... what was he himself doing here? But it slipped loose before it could settle.

--------------

The site noise hit him full force as he arrived, boots crunching over gravel, cigarette already between his fingers as he lit it.

“Harris! You draggin’ ass today?” someone called.

He took a drag, exhaling slow. “Yeah, yeah, keep talkin’. I’ll outwork you anyway.”

A couple of the guys laughed and he got to work. It came naturally, his body moving without hesitation, every motion familiar in a way that didn’t need thinking. He adjusted his grip, muscles tightening as he lifted, falling into rhythm with the others.

For a brief second, something felt off... but the weight in his hands grounded him again, steady and certain.

“Quit starin’ into space and move,” someone barked.

Tom smirked faintly, shifting the load. “Yeah, yeah! I got it.”

[mindyourbod]

Less Obvious

People were never surprised when they learned I was gay. I think it was just the default assumption.

I was somewhat skinny and untoned, I got freckles instead of tanning, and no matter what I did with it, my hair would always end up soft and floppy.

I know that there are plenty of guys who'd be happy to look like me, but... it was just exhausting. No matter how hard I worked out at the gym, or the changes I made to my wardrobe - like the leather jacket I'm wearing - or even putting in work to talk a little deeper and sound less feminine, I would still instantly get pegged as gay by everyone I met.

And I was tired of it.

When I met the witch, I probably should've wished for something else. But at the time I hadn't realized she was telling the truth, and I thought it was all just a prank, or a set up to a game show, or something.

I had a moment of weakness. "I wish I wasn't so obviously gay."

I never expected to wake up the next day to a hairy, overgrown, exaggeratedly masculine body. What was even stranger was how different I acted, just on an instinctual level. My speech was peppered with absent minded "dude"s and "bro"s, I had to hit the gym twice a day to burn off my excess energy, I found myself idly manspreading or cupping my groin in public without even noticing.

Now, when I tell people I'm gay, they usually think I'm joking. I keep getting told that I don't need to lie about being into dudes since it's so obvious I'm either just heteroflexible, "DL trade", or just curious.

I can't blame them, since that's what I wished for. So yesterday I shaved my chest and put in an online order for some pastel crop tops and short shorts.

Never thought I'd miss having my gayness be so immediately obvious.

[butterflyeffect-tfs]

“Duuuude,” he said.

I had just returned from the past. This douche ran into me on the street and had the audacity to say it was my fault. So I made sure he went to football camp instead of business school.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He smiled dumbly. “Nah, man,” he chuckled. His eyes flitted down to my crotch.

“Well, I could use help with one thing, bro…”

[masterwolftfs]

CLIPPING ON THE JOCK

The clip-ons had a nice silver gleam to them, despite clearly being cheaply made. They were a joke purchase from a street vendor, that Leo, a man whose personal style leaned towards quiet, well-fitted neutrals, now held in his palm. They were absurd, quite frankly. Two rings meant to look real but failing miserably. He’d bought them on a whim, a tiny act of rebellion against his own sensible nature. Alone in his pristine apartment, he chuckled, lifting them towards his ears.

The moment the cold, flimsy metal clamped onto his virgin lobes, he yelped in pain. They didn’t clip to his ears, more punctured through them, a sharp pain coursing through his ears as they pierced them immediately.

And suddenly, agony was coursing through his head, both from the sudden stabbing and an immediate migraine pulsing through him as the waves of energy drove through him, practically stabbing his brain as well as just his ears. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost, strangled by his own mouth refusing to open.

As if the pain was a key unlocking the door to his mind, a strange energy and change crashed in through him. A deep, resonant hum in his limbs, causing them to pulse and expand with each shudder and gasp, expanding into strong, clearly defined muscles. He could recall working out at the gym, purposefully designating days to work on his arms, his legs, his chest. Speaking of his chest, it too was expanding, pecs jutting out like shelves, abs solidifying like cobblestone, back muscles pushing out and forming tight ridges and curves on his sculpted torso. All while that initial, excruciating pain in his ears morphed, spreading through his skull, and becoming a warm, pleasurable buzz that melted his thoughts into static. His eyes, wide with shock, glazed over, the pupils dilating into black pools of dazed, hypnotic arousal as his cock twitched.

His whole body jerked as it did, snapping him straight, and he resettled into a lazy, cocky slouch. His shoulders were expanding outwards as his neck thickened, the adam's apple jutting out just like his pecs, his hand feeling the new growth on his neck as they too expanded, knuckles becoming more defined and the fingers growing thicker, stronger. He groaned as he groped that new adams apple, hearing a deep, guttural, pleasure-filled rumble vibrate through his chest, a sound that could only be described as pure, raw, dumb power. “Fuck… yeah…”

A fierce, prickling itch exploded across his scalp. His neat, brown hair seemed to thicken, erupting into a wild cascade of perfect yet chaotic curls. Simultaneously, ink began to bloom across his skin - less like tattoos being applied, and more like memories surfacing through flesh. Intricate patterns, with roses, latin script, all rising up from beneath the skin, bringing memories of a new life with them.

His face transformed, jaw squaring out into a block of granite, clean shaven and neat. His cheekbones sharpened. His lips, once thin, became fuller, settling into a permanent, smug smirk. His nose felt stronger as it realigned. His eyes changed, becoming a vacant, bright blue, and they held a constant, low-burning hunger. A need.

The hypnotic buzz in his mind shifted into a more banging sensation, it was a sledgehammer to his psyche. Leo’s intricate mind - his love of indie films, his nuanced understanding of art, his quiet identity - was being pulverized and erased. Replaced by a flood of sensations and impulses that were simpler, louder, and infinitely more compelling.

Vivid, visceral memories forced their way to the front of his mind, demanding to be recalled. The burn of a maxed-out bench press, the grunt of effort, the admiring glance from a girl in yoga pants. His domain. His home. The thumping of shitty rap music in a crowded locker room, as he rapped along, crude jokes with the lads. His lads. The sight of his own pumped biceps in the mirror, the feel of a tight shirt or tank stretching across his back. And a deep, needing ache. A constant, low-level, throbbing ache in his groin, the centre of his new universe. The need to look, to touch, to fuck. Women. Curvy, big-titted, adoring women. The thought of a man, any man, even the ghost of Leo, made him feel a confused, aggressive disgust. Gay? That was a weak, stupid thing to be. He was all man. All man.

A name echoed in his mind, Chad. Chad. That was him, wasn’t it? “Fuck… yeah…” He repeated, relishing in the deep grumble.

The transformation was almost complete. The hypnotic energy from the piercings, now permanently fused to his earlobes, synced with the throbbing, insistent heat in his groin. It was a demand. A command, even. This new body, Chad’s body, needed to christen itself, to expel the last remnants of a weaker, wrong identity.

His massive hand dropped to the insistent throbbing in his trousers. The fabric was impossibly tight, straining over a thick, heavy weight that hadn’t been there before. He didn't fumble. His movements were sure, confident. He ripped the remaining fabric away, and there it was. Thick, veined, and heavy, jutting proudly from a thatch of dark, coarse hair. It was his. The proof. His trophy. A low, animal growl rumbled in his chest, pure, uncomplicated need. His large, calloused hand, smelling of fresh sweat and iron, wrapped around his own cock. The touch was electric, a circuit of pure, dumb vanity and lust completing.

He began to stroke, not with shame, but with a narcissistic, possessive rhythm. His eyes were wide open, locked on his reflection, not on the face, but on the powerful arm working, the bicep bulging and swelling with each stroke, the thick veins snaking over his forearm, the tattoos rippling over the new, dense muscle. This was worship. Adoration of the magnificent, simple thing he had become.

"Yeah... fuckin' look at that…" he grunted, his voice a deep, stupid rasp. Each pump of his fist sent waves of pleasure crashing through him. With each stroke, another fragment of Leo’s past was annihilated, replaced by the solid, sensory reality of Chad.

The sounds of a gym echoed in his ears. The clang of weights. The shitty rap music. The memory of a hundred girls checking him out, their eyes wide with want. It was all his. It had always been his. He was the king. The alpha. The top fucking dog.

His rhythm became more urgent, his breath coming in ragged, powerful grunts. The muscles in his stomach clenched into a hard, rippled board. His powerful thighs trembled. The pleasure built, a terrifying, incredible peak of pure, mindless release. With a final, guttural roar that was pure, masculine rage, he came. Thick, hot, copious ropes shot across his own stomach and chest, splattering the new tattoos, the smell of it - musky and potent - mixing with the scent of his sweat to create the ultimate perfume of the dumb jock.

He slumped back, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat glistening on his incredible new physique. His own cum was warm on his skin. He looked down at the mess, then at his own hand, and let out a low, throaty, arrogant laugh. "Fuck yeah brah…”

He rose to his feet, the movement full of pure and arrogant grace. He stood to his full, imposing height. He didn't clean himself. The mess was a badge of honor. He was Chad. He was strong. He was horny. And he was so, so fucking dumb. The clip-ons were replaced by the real, steel in his ears, a permanent anchor to this new, perfect, simple reality. He needed to get to the gym. He needed to be seen. He needed to find some chick to fuck. The king was ready to hold court.

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[writer-ofstuff]

"Lift yours arms for me."

"Good, now flex."

"You can feel it already, don't you? Your muscles growing."

Eli wanted to end the call there. Unsure how he ended up in this situation to begin with. He was freaking out in his head over how he couldn't move his body. Whatever the attractive older man on his screen said, the young man felt compelled to obey. Almost like he was a puppet being controlled.

"Keep flexing for me. You're doing such a good job." That deep voice was starting to said soothing to Eli, and he hated that.

"It feels good to do as you're told. To not think to hard and juat listen. It's like all jocks should strive to be like. What you want to be don't you?"

"You want to be free of all of your burdens and stress. Just keep following my instructions. You're already becoming quite the handsome man, just let your mind relax and allow it to adjust to your new self. After all, thismis what you wanted. What you strived to he like deep down.

You're nothing but a dumb, muscular jock who loves to show off and follow my every command."

With that, Eli found himself falling deeper under the older man's spell. Forgetting a lot about himself as he became engrossed in putting on a show for his Daddy. Flexing his muscular arms, puffing up his broader chest, preening over the attention he's getting from the older man.

[misctf]

Quality Time

Here is the third story out the five part Love Languages series I've been writing. Check out Words of Affirmation and Acts of Service, the first two in the series. Hope you enjoy!

"Quality time."

"That's your love language?" The text read, "That's ironic."

Logan frowned at the nearly instant reply from his boyfriend, Sam. He could just feel the tension behind those typed words. With a sigh, he put his phone back into his pocket and walked into the office. Work. So much work. Time spent in the office working, time spent at home working- it seemed never ending.

"It's for our future." Logan thought bitterly- a future that seemed like it might not come true. The time spent working was certainly a constant topic of their arguments and was creating more tension, "He just doesn't get it." He frowned, "Wedding rings are expensive."

"Logan! How're you doing?" Kathy approached him with a grin, "Big day today!"

"Yeah..." Logan replied, barely paying attention.

"Are you excited?"

"Big day... Big day?" He turned towards her, "What's going on? Is there some kind of announcement?"

She smiled, "You've always been such a jokester." She laughed and walked off, leaving Logan confused.

"Weird." He whispered, grimacing at a sudden achy feeling in his knees, "Damn, that hurts." He grunted, "Leg day finally catching up with me."

And as he moved slowly to his desk, something caught his attention. The table in the break room was decorated and he spotted some donuts from his favorite shop.

"Wonder what the occasion is?" He walked over, suddenly distracted by a grumbling in his stomach, "One won't hurt." He whispered, grabbing a donut. He scarfed it down in what must've been record time for him, "Usually one's enough." He muttered, "But I'm real hungry." He grabbed a second. And a third.

"Logan!" He turned to see Steve, "We're not done setting up."

Logan blushed, "I... Uh sorry about that. I can run and get..."

"No, don't worry about." Steve smiled, "I guess it doesn't matter. They're for... Ah shit let me take this call."

Logan frowned, "What's going on?" He patted his gurgling stomach and froze, "Since when...?" His stomach was pushing out, straining slightly against his shirt, "Fuck, shouldn't have eaten so much." He winced at the discomfort in his stomach and his knees as he finally made it to his desk.

The workday seemed to be progressing normally. Logan sent a few emails and worked on a few projects he had been assigned. But the day was tiring- more tiring than it should've been. His fingers moved slower on the keyboard. He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as his lower back started to ache similarly to his knees. He found himself taking a few breaks and rubbing his eyes, finding the screen was bothering him more than usual.

"Hi Logan," Logan looked up to see a younger guy, probably slightly younger than him. Blond hair, clean-shaven, well dressed, "Mr. Carpenter wanted to talk to you about the Advent Project."

"Oh? Was there a reason?" Logan had been working on this one for a bit now. Big client, possibly lots of money to be made in commission if the deal went through.

"Since I'm taking over your projects, I thought I'd..."

"Taking over?" Logan coughed a few times to clear his voice. It sounded rougher, like he was coming down with a cold, "What're you talking about?"

The young man raised an eyebrow, "Umm, I'm taking over your projects, so I figured I should talk to you more about the most important one?"

Logan stared at the young man, confused. Was he being fired? Was his work not good enough? As the frustration built, he ran a hand across the top of his head and froze. His hair. What happened to his hair? Why did it feel so short? Why could he feel skin?

"What the..." Logan stumbled up out of his chair, nearly tumbling over at the change in his center of gravity, "Oh god, oh god..." His gut stuck much further out now, straining tightly against his shirt, "I... I need a bathroom..."

The other man looked on as Logan stumbled past him and towards the bathroom. When Logan finally did shut and lock the door behind him, he was nearly hyperventilating. Slowly and with a sense of growing terror, he looked in the mirror and gasped at what he saw.

"No..." He reached a hand towards the mirror as a much older reflection mimicked his movements, "No... that can't be me." He whispered, "I need to..." His phone buzzed and he looked down at a text from his boyfriend. His eyes widened as he read it.

"Can't wait to see you later." It read, "Are they doing anything big for your retirement party?"

"Retirement?" Logan gasped as another wave of changes rocked his aging body, "Oh fuckkkkk." He groaned.

It started with the itching. Everywhere. His back, his chest, his shoulders, his pits, his face. Coarse, grey hairs made there way to the surface, blanketing his previously clean-shaven skin in a blanket of curly hairs. Logan could only watch as his face sprouted a thick graying beard, while wrinkles formed around his face and under his eyes.

"Nnnnnggggg" His hand caught the mirror as he leaned over, breathing heavily, "Wh..."

He nearly doubled over as his already impressive gut took on more girth, while his lean, hairy pecs sagged with age and fat. Even his arms and legs grew larger as fat and muscle packed on to his once slender, youthful frame. All the while Logan could only stare as his youth drained from him at an impossibly alarming rate. By the time the changes seemed to have settled, he realized he must've been older than his own dad.

"Logan, are you okay in there?" His boss asked from behind the door.

"Ahh I'm... I'm okay..." He huffed, wincing at the ache in his back. Internally, he was screaming, "I think I ought to get home, fast." He said as he emerged.

But as he walked out, he was surrounded by his smiling coworkers. A sign was hung on the wall, reading "Thank You For Forty Years." Donuts were piled high in the nearby break room. There were even a few gifts. Logan looked at these wide eyed. Did his coworkers really not see that something was wrong? That this wasn't him? He swallowed nervously.

"We just finished up decorating!" Kathy said with a grin, "Can you stay for just a little?"

"I... I..."

"Yeah, it isn't everyday you retire." His boss said, "C'mon, let's celebrate. After, you can get home."

Logan gulped, and slowly nodded. His thoughts were racing too fast. He couldn't even think of what to do next.

-----------

"Forty-years and that was it." He mumbled as he lugged his wider, fatter, and older frame back to his apartment, "A donut party?"

Logan knew he should be worried about other things. Should be worried about how he went from a young, 20-something year-old man in the prime of his life to a fat, hairy, and balding 60-something year old in a matter of mere hours. With a sigh he entered his apartment and nearly fainted at what he saw.

"S-Sam?"

"There he is."

Logan felt sick- whatever magic had done this to him had also worked on Sam as well. Sam was naked, sprawled out on the couch. And as Logan looked at him, he realized just how identical they were. Large bellies, hairy bodies, balding heads, aged skin. Both of them had aged and changed rapidly, yet Sam didn't look even the bit bothered by it. Did Sam even realize what happened? Or was he like his coworkers?

"Sam, something's wrong, we're not..."

"Come here, handsome." Sam guided Logan inside, "Congratulations on your retirement."

"Sam, seriously..."

"I finally get my sexy husband all to myself." Sam smiled.

Husband? Logan suddenly felt something wrap around his finger. Eyes widened as a ring materialized seemingly out of nowhere. They were married. That thought should've brought him joy, yet now, he was horrified. As if his entire life had just sped by.

"No... Sam, there's something..."

"We finally have all the time in the world to spend with one another."

Logan's heart sunk. Time. Quality time. Sam was right. He was retired now. He didn't need to work. They could spend so much time together now. All the time in the world. Together. And as that realization hit Logan, he felt dizzy. Memories flashed rapidly. Their wedding day, their honeymoon, their day-to-day lives, growing older, vacationing, celebrating anniversary after anniversary- an entire lifetime flashed before him.

"Are you okay, handsome?"

"Yeah... Yeah I am." Logan slurred as he settled into this reality, "Feelin' my age a bit." He chuckled.

"Well I hope you're not too out of it." Sam smiled, "I have my own retirement gift for you."

Logan grinned. What a life they'd already built together. All the happy memories, all the challenges along the way. And as Sam helped Logan undress, the two pressing up against each other and kissing passionately, Logan was looking forward to all the time they'd get to spend with one another now.

[hairyjocktf]

Tactical Pelt

Dalton was at his prime. He had been in the Marines for nearly a decade at this point, rising through the ranks and succeeding in every mission he’d been deployed on. He was in the best shape of his life as well, with the daily workouts and protein packed meals showing in every inch of his body. He love it, the physical prowess, the prestige from the military ranks, the comradery with his fellow Marines, it was all perfect.

His heart jumped when he was pulled into a clandestine meeting one morning. His sergeant stood towering over even him, making even Dalton unsure of what was coming his way.

“Dalton, you’ve been of great value to this nation in recent years,” the man started, “It’s time for what I believe to be your most important assignment yet.” Dalton’s eyes widened a bit, he’d already done plenty of daring missions and vital reconnaissance, what could possibly top that?

“We’re soon going to execute a covert operation overseas, and you’ll be leading the task force to achieve absolute success. However, this will require some more in depth preparation than normal, and as such I’ve brought in Doctor Massoud, who will ensure you are properly acclimatized to the region before departure.” 

The sergeant stepped to the side and opened the door behind him, and the doctor entered the small room. Dalton was caught off guard by the man, who he would not have taken for a doctor besides the tight scrubs he was in. Massoud was a hulking man, rivaling even the sergeant in terms of sheer size, with muscles stretching his clothes to their limit. His deep brown skin was nearly completely coated with thick black hair, with a forest erupting from the deep v neck of his outfit. He was clean shaven, but a dark shadow reminded anyone of the monstrous beard that threatened to sprout each day. 

“If you would both follow me to the other room,” he said with an authority in his voice. Dalton rose from his chair and entered through the doorway behind his sergeant. The room was dimly lit other than a bright overhead light above what looked like an operating table. Dalton’s skin crawled, what exactly was this mission he was being put on?

“Please lie down on the bed,” Massoud said with little emotion in his face. Dalton had little choice but to comply. “I’ve been tasked with making sure you will find success in your mission. To that end, I’ve developed a technique to ensure complete camouflage with the operative area.” He did not elaborate any further on the subject, but instead produced a small syringe.

“This will likely hurt,” he stated bluntly. 

The doctor pulled up Dalton’s sleeve slightly and stabbed the syringe into his arm. The needle went deep, and Dalton winced as the liquid was injected into him. He had a high pain tolerance from years of training and injury, but somehow this had reached beyond that. The doctor quickly removed the needle and wrapped his arm with a light gauze before stepping back.

“It should begin fairly quickly,” he said, providing no context. Dalton had a swarm of questions in his head. What was that injection? What was all this about? He hadn’t even been briefed on the mission yet, and he was quickly becoming stressed about the entire situation. His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor.

“Please remove your clothes, corporal,” he said coldly. Dalton looked to the sergeant standing next to him, who gave a nod to confirm. He sat up from the bed and pulled off his shirt before unbuckling his pants and sliding them off as well. “I would advise your undergarments as well,” the doctor added.

Dalton was truly confused by this scenario, but he was in no position to disagree with his superior at the moment. With some disdain, he slid off his underwear, revealing an averagely sized flaccid cock and the stubble of a recently shaved groin. He then sat there on the bed, naked, with harsh lighting beaming down on him. Seconds felt like hours as a few goosebumps appeared in reaction to the chill of the room around him. Just as he was about to voice his apprehension for the entire ordeal, Dalton felt a small pinprick on his chest, pulling his attention downward.

He looked down on his large pecs to find a thin, wispy hair poking out from the edge of his nipple. It was nearly transparent, glowing in the light as it grew longer, curling into the air. Dalton slowly moved his hand up to touch the hair, feeling its length between his fingers as he watched another hair slowly emerge nearby. His nipples grew hard, perking up as they became wreathed in hairs, strands growing thicker and wiry as more and more sprouted from his chest. The growth radiated outwards, hairs spreading across his pecs and into the valley between them, growing darker and denser there. Hairs popped up further and further from his nipples, clambering up towards his collarbone as the skin beneath tingled from follicles activating for the first time. Within moments his chest had been covered with a light but puffy coating of brown hairs, more than he’d ever had before.

Dalton could hear the sergeant and doctor whispering from a few feet away, unable to concentrate on what they were saying. The tingling in his pecs quickly turned to itching as the hairs continued to flood in, filling in the gaps, growing thicker and darker. His nipples darkened in color as the hairs surrounding them thickened into dark, wiry coils. The growth reached outwards, and Dalton raised his arm to confirm his worries about the itch appearing in his pit. He watched as his light tuft of hair was quickly overrun with thick, wiry hairs. They erupted from the smooth skin of his pit, growing longer and thicker than anything previous. The old wispy hairs followed suit, darkening as they grew thicker, follicles doused in whatever the doctor had injected into him. The hairs kept pouring out of his pit, curling together into a deep jungle that clawed its way out from the bounds of his underarms. The hairs blended into his chest fur and threatened to encircle his arms entirely, with lone strands popping up around his bicep. Dalton could feel a similar mass growing under his other arm, filling in with wiry fur to match. He lifted the other arm, the mass of sweat soaked hair pulling apart as hairs continued popping up further and further out. A wave of thick masculine stench hit Dalton’s face, the sweat coalescing in both his pits combining with his raging pheromones. He reeled backwards in disgust, even when deployed he’d made sure to keep himself clean and shaven.

Dalton’s attention was pulled back from his pits when he felt a throbbing in his underwear. It pulsed, a pleasurable but intense sensation taking over his groin, his cock inflating as it grew harder and harder. The formerly flaccid cock stood at attention, but the tingling sensation continued, turning into an itch. He stared at the stubble coating his groin as it began to darken. The freshly shaved hairs pushed out slowly, inching out from his skin as they took on a darker hue than ever before. Within moments his modest bush, which hadn’t seen the light of day in years, had returned, but that was just the beginning. Dalton felt blast of pleasure as his bush surged outwards. Coarse dark curls erupted from his skin, tangling with older hairs into an impenetrable jungle. The hairs spread across his groin, burying exposed skin beneath wiry strands, claiming more and more territory as his inner thighs and navel area fell to the masculine threat. Hair surged upwards from his bush, coating his stomach with fur, a treasure trail would be underselling it. The line of hair shot straight up to his chest, blending into the darkening rug up north. He didn’t even notice the doctor taking notes in the background as his bush thickened once more, wiry hairs twisting together into suffocating coils, the triangle filling out and then some as his entire lower torso vanished beneath the growing hair. 

Dalton’s cock was buried beneath the voluminous bush sprouting continuously from his groin. He shoved his hands in to try and find it but the tight curls of pubes caught him at the surface. With a gasp, Dalton suddenly felt like he’d been kicked in the nuts, but there was more to the sensation. His mouth agape, a moan trickled out as he felt his balls inflate, going from invisible beneath the jungle of pubes to creating a mountain in the forest. They swelled to the size of apples, immediately flooding Dalton’s body with even more testosterone. His sack darkened in color, itching up a storm as he could feel the prickles of the same thick hairs sprouting. Wiry black hairs exploded outwards, burying his hefty balls beneath a dense thicket. The hairs curled together, blending into his pubes above and slowly crawled south over his taint, with lone hairs popping up in advance. He could feel his balls churning as they began building up a storage of cum, but Dalton didn’t notice the darker skin tone beginning to spread from his groin, drenching each hair with black pigment as it washed over his growing follicles.

As his bush continued to writhe with growth, the wave of deep brown tone washed down over his thighs, seeding thousands of follicles in its wake. Seconds later, like popcorn beginning to pop the hairs sprung out from his skin. A thick, black hair shot up, followed by another. His thighs itched as the hair claimed all open territory, darkening skin becoming buried beneath the thick strands tangling together. The growth passed his knees, growing hairier than he’d ever seen another man’s. His shins were next, as thicker and thicker hairs erupted down his legs, curling together and puffing out, wrapping them in fur. He heard a crack from his feet as the bones shifted, widening, pushing against his socks as they expanded. Fabric stretched to its limit as his feet nearly doubled in size, another involuntary moan escaping his lips as the growth finished. With his feet taking all the possible room inside his socks, the growing hair could only push outwards. He watched as long black strands popped up through the fabric, first on his toes before spreading across the tops of his now massive feet. They looked comically large, but still vaguely proportional to his massive calf and thigh muscles he’d worked so hard to build over the years. He barely registered the new darker tone consuming his skin, hardly visible under the thick pelt of hair coating every inch of exposed skin, thickening more and more as he stared in awe at the sight.

Dalton was overwhelmed, his body felt like it was on fire from all the follicles trying to push through his skin. But at the same time, his new massive balls were flooding him with hormones, translating everything into a sensation of pleasure. It was a conflict of reality; what did his body want to be, who did he want to become?

He couldn’t linger on such thoughts, as his face started to itch, primarily on his upper lip. Dalton had always kept clean shaven due to being in the military, and even before that he remembered shaving his newly grown peach fuzz away at every opportunity. He was suddenly interrupted by the doctor, who had remained silent in the background until now.

“You might like to use this,” he said, pulling down a large mirror from above the table. Dalton was furious, wanting to demand answers from the man who’d subjected him to this ordeal, but before he could get out a word the vision in the mirror captivated him. His reflection betrayed him, the smooth chiseled face he’d known for years darkening as a thick shadow blanketed his cheeks and chin. His upper lip prickled as that shadow emerged as dark hairs, thicker than the peach fuzz he’d last seen grace that skin. Black hairs pushed out from his lip, thick and dense enough to block out the skin below in mere moments, curling together and down over his lip. The rest of his face ignited, follicles burning as they roared to life. His cheeks darkened as the shadow came to life, a solid wall of hair pushing out all at once, burying his skin below an ocean of wiry, tangled hairs. The growth radiated away from his mouth, his hairy cheeks connecting down to his chin burgeoning with newly sprouting strands, black hairs that pressed out longer and longer, his nascent beard growing wilder by the second. The hairs blended up to his sideburns and began creeping down his neck, fluffing up and thickening as the growth flourished on the canvas that was his face. 

Dalton was stunned, unable to make any noise as he saw his hairline recede slightly, pulling further up his forehead. The testosterone flooding his system was only increasing, and the hair near his temples slunk even further back. The effects of his heightened hormones were not constrained to his head, as the fluffy down that had sprouted across his pecs began to adapt as well. Drenched in androgens, the follicles shifted, producing thicker, longer, darker hairs. The rug grew denser, new growth filling in between the old hairs, tangling into an impenetrable jungle of chest hair. Underneath the new growth was the spreading of his new deeper tone, creeping up from his groin, spreading out across his beefy pecs. Where the darker skin tone went, the hairs thickened even more, becoming intense black coils that could not be controlled. The deep brown color seeped up his neck, his newly invigorated chest hair following closely behind. Hairs emerged above his collarbone and continued climbing, quickly connecting up with the beard hairs that had started migrating south. In mere moments there was a continuous bridge of thick fur from his jaw all the way down to his feet. As his face darkened to his new complexion, he felt sharp pain as his brow thickened, jaw widening to match. His face contorted to a new, more masculine form, befitting the hair that covered most of it. His eyebrows even thickened, nearly forming a unibrow as testosterone wreaked havoc upon his body. 

Dalton’s body groaned as muscle and bone shifted once more. He looked helplessly in the mirror as his shoulders widened, his back growing in mass as his frame pushed out, stretching his body to its limit. The vast, deep brown expanse was unblemished but for a moment. He breathed deeply as he felt a deep itching sensation appear at the small of his back, followed by the all too familiar prickling he’d come to know. A thick patch of hair grew in, before spreading upwards, climbing up his spine like a hirsute vine. The hair spread out over his shoulder blades, first as patches of fuzz before thickening, matting together into black fur. The hair spread and sprouted across the wide expanse, coating his muscled back, connecting around to the thick fur blooming on his stomach, and creeping up over his shoulders. His traps tingled as thick hairs popped up across them, knitting together into a seamless pelt that coated Dalton front to back. His ass itched as well, the patch of hair just above had begun to spread downwards, his meaty cheeks becoming dusted with wisps before the surging hormones forced them to take root. His ass became a field of growing fur, curly strands popping out one by one until they too were hidden beneath a fur coat. He couldn’t help but reach around to scratch as his crack became filled with thick wiry hairs bursting out, his pristine hole becoming engulfed by possibly the thickest, darkest hairs that had sprouted yet, surrounding the delicate flesh with testosterone laden fur. Dalton could see in the mirror how his wide silhouette grew fuzzy, hairs popping up all over and crawling across his body.

Dalton’s attention was drawn back to his groin as the intense sensations of growing hair coalesced around his manhood. He could see his pubes pushing out, growing longer and curlier, responding to the hormones sweeping through his body. The sensation was euphoric, causing his cock, which had been hidden beneath the waves of hair, to proudly emerge as it grew to match the rest of his body. His body pulsed with pleasure, each inch his cock pushed out caused Dalton to gasp, letting moans slip out in a baritone voice he didn’t even register was different. His hand reached down with a mind of its own, grasping his growing manhood as his shaft swelled, veins growing prominent. He slowly slid his grip down the length, his hand nearly vanishing in his bush to find the base. The head of his cock flared out in response, another moan escaping his lips as the shaft thickened, his large hands not even fitting around its girth anymore. Beneath his fingers he could feel hairs climbing up his shaft, thick wiry hairs erupting up its length, pressing through the gaps between his fingers as his bush threatened once again to claim his cock. Dalton groaned as he began to stroke up and down the shaft with his hand, feeling the prickles of growing hairs beneath. Precum erupted from the swollen head, pouring down the shaft and into his bush, adding to the developing musk emanating strongly. 

Dalton began breathing intensely as his stroking quickened, his instincts taking over as the pleasuring sensations grew to a climax. He could feel every hair on his body growing, thickening, tangling together into an erotic pelt covering every inch of him. His cock pushed out another inch, the fountain of precum unceasing as it fertilized more growth in his groin. He could hear the hairs erupting as they scratched against old ones, joining into the wiry jungle. Looking for just a moment back into the mirror, Dalton saw the reflection of an entirely different man, one that was no longer any part of his old self. His balls dropped another inch in that moment, releasing their pent up load. He roared as the climax took hold of his body, a flood of cum erupting from his cock, blanketing his reflection in the mirror. He continued to stroke, rope after rope of thick cum shooting out as his old self drained away with it. The flow diminished down to a trickle, dripping down his shaft as his hand finally let go.

The doctor and sergeant finally returned to the table. “It appears this was the most successful adaptation yet, Doctor Massoud,” the sergeant said, seemingly pleased. The doctor turned to face the man on the table.

“You are now known as Saif,” he said, “Your superior will inform you about your mission now.” With that, the man turned and left the room.

“Saif,” the sergeant said, this time with a barely visible grin on his face, “I look forward to your success on this task.” Saif nodded, he was ready to go home.

Hope y'all enjoy this one! Thank you for 3,000 followers! That's still insane to me, can't believe there's so many other hairy tf enthusiasts out there. If you're undergoing your own jock or hairy tf, be sure to let me know ;)

[misctf]

The Morning After

The bass thumped heavily, shaking the very walls of the frat house as AJ stumbled through the crowd. Sweat glistened on his exposed chest, his cowboy hat tilted jauntily on his head. His "sexy cowboy" costume left little to the imagination - tight jeans molding to his muscular thighs, tank top showing off his toned arms.

A group of giggling sorority girls caught sight of him and squealed appreciatively. "AJ! Your costume is so hot!" one called out.

He flashed them a cocky grin, striking a pose. "Why thank ya darlin'. Y'all like?" He said with his best take on a southern accent.

With a flirtatious wink, clearly reveling in the attention, he went back to taking shots with his frat bros. And as the night wore on in a haze of alcohol, AJ found himself making the most of it- making out, grinding, groping- you name it. By the time the party wound down, he had lost track of how many drinks he'd downed and who all he'd hooked up with. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto his bed and drifted to sleep.

--------

The harsh glare of sunlight streaming through the blinds and stirred AJ awake. He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. His mouth felt dry and his head pounded mercilessly.

"Agh… fuck…" he croaked, voice hoarse from the previous night's activities. Slowly, fragments of the Halloween party came trickling back - the pulsing music, the sea of costumes, the endless flow of booze, the hot girls.

With great effort, AJ sat up, a lazy grin plastered on his face. If he was this hungover, he must've had a good time. He yawned and glanced over to the mirror, chuckling slightly when he saw his cowboy hat was still firmly planted to his head.

"Don't really need this anymore." He smiled and grasped at the hat on his head.

He intended to take it off, but his fingers met resistance - the hat wouldn't budge an inch. Confused, he tried again, gripping harder. Still nothing. A flicker of unease ran through him.

"What the hell…" he muttered, examining the hat more closely. That's when he noticed something strange - his hands looked different somehow. Rougher, more weathered. And were those hairs sprouting from his knuckles?

AJ stared at them in shock. They couldn't be his hands. These were the hands of a much older man, a laborer perhaps. Calloused and covered in dark hair.

"No no no," he started to panic, looking down at his body. To his horror, he watched as the changes crept up his arms.

Hair sprouting thickly along his growing forearms as his skin darkened and roughened. Muscles bulged beneath the surface, swelling his biceps and triceps with thick, corded muscle. Muscle he could only dream of acquiring naturally in the gym.

"Oh god oh fuck what's happening to me?!" AJ cried out, voice cracking with fear and confusion.

He scrambled off the bed, stumbling as he felt the changes affecting his legs too. Thighs and calves thickened and hardened, muscles rippling powerfully. Dark hair fuzzed over his skin.

"Hnnngh!" AJ grunted, doubling over as he felt a sudden surge between his legs.

A jolt of intense pleasure shot through AJ as he felt his most private area begin to change. His cock swelled and lengthened, growing thicker and heavier by the second. His balls churned and tightened, already filled to the brim with potent seed.

"Holy shit, holy shit!" he panted, his terror nearly eclipsed by his growing arousal.

But there was no time to dwell on that as he felt his chest begin to morph. Two large, thick slabs of muscle formed where his previously toned pecs had been. Dark hair sprouted across the surface as they grew and grew, heaving with each breath.

"No, no, this ain't right," AJ whimpered, a Southern drawl creeping into his voice despite himself.

He shuddered in revulsion and let out a silent scream as he felt his back broadening, muscles rippling beneath the skin. He scratched desperately at his back as coarse hair began to push through, covering his skin in thick patches.

"Oh god, what in the hell?" AJ gagged, catching a strong whiff of musk emanating from his changing body. He reeked of raw masculinity and virility, "This ain't me, I ain't s'posed to look like this!"

He went to grab his phone- to call for help, but froze. AJ let out a strangled moan as he felt his rock hard abs soften and thicken with a layer of firm, masculine fat. At the same time, his core muscles clenched and strengthened, turning his midsection into a solid wall of power.

"Oh god no no no..." He could feel his face rippling, shifting.

Stubble scraped against his palms as he frantically rubbed his cheeks, watching in the mirror as his features coarsened and became more ruggedly handsome. A beard darkened his jawline and chin. Eyes darkening, skin becoming more weathered. He spun to face the door when he heard a knock followed by his friend's concerned voice.

"Hey man, you alright in there?"

"I-I'm fine!" AJ called back, voice deeper than usual, "Jus' leave me alone!"

"You sure, bro?"

He went to respond, but was stopped as a searing need ignited deep in his core, settling in his ass. AJ felt his hole clench around nothing, craving to be stretched and filled. The urge to submit, to be taken roughly and used.

"Nnngh fuck," he groaned, back arching.

His cock throbbed almost painfully. In his mind's eye, he saw himself bent over, presenting his hairy ass to some faceless man, begging to be bred like the desperate slut he suddenly craved to be. AJ trembled, torn between confusion and overwhelming lust. He didn't understand these foreign urges, this burning need to be dominated and used.

"Y-y'all just go 'way!" Did he really mean that? "I'm fine, jus' a lil' under the weather is all." His voice betrayed his desperation, words slurring together, the Southern drawl thickening.

And when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw what he was now. He was a vision of raw, masculine sexuality - all bulging muscles, dark hair, and throbbing arousal. The perfect image of a horny, slutty cowboy. The realization crashed over AJ as he stood there frozen, staring at his reflection in dawning horror. Gone was the handsome, athletic frame of the cocky college jock. In its place was this - this… figure of pure, unadulterated lust and virility. Everywhere he looked, he saw the physical embodiment of his "sexy cowboy" costume come to twisted life.

"It ain't… it cain't be…" he whimpered, running shaking hands over the thick expanse of his hairy chest, pawing at the heavy bulge straining against his pants. His identity, his very sense of self seemed to be slipping away, drowning under waves of foreign desire and instinct, "No, no please, I don't wanna be this!" Tears of frustration and terror welled in his eyes.

Memories of his old life flashed through his mind - football games, parties, hookups, his easy confidence and charm. But with each passing second, those recollections faded, replaced by an all-consuming need to serve and please. A simple minded slut.

"Ain't nothin' but a slutty lil' cowboy now," AJ slurred, his eyes dimming, his jaw going slack.

Suddenly, the door burst open. AJ's friends rushed in, concern etched on their faces. But when they laid eyes on him, their expressions shifted to shock and awe.

"Holy shit, AJ! What happened to you, man?"

AJ turned to face them, a dopey grin spreading across his face. All traces of the person he once was vanished, replaced by a vacant, eager-to-please desperation.

"Howdy boys," he drawled, "Looks like this here cowboy's ready for ridin'. Any of y'all feel like bein' my first rider?" He grinned as he presented his thick, muscular ass.