I Beginnings ● II Gamer Grows Up ● III Sorry For The Backwash ● IV Deliverer ● V World Peace
2K Follower Writer’s Challenge:
Viral Transformation
Jock/Himbo
Most Recent: Lovers on an Island ● GOAT For A Reason ● Sun Shy ● Bike Lane ● Confidence.EXE ● Sweat It Out ● Wish Came True ● Lifter’s Apprentice ● Asked & Answered: Shame ● Epecdemic ● I Don’t Get Pit ● Philter Out ● Clickbaited ● Penalty Box ● Soccer Socked ● Under New Management ● Waiting For Byron ● Coming Soon: Astroturfing
Bear/Dilf
Most Recent: Look Your Age ● Green Eyes Of Envy ● In The Rink: Dunks ● Slice Of Italy ● Talismen II: Gamer Grows Up ● For Sale: Dad Shoes ● Free Flag ● Barbearcue ● Topping Off ● Ancient History ● Life In Film ● VitaMen Vitamins: Bear It All ● Under New Management ● Dad's Den
Cultural/Racial
Rosa's Cafe ● Those Holi Days ● Should've Worn Green ● Terracotta Turmoil ● Ramadan Recitations ● Anything For Extra Credit ● Actually, They're Called Tetrominoes ● Spanish Shortcuts ● K-Pop Conundrum ● One More Lap ● Ni Hao!Nyc ● Subcontinental Promotion ● Look Your Age ● Marichismo ● Change Your Tune: Alvaro ● New Fortune ● Brazilian Daydreams
Frat
No Need To Pledge, Just Drink ● Legacies Are Supposed To Change ● How Many Drinks? ● New Meaning To Hazing ● Man Of Your Dreams ● Follow Your Nose ● Tailgating ● Peace Together ● Frat Founding ● Frat Friends
Military/Cop
Wouldn't It Be Funny? ● Coast Guard Compensation ● Anchors Aweigh ● Jonny Get Your Gun ● AL:IV Everycop
Cowboy/Redneck
Ain’t No Place For A City Boy ● Country Charm ● Beau Of The Ball ● Halloween Bacchanal ● Keep On Trucking ● Community Service ● Content Farming
Role Swap
Diet Diaries ● Chauffeur Swap ● Queering The Ring ● Conjuration: The Call ●Couples Counseled: Confidence ● Couples Counseled: Care ● Twink Turnabout ● Access Denied ● Perfect For Each Other ● Model's New Mustache
Devolution
Pre-Homo Sapience ● Conjuration: The Call ● Evo Bio 101
Stoner
Ugh, I Hate Bongs. ● Higher Education ● Virulent Strain
Preppification
A Paragon Man ● Peace Together ● Wine Drunk ● Triumvirate ● Welcome To Apolline Grove
Surfer
Shaka-Screen ● Surfin’ The Years Away
Misc
Tarot: The Knight of Swords ● Daddy: How To Be A Father ● Twunkification: To The Ground Floor ● Temp E-Boy: Influencing Goes Both Ways ● Surfer: Shaka-Screen ● Biker: Helmet Left Behind ● Superhero: Zero to Hero ● Greaser: Bumming A Smoke ● Many Tfs: Halloween Bacchanal, The Power Of Desire, Five Ways Home, and Journalistic Integrity
Agent Fisher reports on his roommate's transformative descent into being a father figure straight from a 90's sitcom as he tries to pretend he's not into it.
Dad and Bear Tf's are always some of my favorites to write and this one is no different! Took the flavor but not the style of a certain foundation! Enjoy this daddification from the POV of a desperate agent who has failed his station and by the end suffers the same transformative consequences. -Occam
This is a report from Special Agent Fisher on a previously unidentified anomalous artifact. Delivered to my apartment while I was away on an expedition, a VHS tape labeled Dad’s Den was opened and watched by my friend and roommate who, unaware he should resist, succumbed to its effects and in time was replaced by what can only be described as a stereotypical dad. As if he were straight out of the video tape he couldn’t help but watch.
Given I was on foundation business during the encounter and have already suffered through the loss of my dear friend Clayton, I would request leniency. I submit this thorough report of the VHS tapes effects as evidence and when guaranteed both my personal safety and continued employment I will deliver both the video footage and the anomalous artifact in question.
I understand how this will be perceived but know I only hold the foundation’s best interests at heart. This is simply not my fault and I refuse to be demoted due to a situation out of my hands that I have already suffered beyond measure from. If anything I deserve a promotion for resisting the tape’s allure and effects, though at present I simply want guaranteed and continued safety for Clayton and myself.
Please read the following account of what I have dubbed AA-0646: ‘The Fatherly Film’ before coming to any decisions.
Consummate professional that I am, my installed cameras were able to capture Clayton’s entire encounter with the anomaly. Delivered in a box addressed to my true name, Clayton was none the wiser. Under the impression that I worked for the Parks service, my roommate was entirely unguarded when he decided to just open the box. Perhaps this is a failing of your protocol regarding cohabitants but I digress.
As soon as the package was in his hands there began an audio static in the recording. Isolating it I am able to confirm it was the sound of a laugh track, like you might find on the very same schlocky sitcom that is now in my friend’s hands. At this unfortunate point it is my professional opinion that it is already too late for my poor roommate. Proof of this is the dusty VHS player that appeared under our tv when he tore open the box.
When he moves to the television Clayton inserts the tape into a VHS player we didn’t have moments ago before flopping onto the couch. Then the true effects begin as Clayton is completely lost to the screen. Hardly moving for hours as the tape plays far longer than any cassette could possibly last, Clayton doesn’t blink as dated jokes and shoddy sets beam into his mind with no end.
Previously my roommate could hardly go half an hour without pulling out his phone to aimlessly scroll. When I’d at last convinced him to watch Fellowship of the Ring with me I had to constantly get on his ass for getting distracted by notifications and summarily doomscrolling. I’d be annoyed at him suddenly finding attention span to spare for this drivel were I not distraught by what happens in the following days.
After about six hours of this, Clayton finally starts to doze off. Eyes that were locked on the screen despite their ever-present glaze flutter shut before closing altogether. At the very same time the screen turns off. Overnight little of note occurs. Head lolling back against the couch, the sound of his heavy breathing can barely be caught on my cameras.
Every so often his mouth hanging open twitches into a grin as hands resting on his stomach scratch aimlessly. It feels safe to say this is when true biological changes begin. Never one to grow stubble by the time daylight arrives there is some darker fuzz surrounding his mouth and scattered across his jawline.
When he at last awakens, decidedly earlier than I’ve seen the perpetual night owl ever rise on his own, his arms twitch and rise as his mouth opens to audibly yawn. The quiet cracking sounds of his arms stretching as some heft is revealed on his waistline is covered by the shockingly loud sound of him yawning.
At this point I had hoped he was free from the tape as when he stands there’s a clear look of confusion on his face. Clayton clearly recognized something wrong was happening. If only I was there. Wandering into the kitchen, Clayton appears to grab a pizza from the fridge and return to the living room. There he removes his shirt and tosses it onto the floor before doing some very noisy stretching.
Body bared it’s suddenly obvious that even without actively watching the tape that he has continued to change. Clayton was always complaining about his inability to grow any body hair, whining that it makes him feel like less of a man. Clearly this desire is being preyed upon as a treasure trail suddenly begins to crawl up his already slightly heavier stomach.
Even more apparent is the generous spread that has begun to prickle across his thin chest as it too starts to grow, having been freed from the shirt he slept in. Returning to the couch and sinking back into the same position he slept in, the new weight on his upper body settles in a manner I personally would describe as more attractive heavier.
Thoughtlessly he reaches for the remote and puts his new favorite show back on. Entranced once more, now that his whole chest is out it’s clear that Clayton is visibly growing. Frequently his fingers scratch his chest as each twitchy grin from what he’s watching shoots a few new strands of hair to scatter across his developing pecs.
So too does a small but wide treasure trail begin inching upwards, onto his belly as the distracted man just eats and laughs at jokes he must have heard half a dozen times by now. A few times he raises an arm behind his head to reveal the most drastic hair growth thus far.
The action takes a tad more effort than I’d expect, surely due to the new mass on his bulking arms, or perhaps he’s already growing less flexible. At any rate, there is an unmistakable bush of hair hiding under his arms. Slightly shiny on the film, the strands look to almost be as long as those on his head. It’s quite, well, distracting.
While I remain physically and mentally unaffected from my briefest of encounters with Clayton, something about his scent has left my mind foggy if I focus too much on his pheromones, if that is the correct word. It was quite overwhelming, I- let’s just say it’s fortunate that such an esteemed employee encountered this brutish bear of a dad, this anomaly that is. Keep this in mind as you continue to read, I’m a perfect employee. You can’t just replace me.
Moving on, on day two his changes accelerate. Though it took all night for his first few patches of body hair to bloom, now that he’s mindlessly watching Dad’s Den again they are flourishing. In one episode his chest is wholly overtaken by thick chest hair. By the next it connects with his paltry treasure trail before that too expands to cover his still bulking stomach.
And as he continues changing he laughs all the more. Wide smile on his face as his lips are tickled with stubble, Clayton rubs his stomach as each guffaw is louder than the last. Ruffling the dense coverage on his stomach, his hands can’t help but reach under his waistline for a scratch or two.
Doing so a distinctly different glazed look overtakes his eyes. Still smiling blankly, Clayton’s head lolls back as he kicks off his pants to expose legs that have grown their own garden of fur as they’ve been hidden from sight. When at last the jeans fall to the floor his feet bounce back a few sizes larger as the coat atop them is just as thick as that on his calves and thighs.
Hand still seemingly magnetized to his tangled bush and apparently needy cock, the expression on his face shifts to one of desperation. Leaning back so far I can barely make out him biting his lips as some spit trickles into his beard. Core twitching as the bulge in his pants grows heavier, and heavier I-
Apologies. Again.
After Clayton tuckers himself out, he falls asleep in exactly the same position he has still yet to move from. One sullied hand stuffed in his pants, the other behind his head allowing his sweaty pit to aerate our living room. It’s unclear what precisely launches the next wave of changes but it is at this point that our home begins to change.
Something of a neat-freak before he began watching, it’s increasingly clear his cleanliness will not survive the change. Morphing into a man almost proud of his filth, the pizza box falls to the floor next to a hamper of clothes that have clearly already been worn more than once. His cozy antique love seat gives way to a gaudy la-z boy recliner as our once quaint living room shifts irreparably into a dad cave.
That night, in between snores that rise to a degree loud enough to almost shake my camera, Clayton also begins murmuring in his sleep. It quickly becomes clear to me that he’s telling jokes. Repeating lines from the show. I don’t make an effort to listen to them of course, they’re always almost annoyingly bad. Here’s a recording of him for an example:
Ah well that’s a pretty good one no? Suppose I could include a few more. If you’re interested? Men-toes. Heh. I uhm- Back to it, of course.
In sleep he continues laughing at each and every one of these jokes he dreams up or retrieves from Dad’s Den. And with each reverberation of struggled snores and raucous guffaws he bloats all the larger, and ages all the sightlier. By midnight his coat has grown enough to cover him like a proper pelt.
The sweaty bush in his pits connects with the blanket of even coverage painted from his neckline to his pubes. Perpetual stubble that now decorates his face is slightly speckled white as it reaches upward to connect with messy hair that is beginning to thin. Meaty muscle continues to pack on just as fast as the mouth-watering heft growing on his gut.
The next day he awakes before sunrise. Launching into a massive stretch and not yawning so much as yelling, his back cracks wider as he moans at the feeling of relief. Scratching his heavier ass to reveal a few lengthy curls decorating his backside, Clayton meanders into the kitchen. His footsteps fall like flippers as our apartment’s new wood panelling creaks under his weight.
Jokes about rising and grinding and what a brew-tiful morning it is resound in the kitchen accompanied by giggling crackling deeper. Until now his voice had maintained at least a familiar tone but with each pun to nobody it’s like his voicebox is aging as his resting tone sinks deeper and deeper. And credit where it’s due I do find myself enjoying his puns more and more.
When the morning sun does stream into the den, Clayton returns with a black cup of coffee. I’d be surprised he’s able to stomach it given his preference for incredibly sweet lattes, but the grand reveal of his new fatherly form is far too stunning to describe anything else. Uhm, scientifically speaking.
Resting his massive feet on our coffee table, Clayton leans back and starts downing his dark roast as the television just starts up without him even needing to lift a finger. Now mouthing along to the dad’s dialogue as if he were voicing it himself it’s clear my roommate is more Dad than his old self.
Crow’s feet etch into his eyes as smile lines trail down his cheeks, hidden his thick stubble. It’s difficult for me to tear my eyes away from his masculine form. I didn’t even notice at first that the dad- that Clayton had changed into a jock, but as his much larger dick twitches under the tight fabric. As his toes curl and the arches of his feet crack wider. As his bulky biceps bulge larger with each raise of the steaming dark cup, streaking into his beard before he wipes it with his rough hand fuck shit
Clearly there are some hazards involved with watching this process but I can guarantee that there is nothing memetic or mind-altering besides watching the tape itself. Which I have taken care to completely block from my recordings. You’re welcome again.
Back to it the changes in our apartment have similarly accelerated, where we once had posters and framed art there now exist bizarre family portraits. Clayton with some college aged offspring though from the best I can tell there isn’t a single one with a wife. Perhaps related to the plot of the show? Perhaps because my roommate’s gay. Not to sound like a broken record but if you want any further of my hypotheses you know what to do.
Skipping ahead, I’d figured that his changes would have slowed since to my eye his dilfy form had reached its apex, but I was quickly proven wrong. Today as his hairline continues to thin and his body hair continues to thicken, his body starts to truly bulk. I’d heard of dad strength but it’s almost ridiculous watching him grow heavier and stronger.
Eyes almost rolling back into his head Clayton’s stomach finally grows into a proper dad bod as heavy pecs hang atop it, bloating themselves into the perfect canvas for his thick curls. Beside the growing barrel of a torso rest arms increasingly patterned with throbbing veins and twitching with strength.
His forearms are covered with the type of hair you’d balk at in person. I could hardly believe it when I did see them in person, they’re like a second layer of skin lifted almost an inch off the arms, so thick at points you can barely see the veiny, muscled guns beneath. To say nothing of the very same curls trailing up his massive biceps. How they twitch with the slightest movement of his sausage fingers. How they grow larger as he continues watching the show. As he continues watching. As-
Ugh god this report is giving me such a headache.
Over the following day it seems the anomaly starts skipping and fading away on the, much larger, TV. Clayton doesn’t seem to react though, he continues just mouthing the lines to himself as he goes about the house. Grunting with every movement like a man decades older than he should be, my new fatherly roommate ambles about with a toolbox I swear he’s never lugged out before as he goes about any chores that don’t involve tidying up.
Slight baldspot on his increasingly speckled head and thick hair crawling up his ass from tacky cargo shorts, it’s at some point this day which I’d say the artifact has finished its dirty work. As Clayton interacts with confusion to whatever aspects of his old self remain they rapidly adjust to fit his new life.
Everything in his wardrobe lengthens more than a few sizes before morphing and restylizing to lose even the slightest amount of fashionability. The man oozes practicality as much as he does raw masculine sex appeal. Soon there’s not a trace of our old home, even my bedroom seems to have been corrupted into that of a son who’s gone off to college.
I’ve yet to do an investigation as to the nature of his apparent new family but should I be allowed to once more use the agency’s resources. And, to prove I’m acting in good faith, there is one remaining object from his past, a photo of the two of us together which is now an image of myself and him in his current form. It was this I found him looking at when I at last returned from my mission.
He set it down softly when I entered and leaned against the wall. Obviously I instantly knew something terrible had happened. I tried to convince him to drop everything and come to the lab but he wouldn’t listen. I- he just kept saying these stupid, stupid jokes. Obviously I know now what happened but even then I felt like I was talking with a character rather than a person. Rather than my roommate.
But I couldn’t really look away. The way his weight shifted as he moved, the musk that filled the whole place- I know I said watching his transformation wasn’t mind affecting but being in his presence very well could be. Even now I find myself craving that scent. God he was so fucking-
I digress. As soon as I found myself starting to enjoy the shitty jokes he kept firing off, I shook out of it and realized Clayton’s expression shifted from when I first entered. At first he looked blankly at myself before his eyes softened as if he seemed to recognize me. Not as his friend or roommate though, no. Instead he said his kiddos had been telling him about a coach that was moving in next door.
I’d be lying if I said this didn’t suddenly give me dry mouth and butterflies in my stomach. But I acted quickly and according to protocol. I immediately left and retrieved my security footage remotely after sealing our apartment for Clayton’s safety and the safety of anyone who might accidentally stumble into our place.
Returning later with the proper physical and psychological protection, I retrieved the anomalous artefact in question and Clayton. At present myself, the artifact, and Clayton are in my safehouse unknown to the agency where we will remain until I am guaranteed continued employment. After retrieval the only further effect was changing my prius into a station wagon. Which doesn’t bother me for some reason or another.
Apologies again for the underhanded tactics but I know at least one supervisor who attained his position acting similarly during that banana protein shake disaster. Time is of the essence so the quicker you approve my demands the quicker we can get this contained.
Yours. Agent Fisher
AGENT FISHER: DEMOTED
One day after receiving Agent Subject Fisher’s missal he was found, reprimanded, and retrieved for further testing. AA-0646 victim “Clayton”, furthermore named AA-0646-A, was taken in for questioning and, as Fisher described, his previous identity and mind have been subsumed by this new dad persona.
Agent: Do you recall your life before you were a father?
Clayton: Awh gee there it’s just been so long y’know? I’m not one for dwelling on the past. My kiddos always used to whine and winge like you wouldn’t believe! Ohh but before I settled down I did think about being a historian, matter of fact!
Agent: Really? Well-
Clayton: Course, there’s no future in that! Hah hah hah! Heh.
Agent: Mmhm I see.
When Fisher came up in questioning, AA-0646-A went glassy in the eyes and produced a second variant of AA-0646 from his robe, distinct from the original; this version is decorated with a garish title sticker labelling “Coach Next Door”. Lou over in processing is confident the tape is porn but as the Agency demands, we must discover everything about this Anomalous Artifact, and there is no better test lab rat than our newest Subject Fisher.
While AA-0646-A allegedly changed over the course of a few days, Fisher’s changes were far hastier. Perhaps exacerbated through his frequent and ill advised contact and borderline obsession with AA-0646-A.
As Fisher suggested Agents have neglected to observe what the program actually consists of, but given the subject’s excitement it seems to be somewhere between outright porn and a classic sitcom. After the first viewing, the subject has begun to exhibit increased muscle mass and hair growth.
When momentarily prevented from viewing AA-0646, the subject began to grow frantic before being assuaged by the suggestion of physical exercise. Following this subject’s mass began to increase with even more haste. Subject continued to exercise even after AA-0646 was returned, more so when it began to play once more.
On the second loop the subject grew in height and body hair began to accelerate to a degree agents describe as ‘above average’. While his upper body develops pecs and biceps, his jaw sharpens as it too is overtaken with stubble that befits his new self.
Agents tell me the subject at this point appears to be an ‘otter’. I neglect to follow up. From the images delivered however it is clear the subject is no longer the Fisher we knew and tolerated. Almost nude in the test room, subject’s malfitting underpants are stained and filled with a notable bulge.
Finally, on watch three, much like on subject AA-0646-A’s Day three, the transformation accelerates to totally excise whatever remains of the subject within. Muscle mass still rising, it is soon displaced by fat that befits an ex-jock, clearly the coach next door in question.
Body hair has accelerated from ‘above-average’ to ‘extreme’ and the messy stubble on his face has begun to be speckled with a few white hairs. Subject’s surely thinning hairline is covered by a cheap sweat-stained baseball cap allegedly not given to him by Agents, nor were the jock strap, whistle, or tube socks.
Given AA-646’s ability to generate matter and shape reality Doctor Marquez suggests subjects AA-646-A and AA-646-B, that is ‘Fisher’, be quarantined and their respective instances of AA-646, sealed away from them. The idea is broached with A and B and surprisingly they are amenable, as long as they are quarantined with access together.
This request is deemed acceptable and the Agency will see fit to keep the affected subjects under constant supervision. Though, given the agent’s best guesses as to what is to occur between the pair it remains unclear what intelligence will be gathered. Still, knowledge above all else. We shall see to it that someone decidedly lustless shall oversee the continued research on instances of AA-646.
While Special Agent Fisher’s prior demands may be neglected, at the very least he and Clayton, that is 646-A and 646-B, shall have their needs met by the agency and each other.
Recommended follow up: Agents are to remind cohabitants letter of the federal law to not open mail addressed to others. Agents are to exercise caution around VHS and other vintage recordings. Furthermore any Agents with daddy issues or kinks are to avoid Block 600A until further notice.
Paul steps over the line tearing into his boss' daughter for her terrible first draft. Unable to engage with Juan Carlos, the unrealistic horny Latino stud of a protagonist, Paul's going to really find out what it's like to live as a character with nothing but sex on the mind.
For all his valid criticisms at least Paul will now get to chill out and enjoy himself! Similarly, hope you enjoy this one! -Occam
“Juan Carlos walked his hot sexy ass in to the bar and when he did every little horny twink had his eyes on him. ‘Ayyy papi you’re so sexy!’ One of them said, hornily.” Paul sighed heavily as he dropped the manuscript littered with red ink back onto his desk. “Okay, Stacy. I hope you understand that I’m not going to be moving forward with you on this one.”
Paul had been so excited for this novel. It was supposed to be his first ‘fun’ project in at least a calendar year. His boss has been relentlessly on his ass about pleasing their publishing house’s biggest client, a major cookbook studio, and this was supposed to be his big reward.
‘It’ll be the next gay YA best seller!’ ‘Yer gonna love it!’ ‘Won’t even need to polish this diamond!’ Really he should’ve read between the lines and realized that his boss was talking about the CEO’s daughter Stacy’s latest attempt to force her way into the creative world.
Speaking of the devil, she sits opposite him, mouth hanging open halfway to her faux fur coat. Apparently surprised to not have another door opened by her daddy the CEO, Stacy’s eyes begin to well up as the editor attempts to do his job. “Like, do you mean we’re not moving forward because it’s already go to go? Like, it’s ready to print?”
“No Ms. McClure, I do not mean that. I don’t believe we will be moving forward with anything unless you decide to completely start this project from scratch.”
Mascara designed to trail down her cheeks with tears does just that as she lets fly her waterworks, “But daddy said you’d freaking make this the next big thing Paul! He said you could make it the next Heated Rivalry!”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Paul struggles to maintain the level of professionalism that has always done so well by him. “Look, Stacy, I’m sorry if my words are harsh but, well the project is unpolished and a little juvenile. I mean even the title, Juan Carlos: Latin Lovermano? Work with me Stacy, how am I supposed to give a note on that besides toss it and try again?”
Looking up at the ceiling to slow her sobs, surely to save some tears for the next poor fool she’ll weaponize crying at, Stacy tries to salvage anything. Sniffling, “So you just don’t like the title then.”
“Among many, many other things, no.”
“Daddy said people love puns? It’s camping or something, you must not get it…”
Paul wasn’t past the point of diplomacy, but eager to move on with his day he opts to just go scorched earth. Lining up the biggest issue he has with the book in his sights, the protagonist, he prepares to shoot. Stereotypical, vaguely racist, and lacking any motivation beyond whatever smutty thing Stacy sees fit to move the ‘plot’ forward, Juan Carlos was not a man you care to follow unless you’re actively masturbating.
“I just think Juan Carlos leaves a lot to be desired, Ms. McClure.”
Pouting, she relents, “What do you even know! I swear all my gay friends are just like him! Literally spend five minutes talking to a sexy Latino hunk and tell me again how I don’t know how to write!”
Narrowing his eyes, at this he’s had enough. Obviously she doesn’t respect him enough to know a thing about him, daddy’s daughter be damned he’s not going to take that. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that I am both gay and my gra- abuela is columbian.”
“So what, you’re an eighth? And like so- do you want a trophy? You’re not the sexy kinda beefcake my audience wants to read about.”
“Stacy, first off you can’t say that. Second your math- Never mind that. You don't even have an audience.”
This strikes a chord. “Fuck you! Jesus! You don’t know how hard I worked to write this. It’s the culmination of my life’s work.”
“Well, I’d suggest in the next life to try to maybe spend a little more of that time learning how to write if you want to do anything other than waste my time.” Paul’s face freezes in a grimace of pain as the words fly out even sharper than he had intended.
So used to dealing with harsh layout designers and demanding photographers, the kid gloves simply fell off as his patience waned. Keeping his eyes shut for a beat, he takes a deep breath in the silence before opening them to find Stacy’s face a mask of rage.
Tears have evaporated entirely as her eyes seem to almost burn with a palpable anger. “Y’know Paul? Funny you don’t think JC is realistic enough. Because the way I see it, you’re just like him.”
Rolling his eyes at this he can’t help but dig his grave deeper, “Really now? I don’t quite see it, given I’m your father’s best employee and Juan Carlos’ sole trait is thinking with his dick; Wishful thinking perhaps as that would indeed make me the ideal for this slop you’re calling a book.”
Paul feels something snap in the room as the fire leaves her eyes to be replaced with a simpler disdain. He assumes their meeting is over and prepares to apologize when Stacy grabs the edit marked manuscript and just tears it in two. Shocked at the act of strength, Paul stares stunned as she gets the last word.
“You win, bitch. This was supposed to be fun. Hope you enjoy your last few days working here JC. I am so going to your boss.”
Annoyed, Paul immediately starts an email to HR to preemptively complain about his meeting and Stacy’s complete lack of professionalism. Laying the facts of the confrontation on the table, he ensures they know she was homophobic and racist only so they don’t can him when she tries to work her nepo-magic.
Still slightly reeling from just how poorly that meeting went, Paul tries to keep busy for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for the editor, his to-do list is quite sparse given he was supposed to be going through Stacy’s book through the end of the week.
Skipping ahead, McClure Sr’s next task for him was to do research on this influencer they’re optioning for a cookbook. Apparently he’s supposed to bring ‘alpha bros’ into their market. Paul doesn’t believe in the idea so to him this is more an opportunity to find receipts that prove Bryce Bentley is not a good fit for their brand.
Immediately searching ‘Bryce Bentley Apology Video’ the expert is soon privy to the content creator’s litany of scandals. Quickly jotting down the what, when, and where of a few tasteless jokes done by a man who shall certainly not get a book deal, Paul prepares to send his short take in an email before he glances back at Bentley’s instagram.
The man is pretty hot. No, he’s being unfair. The man is an absolute stud. How do you even get a body like that? Minimizing his email, Paul sets to just scrolling through Bryce’s feed. It’s important that he gets a full picture of the man after all, see what all the hype is about.
Quickly do his eyes glaze over as he carefully inspects every shirtless and sweaty image of this man in the gym and at the beach. Tuning out his douchey chatter and paying extra close attention to his gay baiting, despite his usual composure, Paul’s hand sneaks under his table towards his pants.
Unable to stop staring at the fratty, surely illiterate bro’s biceps, Paul’s mouth falls ajar as he begins to feel a little sweaty himself. When his hand finds purchase on a package throbbing just a hair larger, there’s suddenly a sharp itch burning under his arms.
No idea what at all could be causing this, the editor quickly yanks up his shirt’s sleeve to find a markedly hairier pit. Visibly wet with sweat he must’ve worked up during his spat, Paul can’t quite believe just how much thicker his usually manscaped pits have become. And yet, despite telling himself how gross the unmanicured patch is, he can’t tear his eyes away.
His nose twitches as his neck reflexively leans closer to the bramble of curls that seemingly grows thicker under his attention. His neck begins to crane down as his free hand abandons any decency to snake into his pants. Scratching through a similarly less tamed grove of pubes, in no time the employee of the quarter is fondling himself at his desk. “Whuh- what am I doing?”
Moaning to himself as his eyelids feel heavier, that he’s behind a desk is perhaps his only saving grace as his department head decides to stop by and check on him after his meeting with Stacy. Kindness in his eyes, Davis assumes his favorite underling’s visibly frazzled state must be due to that trainwreck of a meeting. Looking past the panting and messy hair, the strange rolled up sleeve and- is he sniffing his hand?
Clearly Paul just needs a day.
“Hiya there kid. Seems Stacy got ya all worked up huh?”
Bolting to attention, Paul’s hand slams into the desk as he tries to appear like he wasn’t seconds away from masturbating at work. Chest heaving from the anxiety of nearly being caught with said hand in his pants, Paul’s mind is scattered as he only just now realizes that he had his hand in his pants at work like some horny troglodyte. Smelling his sweaty fingers his eye twitches and he quickly and calmly clasps hands on his desk to feign normalcy as his semi still strains his pants.
“Yes sir Mr. Davis,” one of Bentley’s thirst traps still loops on Paul’s monitor. Not quite showing print as much as every vein on his cock while doing pull ups, Paul can barely stop his eyes flitting over as he explains himself. “She did more or less tell me to hit the dicks- My god. Di- Bricks. Bricks. So sorry sir.”
“Don’t you worry about it Paulie. Why don’t you finish up what you’re doing and head out for the day.”
“Thank you so much Davis sir. I swear I’ll be back and better than ever tomorrow!” Stress melting off him, when Paul reclines in his chair it allows his monitor to reflect in the window behind him. Davis can’t help but see the softcore porn and does a doubletake before wishing Paul well and rushing back to his own desk. Kid just needs a break, shoot as far as he knows that smut was straight out of that hellion Stacy’s book. What is McClure going to do with her?
Free to leave, Paul rushes to do so as swiftly as he can. When his attention is immediately sucked back to the faceless sweaty torso and sweat stained gym shorts on his monitor, Paul grits his teeth and forces the machine to shut off. Gathering his things and standing, despite knowing how his soft cock should have more than enough space in his pants, he feels his package strain.
Having gone through great lengths to appear professional, Paul is shocked when he can see his own visible dick print. Under his gaze it twitches slightly larger as the idea of having a thicker dick excites him. And yet, this is far from the only change as he grabs his coat and rushes out the door.
Desperate to get home as fast as possible, he refuses to acknowledge how every item on him is slightly too tight. Never one for exercise beyond making sure he can do twenty push ups every once in a while, Paul’s stunned when his chest tugs against his increasingly sweaty top.
The sleeves of his shirt begin to pull, then hug, then strain against his arms as they rapidly put on weight. Rushing down the sidewalk, the editor assumes he’s simply been too negligent on his diet recently. Maybe he ruined his clothes in the wash? He’s just put on weight and not noticed. That makes sense. But he cannot hold onto this delusion as he looks to see muscle visibly twitching as he swings his arms.
And then it begins affecting his mind.
Shiiiitt Papi, my arms are looking killerrr
His arm tries to raise itself into a flex, Paul’s blood goes cold. Blinking quickly as this stops him dead in his tracks, the editor is accidentally bumped into by a mousy man on the phone carrying a tray of coffees. Turning to apologize, Paul promptly freezes again when he locks eyes with the embarrassed gofer still on the phone. Every muscle in his body tenses and throbs as he feels a dull static fill his mind.
He can do nothing but feel as he watches the twink walk past him with a nod. Blood rushing in his ears, Paul stares at the man’s tight ass swaying as he hurries back to work. Fuckkk I need that ass. Now. Locked onto the bouncing butt as it makes haste, Paul stumbles forward. He feels his body try to pursue him. Get his number, get him.
Unable or unwilling to fight the desire, the need, Paul is only stopped from his chase as when he takes his first wholehearted step forward his pants tear. Looking down at his tight dress pants, he’s honestly surprised this is the first rip as they almost appear painted on. In the deep recesses of his mind some muted voice shouts that they should not be so built.
When more and greater tears lance down his thighs and grow longer with every step, he shakes out of his horny stupor. Almost drooling from the slightly tanner skin exposed from the gashes trailing up towards his pendulous cock that sways even more than that bitch’s hot ass, Paul steels himself and realizes he needs to just get home. This takes more effort than it ever should. Distracted by every man with a pulse he passes, some bestial Id within him keeps trying to rise and take over.
Shit that fucker’s fine. We have the time for a quickie. Que paso? Can’t we have some fun? That bar on sixth is open already…
Each time he bats it down, shakes it off, the next time it returns slightly louder. Needier. More dominant. Needing to physically shake his head and murmur “No.” to maintain control, under the beating late afternoon sun, his tan seems to be quite a bit darker. Obviously his rational mind will say it’s just from walking to work more often than driving these days, he’s just been out more.
But as the sunkissed skin stretches under the sleeves of his shirt, as his seemingly tea stained thighs are revealed to be even tanner through the tears in his pants, Paul knows this cannot be the case. Why am I wearing these shitty pants anyway? Fuckin hiding my peak muslos… Muslos? What does that even mean?
Long neglected Spanish begins to trickle into his mind as he arrives home and slams the door shut behind him. Usually so courteous and quiet a neighbor, with the chaos of the day weighing on him, the path of least resistance is simply too great.
Tearing his pants and boxers the rest of the way off, Paul stumbles into the bathroom looking to hop in the shower or throw on some much needed deodorant. Sniffing himself as he arrives, his plans are halted by the one two punch of his heady musk and seeing his shockingly muscular reflection.
Mierda… No one will be able to resist me.
Hungry eyes take in his bicep as he raises it into a flex. Turning to bounce his ass, he feels itchy stubble prickle onto his face like it never has as a cocky smirk forces its way onto his face. The shirt that has been suctioned to him since he stepped out of the office begins to give way to his burgeoning new bulk as he can’t help but imagine everything he can do with his growing new body.
Faces flicker through his imagination of all the new eye candy he’ll be able to bed. Pre begins to pool at his feet as drool trickles down his stubbly new jaw as his thoughts are more and more displaced by the new rising voice.
Maybe I should start clubbing again? He needs to show this off. No, he needs to figure out what’s going on. To figure out his best angles. Fuck like he’s got any bad ones. His smirk grows darker as his heavier hand reaches down to fondle his excitable dripping dick. Leaning against the wall on his brawny new forearm, he starts fully masturbating.
Huffing his b.o. as he grunts and snarls. Paul imagines topping for the first time in his life. He sees a snatched waist and bubble butt bouncing on his prodigious uncut cock. One he can scarcely recognize. One he can scarcely imagine as he swears he can feel that little coffee runner’s tight ass hugging his cock as his hips rut into his meaty hand.
Fuck take it bitch. Take Juan Carlos’ fucking horse cock. Tell all your- Tell your- Wh- What? Juan? Juan Carlos?
Not slowing his thrust for a second, the name Juan Carlos hits him like a train. Staring at his darker arms as veins trail their whole length, as darker hair prickles across his forearms, he realizes what is happening. Too little too late as he feels his heavier balls pull and his mind goes even hazier.
Stumbling back to the sink, Paul’s cock bounces in the air as he tries to slow, to stop the storm of cum about to fly into the bathroom. Catching his reflection, he sees his focussed horny expression instead shift to a cocky gleaming smirk. Juan Carlos is sex. He is sex.
And then he loses control “FFF- Mierda!” His spotless bathroom is painted with a load larger than he’s ever seen before. Rocketing across the room, he shoots string after string across the mirror, into the sink, onto his toothbrush. And then his shaky knees give way as he falls to the cold tile.
Exhausted, barely able to lift his heavy new arm, he pushes himself against the bath before losing consciousness. He feels the last few spurts of his load dripping through the thick new curls on his thigh. No es- this isn’t possible…
When he awakes he cannot recall what his steamy dreams are about, but he knows the cum stains in his pubes and pooling on his thicker new abs cannot be from his session last night alone. In an action that would be previously unthinkable to the orderly man, he scratches his face with his similarly cum-splattered hand to find his facial hair has grown thicker.
Pulling himself up to standing, Juan is slightly woozy as he makes his first moves in a body far larger than he’s ever had to manage. Apathetic to the wretched state of his bathroom, he pulls back on his dirty boxers and exits to his living room.
Clean as he left it, when Juan steps in it begins to adjust to the life he is soon to live. Stomping his heavier feet with no care for the unlucky souls used to the far more cordial upstairs neighbor, Juan yanks open the fridge and yawns as the glass bottles in the door clatter against each other.
Scratching his ass and smirking as he feels his fingers claw into the fat and muscle therein, Juan is surprised to find neatly organized prepped meals. When he does a double take, the growing sex-fiend finds it far more to his temperament. Leftovers abound, shoved in between containers of eggs left open and protein rich meals he can just throw in the oven and forget.
Grabbing a full blender pitcher he just threw in the fridge to drink from today, Juan almost starts chugging it before he decides to toss a couple more eggs in. Gotta hit his goals. Gotta look like the fuckin king he is. Juan makes no effort to quiet the voice as it returns to his head, rumbling with the same morning weariness that plague his own morning thoughts. Though at this point there is little at all separating the two.
The few remaining differences between who he once was and Juan fade even further as he starts chugging straight from the blender like an animal. Gulping down almost half a gallon of protein slurry, the horny editor feels some of the silty sludge miss his mouth and stream down his salt-stained cheeks.
Wiping it off with his meaty bicep, he proceeds to just lick the mix off his arm. This brings his face so close to his exposed and still dripping pit, Juan smirks as he gets a whiff of his new morning musk. Surprised at how intense it is, some inkling of the neat-freak hiding within him returns. “Shit have I gone weeks without fuckinnn deodorant or what?”
He can hardly believe it when the voice rumbling out of his chest sounds just like that voice in his head. Some weak part of him knows that’s not him, that's not who he should be, he shakes his head. He’s not Juan Carlos. He- He’s? He can’t remember his name. When the realization hits him he gasps only to feel pressure rising within him.
Feeling his stomach bloat slightly from the heavy shake, the man tries to recall his name and stop himself from a humiliating burp at once. Mind divided, both attempts swiftly fail as he unleashes a burp longer and louder than he’d believed possible. Worse than the straight assholes he’d always wanted to put in their place.
Buuuuurrpp- “Shittt if only they’d see me now. Huhuh. Shit they’d probably find themselves on my dick too. Nadie… uhhh no one can, uh? whatever…”
Tired of thinking about anything that’ll rile him up, Juan forgets about forgetting his name and instead channels all his energy into getting a morning pump. It’s just the path of least resistance. Piles of manuscripts and a bookshelf full of classics he had dreamed of one day adding to clatter to the floor as wood shines to a metal and heavy tomes become heavier weights.
Guffawing as he sees the impossible and only thinks about what a sweet home gym setup he’s got, Juan saunters over to the bench and starts pumping free weights. Looking down at his chubbing dick twitching in overfull briefs as he gets a pump in, he grunts as he imagines how ripe his aura will be in here when he’s done with his morning workout.
Throwing reggaeton on to blast away his morning delirium and keep his mind thinking about anything other than his needy dick, Juan Carlos pounds iron well into the late morning. When ten rolls around his phone starts blowing up as his boss wonders why he’s late for work without letting them know.
“Que..? Oh shittt-” For some reason the idea of being late fills him with overwhelming dread. Furrowing his heavy brows he doesn’t really understand, it’s just a job or whatever? Surely they need JC more than Juan needs them. Still, he groans and prepares to run in, that is, until he sees his reflection. More than anything he needs to relish in his pump.
Flexing in his cum and spit stained bathroom mirror, Juan Carlos delights in the sweat tricking down his veiny arms. Drooling at his package and ass bouncing in his stained briefs, JC starts groping his dick before another call from work comes in and he relents to just handle his bestial need later. “Pinche- boss man don’t know what’s coming…”
None of his clothes seem to fit right. Instinctually he reaches for a neat button up before crumbling it into a ball and throwing it to the floor. Why’d he even buy such boring threads? Shit he needs to wear something flattering, something sexy.
Searching high and low for some skin-tight streetwear and a baggy jacket to hide his pump, Juan eventually finds something adequate. Even as he throws it on though, when he sees his reflection the clothes grow that much tighter as he turns himself on. Meaty arms strain against sleeves that should be baggy, cock so visible he might as well not be wearing pants at all, and a cocky smirk surrounded by stubble he obviously doesn’t care enough to shave.
Despite the small shred of himself shouting to rush to work, he takes his time sauntering down the street. Prowling and scanning every person in case they’re looking to fuck, it’s a miracle he doesn’t bump into a single twink en route. Instead he just allows the sun to bake him, evening out his dark tan and cooking up some even danker musk in the hoodie.
Hidden beneath his sauna of a hoodie, disparate patches of his skin darken as his skin begins to stain with tattoos. Many of which are promptly hidden as the previously inactive follicles covering his torso suddenly go into overdrive. Lured out by the atmosphere of sweat blooming beneath his heavy jacket, fertilized by his salty stench JC feels his scratchy fur coat thicken out of sight.
Perfectly highlighting his rows of abs and connecting his cum-covered pubes with his sweat-dripping pits, JC feels up his hairy chest and struggles to ignore the rising boner at the idea of all the horny bitches that’ll be all over him at the club. Twinks, jocks, and bears oh meirda he can hardly think for salivating about all the needy men that crave his cock as much as he craves giving it to them.
Reaching his arm up his shirt, exposing his hairy abs dripping with sweat, Juan Carlos is stopped at the entrance to his workplace by security. “Ayy what’s the problem guey?” His words are dripping with a thick Mexican accent that sounds natural and correct to his ears, just like it always has.
Frowning, the guard requests to see some identification. Annoyed, JC doesn’t let it show as he instead plays up his sex appeal. Reaching into his back pocket, standing at an angle that allows the guard to see his thick ass, Juan Carlos produces a loose driver’s license and takes a look at it himself.
Seeing the same sexy self as always, Juan sees some gringo ass name for a second before it’s replaced with his own. Juan Carlos Hernandez. Careful to ensure their hands connect as he hands over the ID, JC waits to be waved through to get to a job he doesn’t quite remember. Gotta be a model or something? Equis…
The guard returns the license with a grunt and nods him through. Juan Carlos shoots him a wink and makes sure he struts slowly so the guard can watch him go. He knows where he is if he wants a particularly brusque lay later. For now he just needs to figure out where he’s going.
Feeling his stubble fill out into a beard to match that on his license, he scratches its final touches as he sneaks into his office. JC’s mouth hangs open as he sits at his desk and tries to remember what he’s supposed to be doing. Failing to remember his log in, he struggles to understand how to log on as a guest.
Oft distracted by his reflection in the dark monitor, when he at last brute forces his way into the computer his lust takes over once more as he decides he’s been so diligent as to earn a treat. Doesn’t he deserve a little break? Given an inch his needy cock takes a mile as it instantly begins working its way to the hem of his tight shorts.
Quickly opening a browser, JC is shocked to see the computer blocks him from watching porn at work. “¿Qué carajo es esto?” Clicking his tongue, he resolves to just content himself on his own reflection. Cupping his thick pecs and removing the heavy jacket to bathe his office with his heavy musk, JC immediately begins working his cock over his shorts only to be interrupted by a pair of visitors.
Shocked beyond belief, his boss Davis stands stunned. As if he were expecting someone else, confronted with the beast of a man that is Juan Carlos, he can only gasp as the man actively masturbating shoots him a nod and a wink. Though when the horny stud sees who’s with him he gives his meat a break, remiss as he is to.
“Heyyyy chica, you ready to hit the clubs?”
Though knowing she set this into motion, Stacy is similarly surprised by the hunk before her. As if he walked straight off the page, it’s Juan Carlos himself. Though, it clearly worked too well. As she takes him in she completely forgets that she had ever written him into existence. Juan’s her GBF IRL? He always ahs been. The one who’ll fuck anything that moves. The chicano hunk that drags her to after afters and dingy gay clubs she wouldn't dream of finding herself in.
“It’s literally 11 AM babe. And you know Dave said if he catches you slacking again you’re done!”
“Ahh que sera sera you know chica~ Sides, I think Dave has bigger fish to fry than getting rid of Juan Carlos.”
When Juan Carlos rubs his hand through his hairy abs to get Dave’s attention, the boss just sighs and pinches his temples. Workload having almost doubled as his best employee has been unknowingly converted into a man who lives, breathes, and stinks sex, he does indeed have bigger concerns. “Look, Hernandez. Just try and keep it in your pants- Or at least lock the door, I mean Jesus Christ this is a workplace…”
Unable to question why their esteemed publishing house seems to have an employee whose sole purpose seems to be manwhore, for some reason he can’t focus on the idea long enough to dispute it. He’s sure this is somehow Stacy’s fault.
“Anything else, boss man? Quires un- Ah, you want a one on one later?”
Davis clears his throat, “No that uhm, won’t be necessary Juan Carlos.” Blushing he pawns this situation onto his boss’ daughter, “Stacy, if you wouldn’t mind helping Mr. Hernandez get started, I’ve got to handle some upstart influencer who’s threatening to sue us.”
“You got it Davey~”
Thoughtlessly slamming the door behind him, Stacy’s beside herself with excitement. “Juan Carlosss~ So what’s the move tonight, babe?”
Scratching his beard with his trademark smirk, Juan Carlos spins an office chair that can barely handle his weight as he recalls the litany of men he’s lusted after and tempted since he last busted a nut. “You know, I can get what I want anywhere. Why don’t you pick chica?”
Flopping onto his desk, Stacy starts shooting texts to her rolodex of fellow rich chicks and their horny twinks to figure out their nightly plans. Seeing reflection in the wide monitor as it goes to sleep, Juan Carlos flexes at himself and feels his easy dick start to rise. “Ay Chica, I’m gonna go cruise. Esta bien?”
“You got it bestie! See ya tonight!”
There are certainly worse things than having an heiress as a fag hag. Sauntering past Drew’s office on the way to get his dick wet, Juan Carlos can’t imagine life another way. Can’t imagine much at all really. It’s as if he were created for no purpose but to fuck and be gawked at. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sinclair was a steadfast reporter committed to spreading the truth. This has gotten him some hot water and his bosses demand he return to grunt work. Four paths before him, which will he begrudgingly choose.
Partially inspired by a couple photos sent to me by MiscTF, this story includes my first inanimate/body part TF! Surely not to be to everyone's tastes but I'm sure there's something to every TF fan's tastes in one of these shorter stories. Hope you enjoy! -Occam
One of four headlines will determine the rest of Sinclair's life:
Pleasant Valley Pistols Find Their Home In State Of The Art Arena: Hockey Player
Fort Pleasant Repurposes Old High School: Soldier
Pan-Asian Community Center Places Capstone: Asian Gym Bro
New Talent Being Developed At Pleasant Valley Paper: Cock
After everything Sinclair’s done to keep this raggedy, well, rag afloat they decide to send him back into the field to do some reporting. Sure, it’s how he started out all those years ago, wandering into the streets, freshly earned degree in hand, to interview for puff pieces in the Pleasant Valley Paper.
Decade and some change of late nights writing and early rises to edit copy, Sinclair just wants to stay at his desk. And his bosses know that. ‘There’s just too much going on in town.’ As if he buys that. It just feels like punishment. Well, no, he knows it’s punishment.
He’s published stories on lemonade stands before and they wanted him not to report on the shady shell companies coming in to buy and redevelop half of town? The fact that one of them bought out the paper a week later is proof that he was onto something. At least, that's what he says to the few coworkers not avoiding him like the plague.
These days that’s mostly his assistant, Marcos, who just walked into his office with the higher up’s new projects for Sinclair. “At least they’re letting you choose, right boss?”
Somehow sighing and scoffing at the same time, Sinclair’s having none of it, “Sure kid. You spend a decade of your life pouring your blood into a typewriter for them to say ‘why dontcha pick between sports reporting a little league game and touring the new sewage treatment plant’ and get back to me.”
Glancing at said typewriter, Marcos holds his tongue from insulting his own boss’ performative proclivities; ones that result in him having to retype each and every article into a word processor. But his boss is right, they’re shafting him. He just needs to stay in the reporter’s good graces long enough to get a rec letter, “I get that Sinclair, but they did kinda tell me this is some last chance stuff. And I know you don’t want to do it, but I think they really found heat this week!”
Grimace plastered on his face, Sinclair awaits his options. Clearing his throat, Marcos does his best to sell them, “For starters, that new arena everyone’s been asking about is finally done and they need someone on the scene to interview the hockey team.”
“Hockey!? Well there are worse sports I suppose. Could be outside, ugh.” He can only imagine the mouth breathing, barely literate goalie he’ll be forced to parley with. “What’s the team?”
“Oh! Uhhh, looks like the Pleasant Valley Pistols.
“Ugh, awfully militaristic isn’t it? Just what small towns need, more gun themed branding …”
“Uhh yeah haha, well you’re not gonna like the next one either boss. Seems they’re converting the old high school into some kinda base? Fort Pleasant they’re calling it.”
Dumbfounded, Sinclair just stares at Marcos. Surely you can’t just do that right? They voted to build the new school, should there not then be a vote on what to do with the old one? Clenching his jaw, while he hates dealing with the military he can smell a story there.
“I can just cross that one off boss-man. Next is more like your old stuff, seems there's a new Pan-Asian community center opening near the park. Little wild since Pleasant Valley’s so well- you know.”
White. Honestly it was the biggest hang up on him moving here from the city. He hadn’t noticed an uptick in Asian locals enough to justify a community center, but hey not like he’s looking out for that stuff. Happy change as far as he’s concerned, and if he can do his part in bolstering that, well Marcos is right. Broken clocks and all that, he’d honestly be happy to.
Nodding Sinclair takes all this in, “Right. I suppose I agree this could have been slightly worse. Could have just canned me. They must not want me gone nearly as much as I thought!”
Marcos thinks about simply not mentioning the final task listed but in the end he can’t help himself, “Well there is one more option, uhm. One that would let you stay in office even.”
Interest piqued, Sinclair motions for his assistant to continue.
And he does, carefully. “Rather than going out they want you to know you can also take the opportunity to uhhhm,” he throws up his guard, “help develop new talent at the paper.”
Sinclair’s blood runs cold as he stares at his long-suffering assistant. Twice now he’s denied Marcos’ request to be promoted citing lack of experience and lack of professionality. Obviously he lied and told his assistant the hangup was elsewhere. “And I take it that you’re the new talent?” He makes no attempt to hide the venom in his voice.
“Look, sir, I wasn't going to mention it. I just figured you might prefer helping you know, the only coworker not ignoring you rather than wandering around a military base or whatever but it’s your call.”
And it is his call. “Of course, Marcos. Apologies for the implication.” Looking at the options, Sinclair makes up his mind with the haste of a man who doesn’t know he’s about to have his life and form wrest from him. “I’m gonna go with…”
The Hockey Team - Should be easy
Fort Pleasant - Something’s fishy over there
The Community Center - Think I could help their cause
Marcos. - Ugh, I do owe you something. I guess.
Pleasant Valley Pistols:
“Go ahead and let the coach know that I’ll be stopping by, Marcos.” Running the numbers, Sinclair decides this should be the simplest and easiest task offered to him. Well, besides mentoring Marcos, but the surly reporter certainly isn’t going to be training his replacement. Of this he is sure.
One routine email and a quick car ride later, Sinclair finds himself outside a robust new ice skating complex. The large construction zone had been slow-going for months and everyone in Pleasant Valley had been placing bets on just what it’s to be. Strange given someone in town must have had some prior warning that there’s an ice rink coming to town.
If not city planners then construction workers, Sinclair can’t help but speculate as he watches a crane lower a large hockey stick over the front entrance. Perhaps there’s meat on this bone yet. Crossing his arms the journalist looks at his scrawled plans to interview a player or two and publish profiles and crumples it.
This is connected to everything else, he bets. The Pistols must be connected to that shady company coming to take over Pleasant Vall-
“Hey there! You must be from the local paper eh?”
Sinclair almost jumps out of his skin as a hand the size of a baseball mit pounds him squarely in between his shoulder blades. Turning with fear in his eyes to find the source of this assault he instead finds a beaming man who clearly just intended to pat him on the back.
Apathetic or clueless to the clear grimace on Sinclair’s face, the bear of a man reaches out his mitt to shake, “Coach Whitlow, you must be Sinclair eh? Your bosses told me you were comin’ and to give you a Warm Pistol’s Welcome!”
Begrudgingly meeting Coach Whitlow’s hand, Sinclair frowns and does a poor attempt to butter up the man with all the power here, “Yes! I’m quite excited to learn of and spread the good word about Pleasant Valley’s new superstars. How’d you land on ‘Pistols’ anyhow?”
Notepad out, he prepares to take notes before instead watching a somehow even blanker look croses Whitlow’s face. Confusion seeps from the corners of his friendliness as he makes what is at best a guess, “Well it’s certainly fun to say right? Pleasant Valley Pistols! Nice and literar-ative like all you booky-boys say.”
“Right.” Eyes on the prize, “Well Coach I’m sure I’ll stop by for an interview before I depart. Would it be alright if I looked around the facilities first? My readers are simply dying to learn about your state of the art facilities!” He didn’t know he had this level of bullshitting still in him.
“Oh, great idea there son! Might as well stop by the weightroom while you’re at it, awfully scrawny for a sports writer. Should call you Shrimpclair, HAH!”
Indignant at being called a sports reporter moreso than the dig at his scrawny form, Sinclair flashes a smile and motions for Whitlow to lead him inside. Which the Coach promptly does, “Now don’t have too much fun poking around there Mr. Reporter, not unless you wanna stick around heh heh!” Turning towards his office while repeating Shrimpclair and giggling to himself, Whitlow leaves Sinclair to explore.
Spoiled for choice, the journalist is shocked at just how pristine this arena is. He was under the impression that this was some kind of below collegiate level team but the sheer size of the place alone that can’t be the case. Shoot he’d swear it’s bigger than some of the NHL arenas he’s seen- Of which he’s seen none. Obviously.
Sneaking around looking for proof of foul play or corporate espionage, it’s not long before he smells something suspiciously alluring in the air. Taking deeper and deeper breaths of the strange scent, Sinclair’s oblivious to his chest rising higher with every one. Exhaling slightly less with every inhale, he quickly finds his baggy shirt starting to awkwardly pull at his skin as he continues walking. As if he were beginning to inflate.
Quickly realizing he’s been following his nose like a dog, the proud reporter shakes off his stupor and scoffs. Scratching at his suddenly itchy jaw, Sinclair does his best to ignore the haze and focus on the sure scoop here. Unfortunately every breath continues to vie for his attention.
There’s gotta be some proof somewhere that this is owned by the same assholes who bought the paper. Gosh smells like new pads doesn’t it? His feet kinda hurt, why’d he wear such small shoes today. Shit for an ice rink it’s kinda warm in here isn’t it.
Prideful about his attention span as he is about anything else, Sinclair can’t believe how much he’s struggling to keep his train of thought on track. He doesn’t hear his fingers scritch in stubble that prickles underneath his chin as he looks at his notepad.
The only thing scrawled, in sloppier handwriting than he’d ever humor, is ‘Pistols = Gud?’
“My God!? I didn’t write that!?” Taking another quick sniff just to breath, the reporter feels a new itch in his pits and ignores the urge to give them a sniff. Shaking his head his dark hair begins to shorten into something sportier, Sinclair’s neck cracks thicker. Below the belt he feels his legs begin to balloon with every struggled sniff.
Feeling his jeans begin to strain against his legs as he notices he can somehow see his pale midriff exposed, Sinclair clutches at his mouth. It’s the smell, it must be. Ignoring the scratch of a stubbly mustache poking at his hand, he does the only thing he can think to stop smelling something. He breathes through his mouth.
Obviously this does not go his way.
Taking a far deeper breath through his mouth than he ever could with his nose, his body expands in every way it can. Arms that only ever strained from typing away at a keyboard suddenly rise like dough as biceps force their way onto his bones. Bulging against the sleeves of his shirt, slightly tanner skin is quickly visible through a number of tears.
Kicking off his shoes as soon as discomfort rises enough to register in his foggy mind, he finds feet so large he can’t even imagine finding shoes to fit them. Above ankles now prickling with thick hair his jeans are strained at the calves as well as his lower body grows even more impressive than his meaty arms and his chest still twitching larger.
Even more pronounced than the physical changes are those wreaking havoc in his mind. Mouth-breather is an insult the reporter had oft leveled at Marcos and anyone else he viewed as less intelligent than himself. And as his higher thoughts begin to dissolve into sand, it’s clear that uh, well nothing’s really clear to him anymore.
Besides hockey, duh. Smirking as the memories him shooting through the rink rush into his mind, he stumbles up to the locker room’s entrance on much larger feet. Taking heavy steps as his jeans tear more with every stumble, Sinclair quickly pushes open the door and enters his favorite place in the world, the Pistol’s locker room.
Taking the deepest breath yet, he feels the air, stagnant with the stink of sweat and industrially cleaned uniforms, fill him from head to toe. Scratching his chest as a manly coat of curls etches across pronounced pecs, his rough hand yanks off the rags and tosses them to the floor.
Looking to the mirror he’s surprised to find his pants have also completely fallen away, leaving him cock out in his locker room. Not that his teammates mind of course huhuh. Seeing his gleaming white smile reflected, his foggy mind tries to recall that he doesn’t have teammates but the thought shifts to confusion at his teammates simply not being here with him. No puck bunnies or twinks either…
Scratching his pubes and pits and barely abating an urge to helicopter his twitching dick, Sinclair figures he’s here for one on one practice or somethin. Hockey ass bouncing with every lumbering step, the Pistol’s new piston falls onto the bench and starts pulling on his pads commando. No time for that shit, not like his pads’ll stink any less after. Sides, Coach’ll be pissed if he’s late again.
Feeling the scratch of hard plastic on his thighs he feels his last sense of self struggle. Looking at meaty hands and feeling his defined abs twitch with every breath he tries to remember being a reporter. His deeper, thoughtless voice does little to help. “I’m not a, not a fuckin’ hockey… I’m a journaler, uh? I write, uhh, stuff. I’m Sink? Sin- uh?”
“Sinner!? That you in there boy? Should be out on the ice by now, I swear!”
Yanking his pants up to his sternum and shoving his sweaty feet into somehow already sweatier skates, any fight fades from his eyes as Coach’s voice reminds him who he really is. Leaning against the cold wall as Whitlow strides into the locker room, he smirks and awaits the reprimand.
“What am I gonna do with you… Shit you been using the new weight room eh Sinner? Settin’ a good example. Give me a flex there boy.”
Like he needed the command. Raising his arms into a double bi he takes a deep breath as the complexity of the world fades. He’s just a hockey star, and soon everyone in Pleasant Valley’s gonna be a fan.
Fort Pleasant:
“There’s something weird afoot over at the old high school right Marcos?”
His assistant shrugs, “I mean for sure, but the bosses want an, uh. Well it’s sorta an ad?” Marcos winces preemptively.
“An advertisement!? For the military?”
“They’re technically private security I thin-”
“They want me to- Well! I’ll tell you what Marcos. I’m going to go report on what I find and if the Pleasant Valley Paper’s not interested I’m taking all my fans and finally going indie! You just stay mum and look busy, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Watching his boss storm away, Marcos sighs knowing he certainly has no ability to stop Sinclair when he’s got his mind on a story. Good kid Marcos is he’s not even going to snitch on the turncoat, not like he wants a private militia kicking around town. Wordlessly wishing Sinclair pulls something off here, the assistant just hopes his overeager boss doesn’t just make his situation worse.
Nearing the base, Sinclair flashes back to his breaking expose of his university’s ROTC when he was in school. He can’t hold back a laugh at the memory, those wannabe schmucks never knew what hit them! This’ll be another walk in the park. Flashing a press pass at the gated entry, Sinclair grins as he’s just waved on through, already planning his brutal take down of the place.
Illegal appropriation of public land and goods. Lax security at best. That glorified doorman’s probably just jacking off in between dapping up his brainless coworkers.
Far off in the remains of a football field, Sinclair can see a few men clad in camouflage doing some exercise drills. Shuddering at the thought of whatever poor sods have been tricked into working for some shoddy soon to be bankrupt private security firm, Sinclair rolls his eyes and hopes they enjoy the paid workouts while they last
Collecting himself and his journalistic materiel, Sinclair sets a small recorder to just tape every moment of the next half hour. The first sound recorded is a muttered ‘Shit!’ as Sinclair immediately drops his notepad. Leaning down to pick it up, his blood runs cold as he hears a gruff voice shout-
“Ateeen-shun!”
His hands freeze just before grabbing the notepad as he feels his bent spine straighten. Eyes locked on the booklet, he feels his body shoot up to standing. Arms forced to his side, thumbs stuck to his shirt's seam as if they were magnetized. Puffing up his thin chest and fighting against raising his chin, Sinclair freezes in this pristine pose for a full second before breaking free.
Gasping, he stares dumbfounded at the man clad in fatigues. Stubbled chin wide and dimpled, tucked shirt straining against a lat wingspan Sinclair wouldn’t think possible, there’s a smirk clear on his face at his words having such an effect on some petty annoyance. The soldier watches as Sinclair collects his notepad and clears his throat.
Before he can get a word out, the burly, brusque man issues another order. “Follow me, recruit.”
“I think you’ll find I’m here for an interview, s- sir.” Sinclair scrunches his nose at the reflexive honorific, swearing himself to not utter one again. “Obviously I’m not one of your muscle-brained, violence hungry, lunkeys. The Pleasant Valley Paper sent me to find out exactly what this operation’s all about.”
Following behind the sergeant, what difference does it make if he’s doing so because he was commanded or because that’s the quickest way to get to the bottom of this mystery. Ensuring that his shirt is tucked in, as anyone would! Sinclair doesn’t notice as the edges of the cotton top seem to be staining a light green.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Sinclair, Sir- Ugh. If you wouldn’t mind, could you stop calling me soldier? I’m not-”
The man quickly turns with his arms crossed and stares down at Sinclair. Silenced by his steely gaze alone, Sinclair feels his lips trying to move as his body freezes into attention once more. This time his back is even straighter, he feels it straining his impeccable tuck as his shoulders seemingly raise higher. Hidden from sight as army green stains creep further up his shirt, his chest that was once but skin and bone begins to subtly widen.
Clenching his jaw until there’s an unmistakable cracking sound, Sinclair grunts as he finds his voice. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge the power this buffoonish jarhead cosplayer has over him, he tries to attack logically. Ignoring how his eye twitches as he even mentally insults the sergeant. “Look, obviously I’m too old to be of use as a soldier, just give me a couple quotes for the paper and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Rubbing his tight high-top, the sergeant smirks as he watches the army green fabric of Sinclair’s shirt continue to rise. At the same time the long sleeves begin retracting to reveal thin, hairless arms still stuck at attention. “Too old eh? Wouldn’t say you’re a day over 23 there soldier.”
Beyond stunned, Sinclair stands there in shock as the words sink in. “Th- nnn-” When he tries to speak the air is knocked out of him as a decade of his life is simply erased from his body. The wrinkles beginning to creep out around his eyes and on his forehead are ironed away as his skin tightens.
The slight paunch hiding under his regulation issued shirt is converted into rows of youthful abs as his hairline ceases retreating before rejuvenating altogether. Catching a reflection of himself in the floors polished to shine, Sinclair can’t recognize the man he’s becoming.
“And before you say it, I do believe you’re more than fit enough. You’ve been hitting the gym since high school, far more than you ever hit the books soldier.”
Breaking out of the trance enough to shake his head, Sinclair feels his arms begin to bulk up in their frozen state. Quickly piling on pounds enough to strain the sleeves of his shirt, he feels them darken with hair as the mop on his head curls into some G.I.’s coif. Thick sideburns creep down his cheeks as far as they’re allowed.
“S- Sergeant.” His voice cracks lower as the know-it-all timbre of the reporter gives way to the vocal fry of a younger man who’s ecstatic not to think for himself, “Ssssir. I swear, you don’t have to this. L- let me get back to the office. I know the perfect recruit for youuuu-”
Sweating from the stress, Sinclair feels his underarms stain sweat as his hairy arms lead to even hairier pits. The trimmed bush that usually hid under them gives way to a wild-straight patch of pit hair designed to collect musk. Trying to worm his way out of these changes only accelerates them as by the time he even attempts to throw Marcos at his sergeant’s feet his memories of being anything but a soldier begin to drain.
Irritated at the man’s pathetic scrambling as he watches Sinclair continue to fill out his uniform, jeans finally corrupting into a heavier camouflaged fabric, he barks orders to his newest recruit. “Go sit until I decide what to do with you maggot. And take that fucking shirt off, you’re sweating like a pig.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Twitching desperately with every ordered movement, Sinclair obeys the command as every reason not to begins to rapidly disappear. Tearing off his shirt he feels dog tags fall back onto his chest, square between his enticing new pecs. His widening nipples harden as he pristinely folds his sweat-stained shirt and stows it under a wooden chair that creaks when he sits down.
Feeling his balls throb, Sinclair’s got a good guess where his thoughts and personality are draining to as he stares ahead. Trying to hold on to wispy memories as they fade, it’s not long before he can only assert what he knows he isn’t. He’s not a soldier. He’s Sinclair, he works for Fort Pleasant. No. He was here to? He’s not a soldier. He’s twenty- No he’s thirty- uh? No, he’s twenty three. Yeah.
The sergeant watches as his soldier at last begins to settle, pupils twitching with resistance slowly fade as he tosses around potential new posts for this handsome little lap dog. Not like they don’t have enough officers to guard every business in town. Why shouldn’t this one be just for him.
“Soldier, what’s your position?”
Sinclair bolts up, his back somehow getting even straighter as his feet lance out to their perfect 45 degree position even when sitting. “I’m your assistant, sir!”
“Very good, at ease.”
The sergeant watches as, for the first time since stepping foot on For Pleasant’s grounds, the new soldier finally relaxes. Performatively sitting back so his sergeant can appreciate every new bulging muscle on his exposed torso. He exists to serve this man above all else.
“Put your arms behind your head, soldier.”
Beautiful. He’ll need to send thanks to the Pleasant Valley Paper. Though the way these things work he wonders if even their most diligent of records have any trace of ever having a ‘Sinclair’ on staff, after all, he’s never been anything more than a soldier.
Hidden in his fatigue pockets, ever so close to a thick cock doing its best to hold back pre that will stain them, a journalist’s tape record finally stops rolling. And oh what a scoop Sinclair found after all, shame the soldier's going to turn that into his superior as soon as he remembers he’s even wearing pants.
Pan-Asian Community Center:
“Screw it, if I’m being muzzled I might as well raise some funds for a community center right?”
Marcos genuinely smiles at his boss’ optimism, “I think that’s a great idea boss!”
“Yeah whatever. Hold down the fort then, I imagine I’ll have something typed up for you by the end of day.”
Sighing as he looks to the pile of other stories he still needs to type up and submit himself, Marcos prepares for a long day of trying to get any of his boss’ work approved as he watches Sinclair depart. “Huhhh… He’s been recommending me for promotion, it’ll all be worth it one day…”
For his part, Sinclair’s sure this is going to be a nice and easy trip. What fledgling foundation would be opposed to free press right? Evidently this one.
Walking past a small gated outdoor gym, Sinclair mutters judgementally to himself as he enters the lobby. “Who wouldn’t want to walk by a sweat factory to watch some foreign cinema…” Putting his attitude away, he forces a tight smile on his face as he approaches the receptionist, a younger woman who’s clearly bored out of her mind.
Dubbed Setsuna by her name tag adorned with a small Japanese flag, she looks up to Sinclair when the center’s front door slams shut. Frowning and rolling her eyes, she begins her spiel, “Konnichiwa and welcome to the Pleasant Valley community center. What can I do for you today.” Though it was ostensibly a question, her tone makes it clear that she is not here to help.
“Yes! Hello, I’m Sinclair from the local paper!” His smile creaks as his patience already wears thin.
“Okay?”
“And I’m here to help with your Community Center?” After she blankly stares he continues, “I mean, we both know that the town is as white as it gets. I guess my bosses figured you could use some help with fundraising?”
“Right. Well you can go ahead and let your bosses know that we’re doing fine on our own. Thanks.”
“Heh. Well, Miss. I think you’re being awfully blasé to the best reporter the Pleasant Valley Paper has.”
“死ね! I’m sure we’re really missing out.”
Sure whatever she just said was an insult, Sinclair goes for an old favorite, “Well! I’d like to speak with your supervisors.”
“Oooh so sorry, they’re busy, yeah. I can go ahead and summon security if you’d like?”
“Why I-”
“Thank youuuu~ Buhbye now.” Waving at Sinclair as he holds his tongue, the receptionist waits for the door behind him to close before getting back to scrolling on her phone. Were she anyone else she might wonder if Sinclair would be back sooner rather than later with a different name and nationality. But she’s certainly not paid enough to care.
Someone who cares even more than he’s paid is stomping away from Pleasant Valley’s latest community center. Steaming like he hasn’t since his last heated argument at work, Sinclair’d usually have worked himself up into weariness. For some reason, today the engine just seems to keep going. Each passing moment just fills him with more irritation and more energy.
Almost seeing red, the reporter looks to the outdoor gyms and spitefully decides to work off some of his newfound rage at this public resource. That’ll show them! Unsure what instinct he’s following, Sinclair is apathetic as he gets on something he thinks is supposed to exercise the shoulders and starts pushing.
Grunting as he quickly sweats up a storm, Sinclair grits his teeth as his arms burn with exertion he hasn’t felt since high school. Immediately finding himself dehydrated as he’s started working out in the sun having had nothing to drink today besides coffee, Sinclair figures his pathetic point made.
That is, until he sees a large water bottle sitting right by his feet. That he’s even humoring drinking from it should be proof enough he’s not in his right mind. Covered with stickers, he knows it can’t be his and yet scrawled on top of it is his name: Sonclair. In no time his sweaty hand brings it to his mouth as he enjoys the ichor of ice cold water.
Standing from the machine, the irate reporter finds the sweaty shirt sticking to his skin incredibly irritating. In further proof of his rapidly teetering state of mind, the journalist who’s so body shy that his chest hasn’t seen the sun since childhood begins to remove his shirt. It clings to his body like a second skin as it tears away to reveal an upper body far more impressive than it should be.
Still entirely untrained, there is raw power pumping through his limbs like it should not be. Sitting back down at what he now mindlessly recognizes as a chest press, he begins pumping at it until failure. With each heaving thrust his arms throb larger as his chest realizes that it can hold muscle as well as fat.
Under the afternoon sun his pallor begins to give way to a tan. Having to continually readjust his position as his arms creak longer and his back expands to completely hide the seat behind him, Sofclair watches as his hands are decidedly darker than his skin tone could be in any light.
Breaking him free from his ire-induced haze, Sofclair takes in what his arms have become. Even as he watches they continue to expand, veins trail down their length, throbbing with each beat of his racing heart. He should feel horror, calloused hands that are not his own feel the warm bronze skin that now make up his bulky forearms.
Looking down to a chest for the first time graced with pecs, he cannot hide the grin twitching onto his face. Darker, wider nipples point askew above a core designed for strength. Flexing his heavy new arms, Soflier takes another deep gulp of his water jug. Feeling it splash onto his face, he smirks even wider as he feels a thin mustache suddenly prickle onto his upper lip.
Discontent with his progress he splashes some of the icy liquid onto his face and feels as his whole face reconfigures itself. His jawline sharpens as his new tan finally creeps up his neck. Hair that has only been styled by barber’s hands thickens into a style that Soflier sees on all his magpinsan- uhh, cousins?
Shaking off whatever that strange fake word was, as Soflier’s eyes darken from their tepid blue into a brown darker than coffee, the journalist influencer scans the gym for his next machine. Scowling down at legs not nearly as impressive as his herculean chest and bis, Soflier stomps over to the leg press.
Pumped in a way he can hardly understand, with each step he grows all the more impressive. Rows of abs bulge through a gut maintained more for strength than aesthetics. Biceps bloat even larger as sweat streams off his bovine shoulders and drips down his sides from pits muskier than any two of his bros put together. Dreamily wondering where they are, he sits on the next machine and starts pumping.
At first embarrassed at the stick thin legs barely able to hold up his titanic torso, each rep packs pounds onto his thighs and calves. From the feet up his lower body changes to match its better half. Feet burst free from his cheap leather dress shoes before they’re promptly covered once more by ostentatious tennis shoes four sizes larger.
Shocked that he’s been working out in pants his whole time, when he blinks he finds he’s wearing his favorite gym shorts. Malinaw naman… Uhh, obviously, he never hits the gym without them! Probably slept in them after his sesh last night. Shamelessly giving himself a sniff as continues thrusting his legs larger, they quickly outpace even his upper body’s growth.
Sofiel bites his lip as he feels soreness burn deep in his thighs. Hungrily staring, he almost starts laughing as they fill his shorts to their breaking point. Only just formed socks slide down his calves as veins trail up from his feet to his heavy crotch. “God, sexy ako…” He moans to himself as the sun overheats his already steaming body.
Rubbing hands up and down his body, feeling the throbbing veins trailing across his form and the warm skin struggling against the growing muscle underneath, Sofiel’s shorts struggle against the new package within. Having bulked to as close to human perfection as he cares to, Sofiel’s feet slam to the floor as he closes his eyes and begins rutting into the air.
His publicly indecent reverie is interrupted as some mysterious force pours the rest of his ice cold water right onto his head. “Ayy what the fuck!?” Bolting up on the machine, the new Filipino gym bro sees none other than the Japanese receptionist who kicked him out.
“Answer your fucking phone next time! Jesus Sofiel, they’re gonna fire you if you don’t get your shit together.”
“Ahhh and I bet you’d hate to lose this eye-candy huh Suna?”
Rolling her eyes and yanking out her phone to performatively scroll at the accusation she goes on, “As if I’d wanna be with a dick who couldn’t find his way out of a finger trap”
“Ahh, ripping it in half counts! You’re just jelly…” Waiting for a response that doesn’t come, he looks up to see Setsuna gesturing inside.
“Did you not hear me, you oaf? Your horde of elderly women are getting impatient for their Zumba.”
“Ah shit! I owe you another one!”
She can’t help but stare at his ass and back as he leaves. Again she’d never bite but shit, if he isn’t hot. How’d he even get a body like that…
Marcos:
Though it’s the furthest thing from what he wants to do, perhaps ‘developing future talent’ will allow him to get Marcos more under his thumb. Maybe he can even get the kid to tag along when he’s inevitably fired by the end of the month. Sinclair’d hate to train another assistant up when he’s got an entirely passable one in Marcos.
“So, Marcos, what precisely did you have in mind for me to help you develop?”
Stunned that his bitchy boss is for the first time showing interest in him, Marcos accidentally crumples the list in his hands. “Really!? You wanna help me sir!?”
“Well don’t get so hysterical about it. It’s the least shitty option available.” Staring at his assistant, he’s already begun to second guess that. Marcos was never his first choice. The year before last the paper decided to hire all three of its summer interns as staff for the department heads, and while he’s been shafted out of that role his provided assistant remains.
That summer Marcos only applied to have something accompanying soccer and a high school degree on his resume. Taking an initial gap year before applying for college, the short internship has turned into a cushy enough gig and he’s long been angling for a more permanent role on staff.
While diligently working under the most obnoxious man in a relatively toxic workplace for two years and a bit now, Marcos has always known there’s a lot he can learn from the writer. If he could just catch him on a good day. And finally, he will get his chance to do just that.
“I mean, well, I guess what’s a day in the life like, right?”
“Wh- You know that Marcos, you’ve been working under me for years yes? Why don’t you tell me?”
Changing strategies, Marcos tries to shift the onus on him. Doing his best not to stoke an ever-rising temper, “You’re right, sorry boss. I guess, if you had any notes for me we could work on those together today?”
“Notes hm? Well for starters you could certainly care more about your appearance.” A shocking statement from someone wearing a coffee stained shirt to an assistant who clearly hits the gym regularly. Yet he takes it in stride.
“Right, that’s fair. Dress for the job you want right?” Oop, shit-
Sinclair’s eye twitches at this, “Right. The job you want. And what job is that? Marcos.”
Obviously aware what Sinclair’s asking, Marcos tries to salvage it, but one cannot simply wrangle this genie back into the bottle. “You know I don’t- I wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t okay working under you Sinclair.”
“Okay?! Just okay, is that right? Vouching for you to stay on as an assistant even after my position was erased. I- This is exactly why I tell them you’re not ready every time you apply for promotion.”
Marcos was prepared to walk everything back immediately until Sinclair confirms something the young man never even suspected. After everything he’s done for the jerk. Ignoring every spiteful comment and shitty assignment tossed his way so he can be near a writer he has always respected despite himself.
All this time it’s been Sinclair holding him back. His eyes well with tears as he feels his face burn with embarrassment and rage, “You what?”
“Oh don’t look at me like that, you weren’t ready. I was just the feather that broke the camel’s back.”
Biting his lip, Marcos has been deliberately holding something back from Sinclair. He’d explicitly told Sinclair that these jobs were a last chance, and that includes this one. He just didn’t think Sinclair would be such a callous asshole. His boss had always treated him like a tool. Well, Marcos is going to give him one last chance or he is going to literally become one.
“Say sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Sinclair. I would appreciate if you apologized for, on multiple occasions- no fuck that, for day in and day out making my life more difficult than it needs to be.”
So up his own ass he takes offense to the implication that he’s done anything of the sort, despite explicitly confirming he’s stopped Marcos from promotion just moments ago, Sinclair scoffs. “Now I’m sorry if you find the meager workloads I assign you too demanding, kid. But that’s life.” The writer eyes Marcos fingering something in his pants, “Go on, share with the class.”
Retrieving a small button Marcos has a severe look on his face as he presses it. “They told me to use this when I gave up on you.”
Laughing at the hysterics, Sinclair struggles to take someone he views as so lesser seriously. Before he can get out a full sentence chiding him however, he’s wracked with pleasure “Come now Marcoohsshit!” Suddenly every inch of his skin is burning hot. He feels his heartbeat in his head.
“Whuh, what did that- What did you just do to me Marcos!?” Staring at his boss with wide eyes, the assistant reaches towards his crotch as he is similarly filled with pangs of pleasure.
“I- I don’t know?” Reaching down to adjust his package as he is immediately rockhard, when his fingers manhandle his cock Sinclair again contorts in his desk chair.
“Gaahhhd Damnit Marcos! Stop?!” Pent up more than he can understand even as he starts cumming in his pants, Sinclair stares daggers at his assistant while drool begins pooling in his mouth.
Struggling to swallow the spittle rising more and more as he continues to rut and unload into his jeans, Sinclair feels his clothes sear against his skin as everything just feels too much. Face burning up, moving his limbs is suddenly more difficult as he looks down to find clothes that were already slightly too big for him draping across his thin body even more dramatically.
His shoulders slump slightly more as he sees his sleeves fall even limper. Taking another deep, struggled swallow, the reporter notices that his fingers are suddenly barely visible through the ends of his sleeves. Similarly when he shifts his weary legs his shoes just fall to the floor. Despite getting warmer by the second, it seems as if Sinclair has lost the ability to sweat everywhere save his legs which have already stained through his jeans with sweat.
Giving up on swallowing the still increasing pool in his mouth, the reporter allows himself to openly drool as he looks to Marcos. Lost in a reverie clearly more pleasant than Sinclair’s own, his boss has no qualms about interrupting, drool dripping down his cheeks he shouts. “Earth to fuuuhhking Marcos!? Help me get thesesh schlothes off!”
Taking his hands from his crotch Marcos quickly moves to help, shaking his head all the while “Right, sorry! I don’t-” He easily removes Sinclair’s top, though as it drags against his boss’ stomach, the man can’t help but cough up some drool as pins and needles tickle his every inch. Thicker than it previously was, the reporter begins to notice a distinct salty, acrid taste as it refuses to slow down.
The jeans give more trouble as they catch on his thighs which are for some reason bloating slightly. After a tug that dislodges another wave of spit from Sinclair’s mouth, the pants are off. Falling back into his chair as he feels his legs give out, they both apprise the empty crotch hanging between his still growing thighs. But Sinclair feels nothing from this, there’s a far more pronounced vacancy coming from his ass.
Sinclair’s mouth falls open and no matter how hard he tries it stays that way. He feels a pressure deep in his stomach, no lower- His legs are throbbing. It’s rising. Across his body he feels massive veins begin to throb larger. Arteries, blood vessels, and nerves once vital for him to move and think and act are instead being converted into nothing but sacks to hold blood, to make him feel more pleasure, to make him harder.
Liquid from his mouth gets cloudier as he feels his neck get tighter, bloating larger, racing his shoulders to match his torso growing more cylindrical. Throbbing up from his balls, from his legs, he sees the beginnings of a thick tube in the center of his stomach. Barely noticeable at first, he sees it getting more prominent as something seems to course up through it. Higher with every throbbing pump.
Gurgling for help he looks to his assistant who is yet again preoccupied with his own cock- No, even though it’s in his hand, Marcos’ attention is indeed squarely on Sinclair. Hunger in his eyes, it’s the only thing he can understand. Humping his hand, Marcos can’t help himself as he rushes to his boss and flips him over.
Pressure races through Sinclair as he feels his neck tighten and throb. He doesn’t even notice Marcos fucking him. He fails to produce anything besides wet heaving moans as he spits up more viscous pre, and then he hears nothing but blood rushing as every single faculty remaining within him tenses. He feels his legs pull and gags as he spews his first load as Marcos’ cock before blacking out.
When he comes too his vision is hazy. He feels a tickle on his ass that must be the jungle of Marcos’ pubes, straight and untrimmed, unlike his own. Looking down as much as he’s able with a neck that no longer moves he sees his skin tone has drastically darkened, even more than his assistant’s warm tone.
He doesn’t remember having arms to not have as he looks to see his legs balls have grown hairier. They look so big! He’s glad he’s given Marcos such impressive balls. At the thought he feels his skin get a little tighter as he gets excited. At the same time he feels two hands reach to hold him.
Slowly they start rubbing him up and down, “Shit… S*******? You awake?” Marcos' thoughts are so loud. The cock hears him say a word it doesn’t really understand, someone’s name maybe. It doesn’t care. It focuses everything in Marcos on what matters how horny he is.
“Ngggh, no Ssin- you- cock, When I cum again- When we cum again that’s it… I’ll get your, uhhh fuckin’ skills or whatever but you’ll just be…” Flexing its mobility, as Marcos slows down, the cock yanks the man’s heavier balls up as it forces itself to bounce. It can only imagine the quivering look on Marcos’ face as it yanks tight and spews pre in waves.
Looking down as thicker hairs begin to grow at the base of his cock, Marcos watches as whatever pale skin of Sinclair remains is washed away by that dark skin of his cock. It’s so much bigger than his used to be. Cupping his balls as he struggles to masturbate with one hand he sees his cock fully spurting pre as a foreskin quickly grows to fully cover his cockhead before being displaced as his cock gets even harder.
“Noooouh- You don’t understand if I cum that’s it!” But his oh so needy cock doesn’t care. It needs release. It has one button to press, and it is pressing it. Horny. Horny. Horny.
What remains of a boss Marcos can’t even remember is splattered on the door of his new office’s private bathroom. Shaking off a migraine he looks down at his ever so slightly hairier chest and tighter torso before pulling up his underwear. Filled with the pride of a man too cocky for his own good, Marcos looks down at his cock with the smirk of someone who will be a far more pleasant employee of the Pleasant Valley Paper.
“Good one little buddy, now let’s get some actual work done.”
Morris needs a job, Byron Industries needs an lab rat perfect for their new trial to make a mindless (read: horny) grunt. Paging through his favorite book while he waits, for such a reader he surely didn't read any fine print.
Wrote this one for a GSS challenge a bit ago! Here it is ever so slightly touched up with a few images added. This one's for all you real Melville heads out there. -Occam
“Call me Morris!”
The literature grad surely expected at least some reaction to his smallest of Moby Dick references. It’s not the first time he’s met with silence at the playfully pitiful introduction, but usually there’s at least confusion. This receptionist simply stares blankly. Perhaps there was a perfunctory smile under the facemask, but it certainly didn’t reach his eyes.
“Morris Baker, yes? For the interview?”
Still recoiling from his scuffed opening Morris is hesitant to speak up. All the well as the receptionist takes his silent quibbling as confirmation.
“Sir Byron will be with you shortly, please have a seat and enjoy our lobby’s amenities.”
Clutching his shoulder bag tightly as he sort of bows before stepping away from the front desk, Morris realizes that he’s not just working himself up. It’s not in his head, something is off about that receptionist. Sneaking a quick glance back, he sees the clerk is still staring at him. No? Staring through him.
To his credit, Morris stills the shiver that runs up his spine at the realization. Focusing on what matters, Morris convinces himself that between the two of them the secretary’s the weird one. That’s why the man didn’t react to his solid Moby Dick reference! Turning with a cocksure grin to take in the amenities the strange receptionist spoke of he wonders what he’ll find. It’s not every day someone like him gets to wander into Byron Roman’s business, after all.
Local celebrity doesn’t begin to cover what the titan of industry has become, but it’s certainly where he started. Morris remembers him being the talk of their provincial Texan hometown, nothing exciting ever happened around here so why not discuss the now-billionaire who escaped.
No one ever expected for him to return to their suburban ghost town to set up shop. Apparently disaffected with the West Coast preoccupation with burning money in pursuit of LLM’s and other digital faux progress, he felt a dire need to take his money elsewhere. For he is concerned with the world material.
Staring up at a painting of the great man adorning the wall above an elegant single-cup coffee machine, Morris can hardly believe they’re from the same ZIP code. That they walked the same high school corridors. Thick silver-speckled beard hiding a jawline everyone knows is as sharp as his mind, Byron seems like a man from a different age. One to be found amongst the pages of Morris’ classic literature more so than as the chief executive of an R&D company HQ’d in bumfuck nowhere.
And to think, Morris is here to work under him. Far, far, far under him presumably. The email didn’t say who he was meeting with, or really what he was interviewing for, but it must be for a low level clerk position. At least he told himself this as he signed an ‘interview contract’ that he had barely read.
Obviously said document could have held these answers and more but Morris was too excited at the opportunity to work for Byron Roman to even glance at the thing before signing. And now it’s almost as if it’s been washed from his mind. Perhaps that would be concerning if he were able to really recall it at all. But right now Morris has bigger fish to fry, sure of his intelligence at least, there is little else about himself he is confident about.
Too gaunt to be considered pudgy, too average to be dubbed attractive. Morris, like the CEO, seems to be pulled from the world of fiction, though one rather distinct from the epic Sir Byron Roman is cut from. No, Morris is more akin to a street urchin busking to sell matchsticks. Some Dickensian side-character that would be left on the chopping room floor.
Stealing another glance at the portrait wondering if he should hazard another cup of coffee, Morris can’t believe the sense of gravity he gets from the painting. It’s as if the man were standing her before him, asserting his masculinity through brushstrokes and painted posture alone.
Coming to this exact realization as he awkwardly averts his eyes and starts brewing a cup, Morris jokes to himself, “Can oi interest you in a pape milord…”
Unbeknownst to the off-duty barista, the receptionist has yet to take his eyes off him. Watching as Morris taps away at a coffee machine that inexplicably has a screen, he scans with concentration more like a machine than a man.
Only when the nervous interviewee sheepishly looks over his shoulder at the otherwise empty room does the receptionist at last avert his eyes. Having apparently gathered everything he needs, when Morris sits down with his steaming to-go cup, the receptionist speaks up.
“Sir Byron will see you now. Please proceed through the door on my left before entering the third room on the right.”
Letting the man’s words hang in the air for a moment, Morris puffs his cheeks and squints as he realizes this is the second time the secretary has outright stated he’s going to be meeting with the CEO.
The first time he had assumed it was a simple mistake, just a slip of the doorman’s hidden tongue. Having spent even a second longer with the mechanical man, Morris feels confident that he is not the type to speak in err. Nevertheless he opts to clarify.
“Hey! Hi there~ I don’t believe I got your name earlier, Mr..?” His question hangs in the air long enough that he gives up and continues. “Right. Well, I do believe there has been some sort of a misunderstanding? I-I’m here for a simply preliminary interview, surely Mr. Roman had better things to do than-“
“This organization is Byron Roman. If he allows some plain well-read fop to represent him in any regard, and that ungainly grunt makes an embarrassment of his name. Well.”
It’s the most animated Morris has seen the man since he walked in. Despite the cool collected tone he’d swear he saw the man’s eye twitch at the very idea of someone embarrassing the brand. Breezing past being called a grunt and clinging to being called well-read Morris tries to salvage the situation. Sure that if everything goes well that he’ll be working to some degree with the severe man before him, he beats down his nerves to perform.
“Of course! Of course~ I completely understand, sir. The squeaky wheel- err? Rather, a man is always judged by the company he keeps! I am simply surprised that a man as great as Byron Roman would make time in his busy day for an aspirant such as myself.”
Unlike the previous hidden grin, at this the secretary’s eyes light up with a smile. Like a faithful hearing true testimony of their lord.
“Well spoken Mr. Baker. Perhaps we’ll have a fruitful working relationship after all. Hold fast to that fervor. Now, if you don’t mind, please away to the next suite. Sir Byron will arrive to join when he is finished with his current business.”
Once more gesturing to the door to his left, the secretary’s face resets to its emotionless steel as he awaits for Morris to obey. Coffee cup in his hands he is torn whether to leave it or bring it to the second location. The simple decision almost freezes him in place.
He can’t help but overthink every single choice before him. Scoffing at himself as he clenches his jaw, in lieu of a decision he follows the path of least resistance and keeps the cup in hands. Still chiding himself for his perpetual lack of volition and his obsession with minutiae, he attempts to beat stoic surety into himself in preparation of meeting a CEO.
The process is interrupted as he crosses the threshold out of the lobby only to find an unremarkable hallway. Warm wooden flooring and vintage wallpaper give the place a homey vibe far more similar to a small-town doctor’s office than the working HQ of a tech company. Even seeing the large elevators at the end of the hallway in a building Morris knows is only the one story tall, he can’t help but be lulled by the place’s provincial decor.
“It’s like my mom decorated this place…”
Snooping just enough to check out the other few doors on the way to the promised third on the right, Morris finds only more beige doors. Their handles are covered with a thin layer of dust that his attention just glides past, much like it does regarding the gleaming elevator down the way.
Far less overactive minds would begin telling themselves horror stories and worst-case scenarios about wandering into the back office of a billionaire’s clearly shady studio. Taking a sip of his coffee and stealing one last glimpse of the empty hallway, Morris refuses to give way to anxiety. The rich light roast on his tongue grounds him, it perfectly reminds him why he’s come here today.
He is not going to be a barista anymore. The lobby’s attendant flickers in his mind as he swallows. A job just like that, maybe one where he doesn’t need to be quite so dogmatic, is that too much to ask?
Lost in thought as he enters the room. From the side of his eye Morris catches movement and spits up coffee as he flinches into the door in surprise. Instantly worried that Byron has been waiting on him and caught this jittery display, he tightens his posture and forces an awkward smile on his face to feign confidence.
His harried resolve immediately drops when he turns completely only to find a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Sighing in relief Morris decides to use the opportunity to freshen up. Setting down his coffee he wanders closer to inspect his reflection.
Hair as unfrizzled as he’s able to get it, there are more than a few curly fly-aways sticking out of his tight dirty-blonde bun. Looking down his baggy button-up there are thankfully no coffee stains on its placket.
At least everywhere visible is stainfree if nothing else. The same can surely not be said regarding the sweat under his arms, but this is thankfully hidden by a neat cardigan and nigh-medical grade deodorant.
‘I’ll be fine’ He tells himself on loop, tugging his cardigan down to cover a wrinkle. Looking downwards his pants are simply too long and bag atop dress shoes he only pulls out for very special occasions. His belt still slightly limp even on its most extreme loop, Morris feels nerves prickle on the back of his neck. He absolutely won’t be fine, he looks like a fucking mess!
The barely positive mantra he’s been clinging to is succinctly batted away as the reality of the situation pelts away the hope he’d been foolish enough to trust. He hadn’t even applied for any position in particular, simply thrown his resume at the company’s inbox alongside a pathetic cover letter asking to be used however they see fit.
As if their CEO would waste a second of his day besides to come down here and chastise him for wasting his important company’s time. The receptionist held more worth in a finger than could be found in all of Morris put together, and he thought he’d be able to work a job like that!? He’d crumble under the slightest obstacle, some rich investor chews him out and he’d dissolve. Morris feels himself tearing up at the very idea.
Or perhaps he’s simply halfway to weeping for being a dumbass who thought things could be better. Always thinking. Too much thinking. He feels his fingers clench into his forehead before he even realizes he’s put his face in his hands. The pain of his fingernails scratching brings him back to his senses and after making sure he didn’t leave splotchy red marks on his hairline he takes a deep breath and turns away from his watery-eyed reflection.
Now’s not the time.
If this is real, and it must be. Then this is a massive opportunity he simply can’t waste because he got in his own head. He’s too smart for that. He’s smart, and Byron Roman himself has a position in mind for him. This is-
BING BONG DING DONG- DONG DING BONG BING
“Jesus christ…”
Nearly jumping out of his skin, it’s clear that despite telling himself to calm down he has remained well on edge. Looking up to find the villainous implement that startled him, Morris is shocked he didn’t notice the clock before now. Still recovering from the jumpscare he can hear a subtle tick-tock, grounding him in reality as he attempts to find calm.
Centering himself on the consistent clicking of gears nearby, Morris sits in a small chair and sets his bag down beside him. Time to lock in. Reaching down to paw through the couple of belongings he saw as necessary, Morris debates whether it’s best to read through his printed resume or to focus wholly on setting his mind at ease.
Obviously he’s not going to just scroll on his phone. At worst he’ll stumble across something that’ll stress him out more. At best he’ll look like some screen-addicted zoomer right when Mr. Roman walks in.
Fingers glaze the worn cover of his trusty bible. Melville’s masterpiece. Moby Dick. Thinking of the tome and the vastness of the sea within, the classicist feels the constriction in his chest just melt away. Focused on the sound of North Atlantic gulls in his mind, buoyed by the persistent ticking of the newfound clock, how could Morris ever notice the slightest hissing now emanating from the nearby overhead vent.
Book in hands, he turns it over a few times before opening it to some choice section on whales and their constituent parts. Morris at last relaxes back into his chair. Despite doing everything right, as he reads his pulse continues to rise. First putting his hand on his chest to feel its racing beat, Morris shakes his head and pointedly ignores how it suddenly feels warmer in the room to read the passage before him.
Fanning out his button-up he frowns and tells himself the discomfort is all in his head. Shifting in his seat he feels the pooling sweat in pits and resolves to ignore it. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he squints at the text and begins to whisper it aloud to himself.
‘Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed unrelenting.. Uh?’ Hearing something bump in the hallway he turns to hopefully see his interviewer interrupting him only to find it’s presumably in his head. Scratching at the side of his chest, carefully not shoving his hand deep in his pits, Morris purses his lips and looks back to the book, unknowingly skipping a few lines.
‘Or, if for any reason thought to be corpo- uhhh? Corporately, no. Corpor-really? Corporeally? Jeeez, god… I must be more stressed than I even thought.” And he certainly thought he was plenty stressed.
Leaning back against his chair, Morris closes his eyes and simply tries to find peace in the darkness. His foot anxiously taps on the floor, at first matching the ticking before rapidly outpacing it. And then it falls heavier. His shoes were tight from the get-go having rarely been worn, but suddenly it’s almost like they’ve gotten tighter in the last few minutes.
Every muscle in his body tensed, he uses his anxious tension to jump up with a start and pace the otherwise empty office. This does nothing to abate the discomfort in his shoes, but as he does so he begins to find that it is not only his feet that are suddenly acting up. Crossing his arms tightly as he patrols the small suite, his cardigan tugs against his shoulders like it never has before.
With a scowl he looks down at his wrists exposed from both his sweater and shirt. Imagining the surely pristine suit his town’s idol is sure to arrive in he easily works himself up anew about his foolish daydreams. Even worse than before, as if every already extreme emotion had heightened. As if they were still heightening.
Throwing his arms down and swinging them to simply remove them from his sight, he refuses to acknowledge how the twigs twitch with every sway. Muscle fibers that have been inactive save to froth milk and open novels suddenly twinge and burn with a need Morris doesn’t understand.
Struggling to make sense of the strange sensation, with pursed lips his fists cramp and at last it becomes perfectly clear. Aggression. Morris is filled with the all-too unfamiliar need to punch something. His consistent pacing back and forth immediately stops as the urge takes pride of place in his mind. Staring as his dainty hands curling into fists, Morris watches mouth agog as the veins on their backs throb.
The sound of his knuckles cracking larger with the force of his clenching is absolutely clear. Wispy blond strands that have long decorated his wrists seem suddenly darker in this office light, to say nothing of the fact that it seems like there are altogether more of them.
Hidden by his cardigan sleeves, Morris suddenly feels his forearms filled with force. Not knowing what a flexor or extensor even is, Morris is dumbstruck as he feels muscles reflexively constrict. Higher up his arm, and far more eye-catching, he is stunned as he sees his sweater catch on biceps like he’s never seen. Muscle like he’d never even been able to imagine on his unimpressive form.
Everything else is washed from his mind as he sees his arms continue to bloat. The shock from his sudden violent streak and even the slight pain still pinging from his shoes pinching more and more, everything fades away as a grin overtakes his shaky face. Panting almost as he lowers and raises an invisible dumbbell, Morris watches as with every lift his sleeves are strained further. And his arms continue to grow.
Hands stretch further from the end of his sleeves as the scratchy, darker curls spreading up his forearm continue to thicken. Doing everything short of drooling at his biceps bulging thicker, when it starts to strain against the dress shirt beneath, his vacant expression twitches into one of frustration.
Nose flaring in irritation, he unintentionally takes a deeper breath and gasps as he suddenly notices a pervasive stink has begun to fill the room. Sure that it simply can’t be coming from himself he raises his heavy right arm to look underneath and can hardly believe the sight. Sweating through both the dress shirt and the thick, once baggy cardigan, Morris can’t take his eyes off the dark, spreading stain in his armpits.
Stunned, his face burns bright red and then feels starkly itchy itself. The urge to scratch is waylaid by the far more powerful need to shove his head into his pit and inhale deeply. Get some of that sweat on his face… Maybe it’d stay there, stick on his upper lip and he’d get a deep whiff of his musky male odor with every single breath.
“Nnno… That- I cann’tuhh…” Words dissolve from his mouth and mind as his lips simply fall open.
Tongue almost lolling, his neck that had been surreptitiously thickening itself begins to lean towards his waiting pit. Converted to the cause, his barely cognizant rational self, tries to make sense of his need. How is he to fix the issue without truly understanding it. He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and let his pits breath to the open air.
Mind wont to picture the bushy tangle of pit hair that must be hidden beneath these restrictive layers, he does just that. Thicker than his pubes and almost as scratchy, he imagines the chalky deodorant he threw on this morning simply melting away. Absolutely overwhelmed by the prodigious musk his pits produce, proof of his own prodigious manhood.
Lost in a daydream, one hand slowly reaches over to scratch the armpit he imagines and finds it just as hairy as he imagines. Stomach quivering as higher thought continues to vacate. Buried beneath two tops, even still his fingertips can still feel the deep scratchy strands that have begun to stretch well beyond their underarm stomping ground.
Lips twitching into a grin, Morris moans quietly to himself as blush returns to his pale cheeks as its skin tightens and grows rougher. Standing limply in the center of the room as he continues to fill out his clothes, there are a couple inches of straining dress socks showing from the pants that were ever too long.
On the opposite end of the garment, his growth is far more drastic. Never much of a shower or a grower, Morris’ petit package has more than filled his lucky pair of briefs. While one hand remains preoccupied with his pits, the other enthusiastically goes to cup a cock slowly twitching larger.
Quickly struggling to remove a belt now constricting his widening waist before it snaps, at the very same moment it clinks against the floor he hears his swelling cock strain his briefs. When it at last breaks free from his underwear and begins throbbing down the side of his pant leg, obviously visible, Morris’ hips twitch forward and he is brought back to the unmistakable reality of his situation.
“OHHHhhh GOddd~” Panting as he tries to make sense of this must-be nightmare, Morris stumbles over to the mirror to try and free himself from this manic hellscape. Thicker lips drooping open surrounded by stubble darkening from its blonde peachfuzz into a real man’s beard, he forces his face into his hands and tries to convince himself that these changes aren’t good. Cock throbbing in response it’s not looking good.
Thick breath mists the mirror, hiding the vacant look in his eyes as they trail up and down the reflection of his body’s new almost pornographic proportions. So focussed on the meaty arms hanging at his side, he had yet to notice how a forming chest suddenly strains the buttons on his shirt. Nipples encircled by lancing curls are absolutely visible through the sweat-stained top.
Hunger and need fill the spot left by intelligence in his eyes, he forces a hand to his mouth to stop a loud moan as his chest cracks wider, at last tearing the pitiful dress shirt. Strange new strength filling him more with every moment, he is again felt with the impatient urge to make use of it. To fight, to ff- fuck. Forcing his fist into his mouth he bites down to feel anything but the oppressive sensation pulsing from his cock at the idea.
Desperately willing himself to settle down and figure out how to wake up from this hallucination, Morris slams the fist not cupping his cock into the wall as he bites down hard on his lip to try and force himself back to his senses. “FUCK!”
Clutching his injured mouth he stomps a foot in pain as the taste of iron fills his mouth. This marks the end of his dress shoes as the seams on its front burst open to reveal long toes almost completely visible beneath the sparse threads of a sock barely hanging in there. The sound of leather tearing continues as his freed foot continues expanding and tears the tattered shoe in two.
Apathetic to the small trail of red dripping into the thickening stubble on his chin, he looks down at his mismatched feet. One with a shoe hanging on its ankle, still widening beyond the pale. The other barely hangs in there, shining leather filled to the brim with the mass of a foot simply far too large.
Gasping in pain at the feeling of his left foot trying desperately to match its pair’s growth while still confined, there’s an ice cold pit in his stomach as he at last realizes he can’t be dreaming. It just feels too much, too good. And then the other shoe bursts open, sending fabric and laces flying, the slightly humid air of the office a balm to the sole.
Somewhere increasingly buried in his mind, he struggles to understand. If he’s not dreaming, then this is real. His back cracks as he adjusts to stand slightly taller. This is impossible.
Staring at the remains of the most expensive piece of his outfit now hanging from both ankles, Morris tries to understand. It’s what he’s best at, making sense of something. Thinking. He has a degree. He was in debate and wrote for his university’s paper. At least he’s pretty sure he did?
Furrowing his brows as they begin to thicken from their patchy blonde, Morris finds it suddenly difficult to recall. Concern at his situation rapidly gives way to frustration which gives way to apathy. He’ll just wait for Byron to come in and explain everything. Surely he’ll know what’s going on.
As it begins to become more and more difficult to recall his higher education, his thoughts begin to drift increasingly to Byron. Picturing the great man does no favors to his libido, his trigger happy crotch is eager to twitch with fervor as Morris struggles to control himself.
No matter what he’s not going to be caught masturbating when the mysterious executive walks in. Despite wanting nothing more in the world to do so, he moves to sit down and struggles to tuck the massive cock in between his thighs before doing his best to cross the thick trunks.
Vaguely recalling he brought some book with him, Morris looks at the novel tossed aside and picks it up. There’s a flicker of recognition as he knows it’s a book he really likes. But as he reads the title he has to stifle a laugh as in lieu of that ingrained peace, he simply reads the words ‘Moby Dick’ “Pffff WAH HAh ah- Hrm.” Clearing his throat as his voice cracks lower, shifting to one which yearns to guffaw rather than giggle.
Steeling himself, as much as he’s able. Morris recovers slightly and sternly tells himself he likes this book. That he’s a big reader, he’s got a degree in books. This is his favorite book. But even as he flails to remember what exactly a B.A. stands for, the memories of going to university feel less true.
Surely he’d be smarter then…
When that thought flits to his mind the pride he holds in his intelligence returns. Determined to prove it by reading a book thicker than he can clearly remember reading, he opens it to a random page once more: Chapter 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
Eyes glazed over, the language is far too advanced for his simplifying mind to even begin to comprehend. Still, they drift over the lines enough for him to pretend he’s grasping anything before at last they catch on something: ‘Squeeze! squeeze! Squeeze!’ Exclamation points calling to him, Morris continues to read Ishmael’s account of processing spermaceti. And unsurprisingly, he begins to laugh.
While earlier he was reading to focus on the text, now he almost needs to sound out the words for them to sink in. Following the lines with his fatter finger “All the morn-ing long; I squeezed that- hehheh, Sperm till I myself almost melted into it HAH HAhah- Huh… Sperm… Squeeze…”
Biting the lip that has miraculously healed already, if only he could recall the injury, Morris’ now sperm focussed and squeeze happy mind can only do what the written page suggests. Dropping the tome as he manspreads in an office chair that now creaks beneath his heavier load, he swallows the drool pooling in his mouth. Looking to pants now decorated with small tears, the once-academic stares at the too squeezable cock stretching halfway down his meaty thigh.
Pants so tight he can see the thick veins through the tearing fabric, Morris’ mouth falls open as he drools outright, beginning to rub his own whale through pants seconds away from tearing apart altogether. Feeling it scratch against his curl covered thighs and the cheap satin of his dress pants, he can scarcely recall that he’s in this room let alone the reason why.
Pool of pre rapidly pulsing through the vicelike pants, Morris’ moans echo as he can recall no reason at all to quiet himself. As he can recall nothing but the pleasure emanating from his wanting cock. Louder than the clock, completely covering the ever-present hiss of the vent that has been steadily increasing; not that Morris ever stood a chance at noticing. His twitchy hips rut as he spits up over himself from excitement at release that is soon to come.
Every aspect of self and every stray neuron firing is focused on the rising pressure in his crotch. Morris can feel his balls pull up as his free hand clenches the chair about to break underneath his weight. Legs extend as every muscle flexes, and just as that sweet release is on the precipice of freeing him from the grand weight of his worries- the door knob turns.
Clad in a tailored three-piece suit more expensive than Morris’ apartment enters the prodigal chief himself, Byron Roman. Morris veins run cold at being seen in such a compromised position by that most influential man that has ever stepped foot in their podunk shared home town. Bolting up like a bullet, the horny man’s spine is straight as a ramrod.
So too is his cock as it finally wins the war against his cheap dress pants. Sending a small stream of pre flying as it bursts free from confinement, Morris can’t help but cross his eyes as it bounces in the air. Hazarding a glimpse, he can hardly believe just how impressive his dick is. Almost twice its previous size and veinier than his arms after the best pump he’s ever had, Morris would have cum at the very sight were he not wholly stunned from being in the presence of Byron.
Closing the door behind him as he enters outright, there is no surprise on the executives face as he inspects the goods. Striding to meet the man, he holds his hands behind his back as he inspects every inch of the man standing firmly at attention. Expressionless as he takes in every detail of Morris.
Zeroing in on whatever bodypart of Morris’ strikes his fancy, as he stares Morris continues to grow. Accelerating from the attention of the great man before him, as if every muscle and mindless body part were trying to make him proud.
Starting from behind, Byron takes an interest in the man’s ass. Morris twitches as his glutes expand, what remains of his briefs fall irrevocably into their crack as his hairy cheeks hang larger in the open air, stretchmarks painted across their prodigious mass like the work of art it is.
Eyes trailing upward, Morris' waist fills out to give his silhouette the most powerful shape one can imagine. Connecting his heavy chest with wide hips and heavy thighs, there is no way someone could look at the drooling man and imagine anything but strength lying within him.
Finishing a slow lap around his aspirant, Byron stands in front of Morris and does one last look down and up. Landing on his face, Morris feels his jaw sharpen underneath the perpetual stubble that coats it. His chin juts out like a superhero’s while his cheekbones and brow ridge grow just as prominent. There’s a small crack in the air as Morris feels his nose reshape into something either aquiline or one that has simply broken and rehealed.
Still frozen in place, Morris’ stunted mind only just realizes that he’s at eye-level with Byron Morris. It’s so unbelievable that it almost breaks him free from whatever trance he’s in. Feeling the sweat drip down his exposed midriff as a breeze in the room sails through the treasure trail etching itself up his puffy abs mostly hidden by his strong gut, a needy grunt ekes out of his throat.
Finally, Byron gives any real indication that he’s anything more than a passive observer. Waiting for his guest’s glazed eyes to look back at him, the CEO smiles. “So. What is it that brings you in today?” His voice is like an upright bass alone in an orchestra hall, tightly controlled, smooth, and completely attention grabbing.
Unable to string two thoughts together he grunts and tries to explain himself, “I- I, uhh… J- Job- s ssir…” Struggling to swallow drool still spilling from his overactive glands, he tries to stand even straighter to hide the obvious mess he’s in. Taking a deep breath to recover from the strain of speaking, he inhales a hearty dose of his musk and struggles against the handful of twitches his body enacts in response.
“I hope you don’t mind the subterfuge, from your letter I did gather you were quite desperate. So much so you were quite lax reading the fine print of- Well, I imagine you can’t recall anyway so what is the point, right old- Er? What was your name again?” For the first time Byron reaches out to touch Morris, brushing some shred of torn cardigan stuck to his sweaty skin as he asks the question
“I’m Mo- Mo…” Finally thickening enough to be the caterpillar-like brows he’s always admired on other men as his brow ridge bulges lower, his eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the simplest of answers. Waiting patiently, Byron starts to massage his bicep, distracting him all the more. It’s his name. It should be engrained within his mind, within his self more than anything else.
Byron’s hand travels up his shoulder before shifting over to cup his heavy pecs, prodding them as if he’s inspecting livestock with a grin. “Come now boy, you must know your name! I read your very brief resume- or I briefly read it, rather. Hm, I suppose you couldn’t mind such a dig at this point ah ha ha!” With each laugh he presses firmer into the man’s chest, delighting as he quivers with need.
“I’mmm Mmmnhh”
Byron reaches up to grasp the man’s jaw with his free hand while he travels down the whole of his torso with the other. Batting away the shirt as he easily sails down sweaty abs and haphazardly detangles scratchy body hair, Byron smiles as he forces the man to look directly in his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind if we just gave you a new one? After all, what could you want more than a fresh start under my wing.”
Needily nodding, the now nameless man melts as Byron at last graces his cock with attention. Lightly grazing its veiny surface with his manicured nails, the executive gives one small tug on the meaty cock’s head and watches as pre that has been trickling down his shaft drips onto the floor.
Eyes darting to the book lying on the floor, Byron smirks as he brings his hand to his mouth to sample the sticky ichor glazing his hand. “Moby, hm? Isn’t that swell.”
Tongue hanging limp from his mouth as he pants like a dog, he must agree the name feels fitting. It feels like him. Or he would if there was a single thought in his mind. At the moment any higher consciousness, much like his blood, was rushing to that most turgid of organs. He was just waiting for Byron’s permission to finally become.
As Byron’s hand reaches to grasp what little of Moby’s cock it’s able, the new hire feels the peace he was always longing for. Mind simplifying with each small tug and twist of the fingers, he feels all he is and was drain into his balls as they pull upward.
Eyes rolling back as his supernaturally rigid posture twitches and almost collapses under the touch of his boss. There’s a blank grin on Moby’s face as he prepares to release the heavy weight of understanding. And with a few simple flicks of Roman’s wrist, Moby does just that.
Erupting like a geyser, everything that made Morris what he was is launched from him in pearly strings. His application and the contract he thoughtlessly signed, his few long years as a barista, his poorly received thesis and the best years of his life precipitating it; all converted to a messy cum splatter on the floor of this corporate office.
Moby pants as he falls back amongst the pools of his scattered past self. Bleary smirk on his face, the toll of almost doubling in size leaves him drained as his eyelids begin to waver. Pulling up a chair and lighting a cigar that had been hidden in his jacket, Byron Roman watches him overtaken by sleep.
He doesn’t remember too much about the man smoking above him. He doesn’t remember too much at all. But he knows the man is everything to him. And when he wakes up well, he’s going to do his best to make him proud.
Byron Roman never really saw the point in a grunt. His many underlings all served their purposes, true. But a body man, one always at his beck and call, one always by his side. He always imagined it would be suffocating.
Never has he been more pleased to be proven wrong. Moby has performed every duty even better than expected. Given their steamy first meeting it’s not long before their relationship grows beyond that of boss and muscled-up assistant.
His scientists always pushed one of their own to be the lab rat, but Byron has always preferred the humanities. While mechanical intelligence may have sufficed, Moby’s tortured classical passions gave his final form far more flavor.
Reclined at his desk, incense burning slowly as he stares at Moby standing over watch outside his office, Byron decides it’s time to call it a day. To that end, he calls his grunt over for their now daily ritual. Calling him over, Byron’s mouth curls into a grin as watches Moby’s tight uniform contort and stretch over his muscle with every labored movement.
“You rang boss?”
“Moby be a dear, lock the door and close the blinds.”
Blush burns underneath Moby’s permanent five o’clock shadow as his mouth reflexively falls open. Sprinting to the door to do just that, he bounds back to his boss to do exactly what’s made for.
Undoing his tie, Byron’s already well-excited himself, zipper creaking as this becomes indisputable. Something about their sessions always leaves him feeling rejuvenated himself. When he looks in the mirror after he’d swear his beard is always a touch darker, the neck it hides thicker. Perhaps he’d worry, but fucking and being fucked by the titan simply has a way of softening his many worries.
Stealing one last glance at a weathered blue copy of Moby’s old book, he cracks his shoulders and feels them reset ever so slightly firmer. “Time to do what you do best, boy.”
Constantly annoyed by his androgyny, David stumbles onto a spam ad that leads to his first facial hair and unknowingly condemns his latest overly masc ex to the twinkdom he's leaving behind.
Pretty standard role swap/masc theft! Twinky bottom to hairy top though much of the opposite changes happen off screen. At any rate, hope you enjoy this tale of Twink Theft! -Occam
And so began the same argument that has led to the end of each and every one of David’s previous relationships. Sure, he knows he’s beautiful. Angelic many of his one night stands and observers from afar frequently point out. He’s a model by default and his face card is perfect bait for men to just fall at his feet.
David frequently finds himself with men almost stereotypically masculine, alpha bros and DL hoes are always drawn to his androgyny. But rarely do they ever consider anything but his looks. When the cherubic man can no longer hold back his ire at being considered just a pretty face they fight and then abandon him for some other waifish twink. Leaving him feeling like nothing more than a soft-skinned doll for them to play with and abandon.
Curled up in the passenger seat of his current horndog fling’s car, David looks from underneath his tangle of perfectly coiffed curls as Mattias just stares down the open road. Glancing at the hairy jungles covering the man’s torso and pits, David yearns to feel the scratch of hair against his body. The closest thing he can ever experience to growing it himself.
For half a moment the model believes that perhaps Mattias is reflecting, thinking about their argument. Considering David’s point of view at all. When a hand drifts to adjust a bulge clearly visible in his pants it’s clear there’s only one thing on his mind. And David is certainly not going to let that happen tonight.
“You’re not even listening.”
“Shiiiit, I mean c’mon babe. Be serious. You couldn’t even grow facial hair if you tried. I just dunno why you’re being such a lil bitch about it.”
Bony arms hugging his long legs, draped with pants he purloined from a shoot, David feels a fire burning within him. He’s not even been allowed to try. His agency would can him on the spot. Staring at the small mustache decorating Mattias’ upper lip he reaches to feel his own smooth, soft face. He’s going to try.
“I don’t care what you think, I’m going to stop waxing. Keep complaining, see what else I might decide to try. Asshole.”
Eyes flitting to his passenger, Mattias reaches over to feel David’s inner thigh. “So, uhhh, that means we’re not-”
“Fuck off you horny fucking- Spend half an hour thinking about anything but my ass and maybe, maybe I won’t lose your number.”
Clicking his tongue, Mattias throws his head against his headrest and starts rerouting to drop David off at his home. Sure that his dick is anything worth craving he assumes David’ll come crawling back to him by the end of the week, femme-er than ever. Smirking as he nods farewell to the man, he imagines soft hairless cheeks bouncing on him come Tuesday and quickly redownload Grindr to try and satisfy his still throbbing cock.
Watching yet another mindless jerk abandon him to his insecurities, David is of a different mind. This time it’s going to be different. As soon as the tail lights of Mattias’ shit box are out of sight, David begins his research.
It’s not long at all before David comes across a targeted ad. Formatted like any other, on the left there’s a twink that the model swears he’s seen before, on the right is a perpetually bear-faced man. Face overgrown with itchy stubble and capstoned by a burly mustache that makes David’s mouth water.
Averse to cumming in his pants from a spam-ad, David does his best to stop imagining the twink’s journey to become the hairy hunk opposite him. He can just picture the bleach blonde hair giving way to that ruddy brown as his hairline retreats. Stubble growing so quickly it’s not even worth trimming. David bites his lip to stop from imagining his bulky figure out of frame.
Trailing past both the familiar ditzy twink’s lolling tongue and the alluring garden of chest fur on his alleged new self, David reads the caption. ‘How I became a man with ONE simple trick’
Rather than inviting whatever malware hides behind this jpeg onto his system, David scrawls through his instagram hoping against hope that he does actually know this man. Lo and behold he miraculously finds him, though as of late the twink’s has been dry.
Refusing to acknowledge the reality that this ad probably just stole an image from this mystery model’s account, David prepares to cold-DM this man he doesn’t really know. Desperate to feel the way he has always craved, desperate to change, he types his message:
‘Hey Hi! Peyton right? Funny thing :P I just found an ad of u and this like,,, lumberjackey otter? U know anything about this?’
Within the minute the man replies:
‘lmaooo ya thas me dude so u wanna fucc or what?’
Shocked at the bizarre response, there are a few false starts before David lands on a message. While he certainly wouldn’t be opposed to getting fucked by the man on the right, his eyes are on the prize of being more like him than anything else.
‘Ahhhh unfortunately I was more just wondering about the trick the ad mentioned. Like,, is that real? Surely thats like a joke huh?’
Across town and annoyed at the boner that won’t be satisfied now that Peyton knows what David wants, the hirsute horndog whines and starts absentmindedly playing with his cock as he prepares to offer David the route to join him. Much like David’s string of horny tops, he’s slightly disappointed for the world to lose such a pretty boy, but he would never stand between someone who wants to join him in his most-masculine form.
And he knows it’s not the only change to erupt from David’s ascension.
‘its easy brother just click the link and type the guys name in’
‘The guy?’
‘the dude who made u feel like shit lil bro sumone u want to take down a peg’
Obeying the strange man’s prescription, David takes a deep breath before clicking the ad to find nothing but a small empty text box. Left with nothing to go off besides the man’s words, David pictures the most recent jerk to wrong him.’
Imagining Mattias’ sneer as David explained the pain he feels when he looks in the mirror, the mustache twitching with his lips is impossible to ignore. He yearns to just rip it off the man’s face and put it on his own. David quickly types his name into the box. And nothing happens.
MATTIAS
Worried he’s fallen for some phishing scam or at the very least made a fool of himself, David quickly hits his keyboard to ask for next steps from Peyton:
‘What now?’ … ‘Hello, you there? I typed his name in’ … ‘K. Well thanks for nothing’
After spamming the man who got him this far with a few more dms, unaware that the man has simply muted his notifications to quickly masturbate, David refuses to be awake any longer and falls into his bed. Tomorrow he’ll be over it. It’ll be just another day. He’ll go to a shoot, pose, go home, do his regimen, and then go to bed again.
Sinking into his mattress, David stares at his ceiling. Dimly lit by the computer monitor left on he swears he can see Mattias’ cocky face watching him. After a blink he sees his own, gaunt and smooth, like carved marble.
Seeing his face reflected in the funhouse mirror of his mind’s eye, David doesn’t know when sleep overtakes him. When he begins to dream about the man he is going to be, a small smile twitches across his sleepful lips as the slightest itch begins to burn atop them.
The changes he finds in the morning are already too drastic to outright explain, if he could notice anything new besides the slight but unmistakable new mustache, that is. Fingertips instantly poking against the adamant new prickles decorating his face, David rushes to the bathroom to find his new reflection.
Quickly tearing out his phone to get permanent proof of his first facial hair beyond peach fuzz, David is ignorant to how his messy ringlets retracted into the spiky new fade that crowns his slightly retracted hairline.
So focused on the new lip candy as to miss this most prominent of changes, the many more minute alterations absolutely breeze past the excitable new man. Staring at the stubble promising future growth on his chin, he doesn’t notice the rougher hands holding up his phone or the ruddier complexion covering his face.
Underneath the shirt he fell asleep in the first steps of body hair begin to slowly prickle out. Struggling in a biome designed to prevent regrowth, David’s lasered chest and perma-waxed pits tingle as the first brave new curls begin the first steps towards a total rout of his smooth twinkish form.
Unable to do anything but grin as he delights in the first glimpse of a life and body he never truly saw for himself, David rushes to thank Peyton for putting him onto that strange site. He can’t believe all it took was some manifestation! Funny how a stupid little text-box prompt could be so helpful!
Blissfully unaware of the ocean of changes brewing beneath his skin, David is waylaid by a handful of notifications. Grin turning to a smirk as he imagines it’s his manager on his ass for being late to a shoot; little does he know he’s got a far bigger surprise in store. Scratching at the barely noticeable itch in his pits, his fingers free the musk that had been baking all night under his heavy shirt.
Half-preparing to send the selfie he took to the man who fought for him to stay femme more than anyone else, David instead finds the handful of texts are from his personal trainer. Of course he’s had one since he was brought on by his agency, but reading the handful of missed messages, David is thrown for a loop.
As far as he could remember their routines have always been on keeping him lithe. Maintaining his stick thin figure. Ensuring his cortisol stays low at any cost. To see message after message tearing into David for not taking strength training and bulking up seriously completely derails his train of thought.
Something deep within his chest turns at the idea and without even changing into something more appropriate for the gym, David tears out the door and sprints to his trainer’s side. With every step further from his austere apartment, his body continues to adapt to its new status quo.
Calves designed to be draped with baggy pants burst with muscle as each rushing pace springs with more strength. Working from increasingly strained shoes upward, his calves begin to blanket with a soft garden of hair. Burgeoning curls tug at the air soaring by as they yearn to connect with the thickening patch of pubes surrounding a permanent-semi that David is struggling with as he continues his heady jog.
Before he even arrives at the gym he has already become an altogether different man. The step-above-peachfuzz mustache that languished on his face when he woke up has continued to thicken and now hangs entirely over his upper lip. Across his whole body his bony figure has continued to fill out from the exertion of his sprint to the gym.
Biceps bulge onto his thin arms as they cut through the morning air on his run. Sleeves of a shirt not designed to be within a city-block of a gym are quickly strained as dark stains under his burgeoning shoulders show the beginnings of his tangled pits seeding proof of their existence.
Smelling the unpleasant odor of his morning breath joining the aura of body odor steaming in his wake, David feels his underwear strain as his hips readjust and grow mid stride. Panting like a dog he moans from soreness burning as new muscle strands thicken and bulge onto his powerful limbs.
Filled with gratitude greater than he can understand to the man who ushered him into this ecstatic change, he once more goes to message Peyton only to find a plethora of new messages from none other than Mattias.
‘What did you fucking do to me you bitch.’
Absolutely no idea what that’s about, David stares dumbfounded at the screen before his attention span in high-demand is summoned by his trainer as he bumbles into the gym, late. “You ready to go or what princess?” Butterflies in his stomach quiver at the words, he’s not a princess anymore. And he’s going to prove it to Mattias, his trainer, and anyone else who gets in his way.
His chest burns with a need to grow as he makes his way over to a bench. The act of laying down alone causes his thin chest to bulge larger. The buttons that always hung loosely on his sternum fly off into the gym as pecs fill his sweat-stained shirt to its breaking point before sending lancing tears further down his chest.
Through each new open seam and widening hole, the hidden hair prickling across David’s torso makes itself known. Having expanded well beyond a paltry patch connecting a handful of curls swirling around his formerly petite nipples, the swath of tangled jungle covering his bulging pecs races to make itself seen. His growing chest aids in this as the single button still feigning modesty on his shirt bursts free to reveal the curls climbing towards his neck.
Feeling the pump of growth, his heart racing, David grunts and groans as torso firms and expands to compete with his strengthening limbs and eye-catching chest. Quickly filling the shirt like rising dough in a tin, David barely holds back a horny scream as he feels the fabric tear to shreds off his body.
Standing nearby for obvious reason, David’s trainer simply stares blankly as his once doelike ward has grown into a stag. Watching as his face prickles with thicker stubble surrounding his gritted teeth, staring as arms that he swears were to be deliberately untouched thicken and trail with veins, the trainer has a burning urge to keep him here in the gym as long as possible.
To this end he reaches up to usher David to the next machine, opting to reach for the small of the man’s back for lusty greed alone, he bites his lip as he feels the beginnings of his trainee’s ass hair creeping up towards his shoulders. Unlike the still perma-poised David, the trainer doesn’t quite quiet a whimper from feeling up his sweaty back. “Mhhmm~”
Shocked to hear as much from someone David would’ve sworn was straight, David turns in surprise to stare at his visibly horny trainer. Blush paints the broish man’s cheeks and the twitching package he can’t hide makes it clear he’s certainly not red in the face from his own scant workout.
Stepping away David watches as his needy hands fall away. Gulping with need, there’s surely a part of the hitherto professional trainer that knows there is something strange alluring him to David, but when he sees the growing man’s bicep twitch even larger his train of thought has no recourse but to pull out all the stops to keep him close.
David knows he’s hot stuff, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten googoo eyes from a ‘straight man,’ but something’s off. Scratching his head he feels how his hair texture has shifted. As clear as he feels itchy tufts of thick hair in his pits rubbing the sides of his chest as he moves his arm, his thicker fingers feel hair that is both thicker and thinner than it should be.
Texture more akin to fur than the downy curls he once had, in real time he feels what’s left of his model’s do retract into a tight and rough buzz. Memories of a hair routine before bed every night dissolve to be replaced by David just rolling into a barber and getting the most basic cut they have to offer.
Glancing towards his trainer he feels something profound shift within his chest. He’s used to attention sure, but having a truly masc man stare at him with needy jealousy has awoken something within him. His own cock twitches and he reaches down to adjust it. When the trainer’s needy eyes follow David’s hand his newfound cockiness only grows.
He can almost feel the thick hair coating his chest thicken as his adorer’s mouth falls open in need. He does feel the cock that he’s only recently begun to fondle grows even more, only a semi thus far if David didn’t know any better he’d swear it was already larger than the most turgid erection he’s ever had.
Having humored the man enough, Dave feels a profound urge to play with his food for just a second longer before dipping. Glancing at the muscular figure he’s always admired he doesn’t feel nearly the same heat that the trainer evidently has for him. Feeling his phone still blowing up in his back pocket he’s reminded he’s got a bitch- er, he’s still got Mattias to deal with.
To point he challenges his trainer.
“What’s the problem with you?”
Sheepishly the trainer averts his eyes from the center of Dave’s chest where the hair is so thick that one truly can only guess that there’s skin beneath. Halfheartedly pointing to the next machine he viscerally feels any authority he once had over Dave slip away.
“Just let me go.”
Knowing deep within himself that this is profoundly wrong, that the twink he was hired to keep fit and keep femme has grown into a man like he’s never seen, when Dave pushes past him towards the exit of the gym the only thing he can do is giggle from feeling his sweaty skin against his own. Dave doesn’t even look back as he stomps out of the gym, hairy feet exposed as the tennis shoes he had on finally give way to the massive stompers this top heavy body requires.
Left behind, the trainer feels lightheaded as the source of his confusion leaves him be. Slightly worried he’s going to get chewed out for something out of his control, by the time Dave pulls out his phone and begins walking towards Mattias’ he doesn’t even remember having Dave as a client. It’s not like his employers had any interest in fashion for men who think deodorant is optional.
Finally free from the gym, Dave allows the asshole blowing up his phone some attention. Every message is whinier than the one that came before. Scrolling up to the first, Dave finds it the usual aggressive diatribe he’d expect from a man he chose explicitly for being a macho loser but with every step closer to the present his messages tinge with emotion.
“I no u did this u little bitch when i see u its over
“Look idk what I did but u need to stop it. Please I cant show up to my boys lookin like this”
“Fine, shit! Maybe I deserved it but you gotta stop. I don’t want to be some hairless twink.”
“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”
Every message only makes the hunger within Dave grow. Reading Mattias beg and whine and cry only makes him feel more. Bigger, hairier, hornier. Each heavy step towards this man’s house hits harder as his thighs bulk up to support his widening chest and the thickening cock between them.
The mustache on his face thickens and hangs lower to cover the entirety of his upper lip. The dense thicket on his pecs decides it’s not enough as thick curls launch towards his shoulders and musty pits. His midsection continues to thicken as the thin arrow of a treasure trail that once pointed to his tangled pubes widens to engulf the whole of his heavy new muscle gut.
Gym shorts he didn’t remember changing into are taut on his ass as it sends a couple tears straight down his ass crack, partly exposing his jockstrap and the dense tangles it struggles to corral to the open air. Dave can’t help but continue to read Mattias’ appeals as he grows. Thick vein bulging down his biceps as a coat of curls races down his muscular shoulders to meet the prodigious jungle on his forearms.
Grunting as he feels his cock strain the front of his shorts he wonders if he’s going to make it to Mattias’ without being criminally indecent. Seeing his thick cockhead near the lip of his shorts he finds Mattias’ most recent messages have switched their tune.
“I’ll fucking do anything babe please, anything but my cock.”
“I wish I had a cock like yours…
“God you’re so hot, I just wish I could be more like you…”
Doubletaking at the idea of this once vainer than life machismo obsessed douche yearning to be like him, less than a moment later Dave smirks and remembers his reality. Of course Mattias wants to be like him, who wouldn’t. The twink’s wrapped around his meaty finger just like anyone lucky enough to get to ride on his cock would be. Scratching his hairy gut he decides he wants to see his prize.
Deigning to reply at last, Dave just sends two words. ‘Facetime me’
Within a second Dave’s phone is ringing for Mattias. Seeing his old profile picture Dave can’t recognize the middling man before him. Nothing like the twink he knows and loves to fuck, still he lets the mystery man’s face stay on his phone for a moment longer to leave Mattias waiting. Offering the perfect juxtaposition between Mattias’ new and old self.
“Hey daddyyyy~ Are you coming over or what?”
Even the most powerful supernatural effect couldn’t stop Dave from being stunned in his tracks, shocked at the twink, jittery with need, now performatively shimmying on the facetime call. Staring at the pathetic remains of the mustache and goatee Mattias once prided himself over, Dave feels his cock twitch and drip with pre as it finally escapes his shorts.
Accidentally grabbing a few curls on his thigh as he yanks his shorts back down to poorly hide his throbbing rod, Dave grunts in pain which causes Mattias to gasp as his thicker lips purse into a pout. “Are you okay baby?”
His airy whine drives Dave into one final wave of changes as he grunts out a “Be right over. You’d better be ready.” Shorts almost shearing off his meaty thighs as he begins sprinting towards his lay’s home, Dave pants like an animal in heat as he feels everything about him grow more extreme. No inch of skin is spared as his coat spreads to cover every inch of his sweaty skin.
Swinging between his legs, Dave makes no attempt to hide his thick cock during his flight. Prioritizing speed above everything, his hairy feet do their best and miraculously the accidental nudist arrives at Mattias’ house with nothing but his hairy ass having been seen.
Stumbling into the front door, always left unlocked for him, Dave follows his nose to the floral scented bedroom and finds Mattias just where he wants him. Even thinner and smoother than he was on their call moments ago, Dave smirks at the pouf of manicured curls on his head and the pitiful few strands of hair clinging to his pits, the dregs of his masculinity.
Pouncing on the bed to straddle Mattias, he sees a sparkle in the twink’s eyes as his massive cock bounces hard in the air. Shocked at just how large it is compared to Mattias thin waist he rests upon the small man and rubs his smooth skin with hands rough from the gym and a life lived with altogether no attention to skincare.
Feeling his cock buck of its own accord as it spews viscous pre onto Mattias’ hairless chest, Dave experiences for the first time just how powerful it feels to be The Man in bed, in a relationship, in life. Give him a few seconds and he might just cum from the very feeling.
Doing his best to restrain quick-cumming he leans down to whisper in Mattias’ ear, he feels his mustache scratch the twink’s regimented cheek. “Get on your stomach and let’s get this started.” Blushing like he’d never have done before, what is Mattias to do but obey the sexiest man he’s ever been with.
Mystery car trouble incites Claude to figure out his way home. He can think of five options. No matter which option he chooses, the resulting changes are sure dull his mind into a younger man he'd dread to have in his lectures.
Five more short TFs, each following one man's rough ride home! All include some degree of musk, muscle, and a regression back to his own college days with far less brain weighing him down Hope you enjoy! -Occam
Claude was barely able to steer his car off into the shoulder as it started spewing smoke. Idling forward into a nearby parking lot to try and figure out his next steps, the young professor is beyond pissed at his stroke of bad luck.
After taking his time to recover and go over his best options to get home he finds himself of five minds. Six if you count just steering it back into traffic without looking both ways, but he’s not actually humoring that. Leaving him with this peanut galley of ideas:
He’s got a tool kit, he can give it a go. (Latino Twunk)
Get it towed to a shop and drive a rental. (Brainless Influencer)
He’s got the money for it, might as well uber. (OF Jock)
He does get free bus fare. (Football Bro)
Fuck it he can walk. (Horny Slob)
Fix It:
“God damnit!” After burning his hand for a third time Claude was ready to reconsider this whole approach. Just before throwing in the towel the young professor notices the dilemma. Holding his phone’s flashlight into the labyrinth of pipes under his engine he sees the glimmer of leaking oil.
‘Oh? Well that’s not too bad right?’ He thinks to himself squinting to find the origin of the sprung leak. He’s immediately distracted from his hunt as from across the parking lot a younger man shouts, sounding about the age of one of his students
“‘Ey Hermano! Nece- Need a hand?”
Yeah he’ll take whatever he can get, “S’yeah, please!” scowling at the pipes he tacks on an, “Hermano to hermano yeah?” The sound of flip flops echoes under the car and he second guesses inviting the man over. Preparing to chide the too casual footwear he gasps as his own feet cramp.
Quickly looking down to check his shoes he frowns as he feels his own sandals hug his wider feet tighter, Claude’s mouth falls open as something feels off. Didn’t he hate open toed shoes. Ademas- er also, are his feet darker?
“So bro! ¿Qué pasa? What do you need?”
Mouth still open, the fumes from his car must be making him lightheaded. His arms feel heavier as the sleeves constrict and shrink into a jersey. Buttons dissolve into the same shiny lycra material of the rest of his shirt as it hugs a torso hardening as it grows to fill the clingy top.
“Can you get me el eh- the epoxi” His words are increasingly accented as his rougher palm awaits the sealant from his little bro. You shortens as if he’s more familiar with some other word for it? Words begin to swim through his head before they’re replaced with ones that feel more correct. More him.
His dress pants suction to his bulking thighs as they rapidly shorten into tight athletic shorts. With every lost inch they brighten into his fútbol team’s trademarked verde. So too do his atrophied legs darken and grow into meaty legs far more at home on the field than in the stands.
His companion shifts to speak entirely in Spanish. “Ves la fuga, Claudio?” (See the leak?)
Firmer arm lengthening to throw on the most temporary of seals, Claudio smirks as he feels some oil trickle down his arm. It’ll just make him look more like a man, getting cockier he begins to smell his own heady musk even more prominently than the motor oil staining his sweaty arm.
And there’s nothing those twinks down at college want more than a real man. Dreamy look in his eyes he starts to get worked up as his sweat begins to suction lycra even tighter to his tight bronze skin. Well he can think of one thing they like more.
“Ay guey! Don’t you have shorts that actually fit!?”
Dumb smile on his face, Claudio reaches down to bounce the still growing package only highlighted by his tight shorts. Mustache and goatee knitting itself across his face, his voice cracks lower as he claws out from under the car. “Es para sus, eh, classmates, si? Ellos love mi Claudito, mano!”
Scoffing Claudio’s little brother hops in the passenger seat as he waits for his older brother to drive him to class. “Rapidamenta Claudio!” Doing his best not to watch as his once role model waddles to put a tool-kit in the trunk before hopping in the driver’s seat and blaring reggaeton, Claudio’s brother wonders if he just should have taken the bus…
Rental:
By the time he figured out how to unlock the rental that AAA dropped off for him, their tow truck had already made off with his own pitiful ride. Sighing as he sees a trickle of oil left in its wake Claudio takes a deep breath before sidling into the driver’s seat with a grunt.
Good thing he did so before getting in as the scent of the car he’s now set up to drive is in not so many words abhorrent. Covering his nose with his hands, Claude’s lungs struggle against the air of a cabin that seems to have primarily stored some frequently used gym clothing. The pitiful attempt to cover it up with body spray did nothing but highlight the unmistakable odor.
As soon as he smells the musk, Claude begins to feel the heat that would surely cause it. Stodgy suit jacket still on he hurls it to the back seat before pinching the bridge of his nose at the humiliating state of his temporary accommodation. Feeling sweat trickle down his cheeks, he reaches up to wipe it with a sleeve only to be surprised at the lack of friction against his beard.
Right, his beard? Usually it’s way more annoying when he’s sweating but now the hair on his head seems to be holding way more sweat. Still almost panting in the humid air of the car, Claude reaches to turn on the air which does a great job circulating the b.o. if nothing else.
Scratching his cheek to find it sweaty and smooth, the adjunct, or T.A., whatever he is, shakes his head like a dog to try and find lucidity. The only thing this tactic produces is flinging globules of sweat as his straight previously-thinning hair lengthens into messy, sweat-filled curls.
Mouth dry despite the atmosphere of sweat, he clears his throat a few times and speaks to check his vocal chords like a mic. “Ugh I need- woah…” Grasping at his throat he can’t believe his ears as his tone sounds lighter, unburdened by a decade of lecturing and office hours. Beyond that it sounds well past the line of unintelligence “Fuck bro I feel weird. Like, good killer but weird…”
Where his sweaty hair sent stains cascading into his made for a lectern slightly dressy suit, the fabric begins to cheapen and stain with even more salt as it reshapes into his cheap gym fit. Scratching at his chest as his thin, barely present pecs begin to pulse and fill his forming tank, Claude pulls down the mirror to look at his reflection.
This half moment of stunned silence drives him up a wall and he begins to fill every waking moment with his droning commentary. “Shit I look so good? Like I’m 22 again, erm. Wait I am twenty two right uhh, right chat? Wait uh, no who’s chat?”
Averting his eyes from his reflection as what’s left of his facial hair reforms into a mustache so blonde and sparse that it may as well not even hide on his upper lip, Claude turns to find his cellphone in a stand on his passenger seat.
“Awh shit I was gonna stream after the gym wasn’t I?” Thoughtless eyes stare at his phone as his arms weary from a pump send a few tears through his sleeves before it entirely reshapes into a tank. “Well they won’t mind, they’ll eat up whatever they can get.”
Acting nonchalant as he starts the timer he waits as long as he can before speaking up, which ends up being one second as his body finishes readjusting. “What? You guys pissed? Trust, trust if you could smell my post-gym bro stank you’d be grateful I’m streaming at all steada just pumpin’ one out. LMAOOOO Chat- Chat C’mon heheh!”
Turning his car into drive as he hears donations and messages pour into his inbox, the antithesis to a professional streamer hits the road. Left and on the wheel his watch reforms from a luxury timepiece to a cracked e-watch.
“Shit might have to end early bros…” Taking a deep breath of his car he hears the water bottle crinkle against his crotch as he feels a post-gym nut calling to him. Side-eying the chat to see if anyone notices, keeping up the mindless charade of content creation until it is no longer a charade but who he is.
Uber:
“Hey thanks for the ride!”
“No problem no problem? Spose that smokin’ hunk of junk right there is yours?”
Slightly annoyed at the slight, Claude frowns as he gets into the rear seat. Given it is indeed immobile in a parking lot he lets it slide. “Yeah right on the money, I guess. Sir.”
“Hooah, wouldn’t expect someone like you to be callin’ me sir! I’m tellin ya, everyone’s always sayin kids yer age got no respect well I’ll tell em there’s good kids like youse out there!”
Having already assumed the driver was just complimenting him for being polite to someone below his station, when he suggests Claude is generationally younger than himself, the prof feels something isn’t adding up.
“Right. Kids my age.” Already feeling less charitable to the man, Claude yanks out his phone and inspects himself to see why this dumbass thinks he’s apparently some fuckin’ runt. Talking about respect like he’s not- Scowling at his reflection the anger rests heavy on his mind and brow before he realizes how aggro he was all of a sudden.
Claude brushes some hair drooping slightly lower out of his eyes before it stiffens and sticks up into some bushy crew cut before reaching to scratch his itchy cheeks. Surprised at his stubble being slightly thicker, really almost a beard, he does his best to raise his eyebrows out of a glare but they seem to just be resting lower on his face. Probably thanks to listening to that asshole in the driver’s seat yammering.
God he’s itchy. Why’d he even wear this jacket!? Struggling to get it off he undoes his seatbelt which the driver would surely make a reasonably big deal about if he didn’t gasp in shock to find his car suddenly filled with Claude’s pridefully maintained musk.
Adjusting his mirror to look at his increasingly crude customer, the driver can hardly believe what has become of the polite young man he thought he was driving. In the process of raising a cheap sweat-stained gym tank to take a selfie, he scratches at wiry and thick hair racing to cover his slight muscled chest and tight waist.
Tongue drifting across his teeth, veins bulge out of his arms as his nipples puff out to a degree begging for a piercing. Stainless steel encircles every more usual site, piercing his ears as more than a few fingers feel cold metal tighten on his knuckles.
“Hey kid, yer uh kinda in my… car…” Still half-watching his passenger as they drive down an empty straightaway, the driver sees a ringed hand reach down to pull at his pants. His newly formed treasure trail widens as it stretches tantalizingly close to a dick fermenting in its own sweat.
Pubes trimmed neater than the bushy stubble on his face, his thin fingers keep his free-balling cock just out of sight. After snapping a pic Claude’s eyes shift from a warm brown to a stormy blue as mysterious as the storm cloud surrounding them. They then make direct contact with his driver’s in the rearview mirror.
“Yo bitch, eyes on the road. This shit ain’t free.”
Immediately gripping the steering wheel enough to cramp, the driver focuses on the road as much as he’s able with his nose still being assailed by his passenger’s post-gym aura. Hearing the man scratch at some bushy body hair, desperate to know which patch, the driver barely finds it within him to obey the man’s command. But he does. He’s a good- uh…
“Tell ya what bitch. You’re drivin’ me to a meeting with a ‘coworker’ right now. Gotta feeling I won’t be completely satisfied by the time we’re done working. You sit outside and wait for me and maybe I’ll find it within myself to give you somethin’ I know you want.”
Struggling to not pant, the driver can’t believe he’s being talked down to like this. Some small shred of his lucid mind swears he wasn’t even into men like this. Into men at all!?
“Yo. I asked you a question, answer.”
Stumbling over himself the driver nods, “Y- Sir yes sir. I’ll be right here.”
Sneering as he kicks open the door, he laughs as he wanders over to some other content creator’s house. “‘Sides it’s the only tip you’re gonna get from me so you better get ready, heh. Be out when I’m done.”
Bus:
It’s only right he uses the bus. He’s always telling his students to use more public transit. It would be hypocritical of him not to take advantage of the very same resource at this juncture. Finding it mostly empty, Claude’s prepared for a nice quiet ride home.
It is not to come as at the very next stop some less than considerate man sits directly next to him and begins humming along to something in his headphones. Immediately the young professor yearns for the bubble of personal space that a car allows. Quickly digging through his bag to find some headphones, Claude yearns to at least pretend like he’s alone.
Finding his go-to wireless earbuds dead, Claude sighs and prepares to simply raw dog this bus ride, as his students would say. Then miraculously at the bottom of the bag he finds some long neglected wired headphones in a tangled mess. Throwing one earbud in, he does his best to get the wire straightened out while listening to a podcast.
Frustration comes quickly. Usually adept at untangling and cleaning up wires, something about Claude’s hands just feels clumsier today. Struggling to get his fingers to undo the simplest of knots is only making more of a mess. Beyond that his trusty NPR radio host is increasingly grating to him.
If he wanted to be talked down to he’d be back at school with uh, with Coach. What? No, with his dean or supervisor, he means. Obviously. Tabbing over to a playlist he doesn’t remember making, the sound of Drake is like a balm to his nerves.
Tension drips away from his shoulders as he rolls them back. Focussed intently on undoing the knot as he mouths along to a song he’d never be caught dead listening to. With each pumping beat of blasting bass and every slurred bar, Claude’s stick-thin arms begin to twitch larger.
Slowly bopping along to the music his arms bloat to a size that would require daily trips to the gym to earn. Sinking slightly paler as they put on mass and strain his once baggy button-up, his dulling mind doesn’t even notice the inky patterns staining his rapidly developing forearms and biceps.
When he’s so intently focused on a particularly annoying kink in the cord, he raises his left hand to thoughtlessly start chewing on his nails. Realizing what he’s doing only when he finds the already chewed-up fingernails scratching at his teeth, he shifts to instead throw the wire straight in his mouth. Finding progress far more pleasant with the cord in his mouth, Claude smiles vaguely and redoubles his effort.
Arms absolutely tear his long sleeves to tatters as his wider chest pops off the top few buttons of his short before it reforms into a presentable gym tee. Needs to look good for the program. Oral fixation notwithstanding. Feeling a small cowlick on his forehead tickle his brow as it curls into a pouf of curls, Claude throws his hand into a much lighter backpack to retrieve a ball cap.
Tossing it on backwards, duh, the king of his team’s locker room smirks as he at last gets it undone. Immediately throwing up a celebratory flex that strains his just reformed sleeves, the team captain bumps into some nobody pencil-pusher who scoffs at him.
Not taking that sitting down the alpha just stares at him until he apologizes and gets back to whatever lameshit he’s doing on his ipad. Probably some jerkoff prof taking the public bus to set a good example, lmao. Claude wouldn’t be on this shit right now if his coach didn’t pay him to set a good example. Whatever that fuckin’ means.
Whatever coach wants, coach gets.
Fuck It I'll Walk:
“Fuck it, hehhuh… I’ll just ugh- walk he says…” Panting as his undone tie and suit jacket are already tossed into his bag, Claude is finding the spring day unseasonably warm. Dress shoes do their best to give him blisters more with every step as his slacks and starched cotton dress shirt continue to chafe.
Stomping up a hill, Claude moans that he’d rather be wearing any other shoe in the world right now aside from these expensive loafers he picked out exclusively to teach in. It just so happens after his next stumble his wish is granted.
Looking down past his untucked top dripping with sweat, Claud can hardly believe his eyes as his leathery shoes burst off his feet to reform into significantly larger tennis shoes. Somehow not affecting his gait, Claude sees his feet balloon in size before they’re covered in tennis shoes that- well, let’s just say they’re not to his taste.
Frowning down at them, as he continues barrelling forward, Claude watches as in real time they get even worse. Initially they’re at least clean, if not gaudy. With every dragged step onward they grow more scuffed and worn. Despite being a fair few sizes larger than his feet the man would swear he can see his toes and foot strain against the sides every so often.
Scoffing at the paltry sneakers, Claude finds a stoop to sit on and inspect them closer. Plopped down he yanks off the right shoe and is aghast at the intense scent that spills out. Exploding forth like he removed the cork from a bottle of wine, Claude finds far more sweaty stink within than this quick trip should ever be able to produce.
So intense his eyes begin to water and something burns in the back of his mind, he forces his shoe to abate the stink at any cost. The professor(?) takes some time to make sense of the impossibilities now hanging at the end of his legs. Wiping the hands that touched those wretched shoes thoughtlessly on his pants, he takes a short breather. Not short enough however. As he sits there reposed, Claude begins to feel his shirt strain in the front.
Looking down, no longer surprised at his rank choice of shoes, he is instead surprised to find a small stomach suddenly sitting larger on his waist. Reaching up to feel the gut slowly filling his button up, he feels an urgent urge to burp. One he simply can’t ignore.
“BUURRRRPPP”
Aghast at the break in decorum, Claude starts to reprimand himself when he feels his stomach bloat decidedly larger in response to the belch. When he feels a second, even more pressing burp rise from his growing stomach he bolts to his feet and begins sprinting homeward.
As the wind presses his shirt into his thickening torso it begins to tear into tatters. Exposed to the open air, his slightly thicker waist feels a new garden of curls drag through the soaring wind. Out of breath, he feels trickling sweat pulling his stubble into a messy beard as his usually neat crop thickens into a look more like to be found at one of his student’s wild parties.
In desperate need of water, Claude stumbles into a park for a fountain. Seeing a line formed he instead sprints straight into the public bathroom and forces his head under the sink’s faucet. Gulping down acrid metallic water he turns to inspect his reflection to find what has become of him. Shirt more akin to prisoner’s rags hanging off his shoulders aside, Claude’s gotta admit he looks fucking good.
Snapping a pic for his dating profile as he uses what’s left of his shirt to sop some sweat off his hairy chest before just tossing it to the floor. Claude wipes his hair back and prepares to begin running once more. Having drunk enough water that each sprinted step home causes his stomach to glug, there’s a dire need for him to clear some room down there.
Barely stilling the rising urge to just piss in public, Claude lets his mind stew more on the still present desire to burp. There’s an omnipresent tightness in his neck that makes it clear just how easy it would be. More frequently with every few paces he allows the slightest hiccup to escape him which causes his thick thighs and ass to bloat ever so larger.
Lower body picking up size and steam, when he feels new tears lance down his inner thighs Claud looks down and blushes as he finds nothing but bare hairy skin exposed. Shocked that he’s not wearing underwear he desperately tries to recall putting some on this morning. He can hardly believe it! After all he’s a proff- uh? Profess? A professional?
Wiping his sweaty brow with a sweatier arm, he doesn’t quite remember what he may or may not have been a professional at, but when he at last storms into his newly dingy apartment just in time for his pant’s button to burst off he releases a mighty sigh of relief. Forcing his head into his pits to take a deep breath he can’t believe how good it feels to be home.
Sniffing them like an inhaler he pauses in front of a mirror poses his ass from a few different angles. “Shoooot, I needa get some pics of that, my little bitch’ll be all over that shit.” Imagining his twink of the week salivating at the dream of eating him out, Claude throws on some tight briefs and falls onto the couch.
‘Thinking of u <3’ “Uhhh what was his name again? Eh doesn’t matter…”
Three friends chase a lucky break only to find it a situation worse than their worst nightmare. Forced to do what they can to turn a fixer-upper into something nearing habitable, they go to the tool shop next door where they can learn a thing or two about home repair.
A grumbling bear, a cocky bull, and a dumb otter walk into a hardware store- or at least that's what they walk out as! Hope you enjoy these three manly TFs, and Happy Spring! -Occam
That all three of them had opportunities in a new city, it just felt like a sign. A fresh start in a new world where they didn’t need to go it all alone. Brandon, Willie, and Tyson had been fast friends since they met in undergrad, despite Brandon and Willie’s best attempts to tank it all with their frequent will-they-won’t-they trysts and break ups.Still, they always land on their feet and every fight seems to make them closer than ever.
Not quite a third wheel, Tyson’s more than happy to tag along with his best friends, ecstatic at how little work the process has been thus far. Willie and Brandon set up most of their housing, he just had to drive the moving van! It was almost too good to be true.
And so reality decides to drag the wishful-thinking Tyson back down. Arriving at their new home in a u-haul filled with their most cherished tchotchkes and most compactable furniture, they do not find their perfect fresh start as promised. Door knob almost hanging off the front door, ivies growing in through cracked windows, crestfallen can’t begin to describe their state as they stare at what was to be their new lives.
It’s so much a fixer-upper that Tyson wonders how their new landlord can even legally rent it out as a property. Taking a beat to calm down and avoid blowing up on his friends who swore up and down that this place was perfect, Tyson takes a deep breath as he throws his soft blond hair up into a bun before staring daggers at his new roommates.
As is often the case, hot-headed Willie was even quicker to rage and has decided that this is all Brandon’s fault. “This is Not the place you showed me Brandon.” Drowning in an oversized flowy button-up, the sleeves fall down his pale arms as he throws them in the air. Willie’s face burns red with anger as his small form can scarcely maintain his explosive nature. Likewise, Brandon’s guilty expression tinges red with embarrassment so intense it’s physically painful.
“I- These aren’t the pictures that I was sent! I- it’s-”
“She probably AI-Generated them gah- you ff- You dumbass!?”
“That’s? B- But that’s gotta be illegal though? Right!?” Trying to compact as much as possible, he rubs the back of his neck as his watery eyes look to Tyson, who promptly steps in to comfort him. Tearing up himself even as he tries to be the adult here and figure out their next steps, Tyson rubs his friend’s back.
“Brandon you’re not an idiot.”
Willie ignores the pair, as he rushes inside to find sinks that don’t work amongst creaking floorboards and cracked tiles, “Idiot or not, what-fucking-ever! What do we do about his mistake.”
Brandon toys with his tight necklace as he retreats into his cell-phone, as he is often wont to. Unable to focus on the hard reality before him, the programmer tunes Willie out entirely. Frantically typing away, he doesn’t even hear as Willie moans or screams at finding a note left by their landlord listing the litany of things to fix on the fridge. Dubbed their responsibility.
Suddenly feeling the lead weight of living with this couple for a year as prominently as the noose around his neck of living in an inhabitable house, Tyson sighs as he realizes he just needs to fully take charge of everything. Obviously that rent was too good to be true, now it’s time for him to start paying the real price. “Can you just hand me that list, Willie?”
Stamping over, Willie forces it into Tyson’s hands and watches as the most mature of the trio decides what their first order of business is to be in repairing their inhospitable, nigh-hostile, home. Hemming and hawing in a manner that makes him seem a tad older than he is, Tyson does his best wading into an arena he knows next to nothing about. Home Repair.
“I found a hardware store a block away,” Brandon whispers out sheepishly, looking to Tyson. Setting down the list, Tyson sighs and smiles slightly at Brandon before looking past him at the dozens of messes and issues they’ll need to deal with somehow or another. “Guess we can just walk then. I’m sure we’ll apparently be very frequent customers.”
And then they’re out the door. Tyson continues throwing together a to-do list, doing his best to surmise what tools parts they’ll need for the most urgent of jobs, despite near total ignorance. Watching him struggle, Brandon offers that they could just hire someone for this, already preparing to offer that he pays more than his share, something he certainly can’t afford.
“It’s just we don’t know anything about this stuff right? Maybe the people in the shop can refer us to, like, some real men or-”
Having finally stilled his ire, at this Willie’s eye twitches, “Real men!? Real men. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You- You know what I mean! You’re deliberately misunderstanding me Willie. Right Tyson? Obviously that was a dig on you and me too! Tell him!”
Trying to focus on the task at hand Tyson physically inserts himself in between the pair, “Let’s try and not scream in public. Jesus Christ, you two…” Short walk done, Tyson pauses and squints up at the fix-it shop’s name: Tyson’s Tools “Oh? Wild..? Did you not notice that Brando?”
Brow furrowed, Brandon is just as surprised. He would’ve sworn it was called something else when he found it on his phone but checking back he can’t even find evidence he looked the place up. He must’ve missed it in all his stress. He doesn’t like having missed something so obvious.
Arms perpetually crossed, Willie leads the way. Pushing open the door with his back, he holds it open for his friends, “Maybe they’ll give you a discount Tyson. You really should ask.” Following behind Brandon, Willie bumps into him to try and be playful.
Having not even begun to earn cutesy aggression, the act is obviously read as a genuine shove and Brandon pushes him back, “Oh my God! Can you just stop being an asshole for a second Willie!”
Watching with dead eyes as another spat breaks out in front of him, Tyson reflexively crumples the list in his hands. Can’t they just act their age. Now everyone in the store’s going to know they’re immature brats. Or they would? Looking around, Tyson’s surprised to find the store uncomfortably quiet. Empty.
Looking back to the arguing not-couple, Tyson is happy to take the opportunity to step away and starts to wander through the aisles. He can get more done by himself anyway, so what if he’s never really picked up a wrench. He can figure this out. He must.
Sneaking into an aisle laden with rental tools, Tyson scratches his head as he confronts how little he knows. He’s absolutely in over his head. Huh, his head is a little itchy actually? Fingers trail through his light blonde locks, scratching with a little more intensity than he intended. Suddenly his whole scalp is prickling, almost burning.
His hair feels thicker than it has for some time, like it did before he started dyeing it. Unbeknownst to the man trying to make his new situation work, spreading out from his roots his ever-bleached waves return to a brown-ish shade that can almost be described as blonde before surging even darker.
Shortening into a tight crew cut, Tyson’s hair-tie falls to the floor as he simply continues scratching. Unable to focus on anything but the strange feeling of something happening to his hair follicles. Head suddenly far lighter with its lost load, he twitches his neck to reflexively shake away the long strands that shall never drape down his neck again. Feeling the prickle of his short spiky new-do as they firm up with gel he can almost remember putting on, Tyson chastises himself for losing focus.
Shaking his head one last time for good measure, his attention falls once more to the list in hand and he’s shocked at what he finds. Who on earth made a list so vague!? It’s almost useless! Chewing on his lip as he leans against the counter to rejig the equipment with knowledge that’s beginning to trickle into his head, with his free hand Tyson starts to scratch at his stomach as it begins to tighten up.
Far too similar to the annoying sensation that was just on his head, Tyson reaches beneath his shirt and feels up his sweaty belly. Shortening nails pull at a few long curls pushing onto his stomach. Scratching out ‘screwdriver’ to replace it with the actual head needed, the idea of growing a treasure trail suddenly replaces cogent thought before a far more pressing itch alights on his chest.
Not realizing that he’s beginning to sweat more than a reasonable amount, Tyson feels his white tee suction against his chest and looks down to find that it’s not from sweat alone. His chest has begun to bulge into pecs. Startled at his body changing, growing before his eyes, Tyson drops everything to gawk at his pecs pumping larger with every beat of his heart.
Feeling up his pecs bulking larger, he can almost see as thick new tufts of hair surge forth and cover his new pecs like a tidy garden. New curls lancing forth into a garden that will only help his beautiful pecs catch more eyes.
His own eyes almost cross and a hand flies to his mouth as toned abs punch into his core beneath his heavy new pecs, thickening new happy trail carving its way up between them yearning more than anything to connect with the sweat-dripping patch decorating Tyson’s pecs. Gasping into a hand, he feels his ever-soft face scratch with stubble as a deliberately maintained mustache rubs against his rougher palm.
On the other end, when his cock throbs amidst thicker pubes at feeling his assuredly more masculine face, Tyson can’t help but feel his heavy new cock and the throbbing balls beneath it. Trapped in boxers more than a size too small for their new mass, the pressure is almost too much for the growing man as he feels pre start to trickle enough to stain.
And then before he can give way to the overwhelming sensation, the sound of Brandon and Willie arguing brings him falling back to lucidity. Panting slightly, Tyson can hardly believe that someone as diligent as himself was about to masturbate in his- er, the store. That is.
Grumbling something vague in the direction of those two boys. Tyson bends down to grab the note someone must’ve dropped. Doing so produces a deep grunt from his throat. Clearing it once more when he stands, Tyson finds it rougher than it has any right to be. Dry mouth stretching back down his esophagus.
No matter. There’s now a task before him again. Skin still dewing with sweat, Tyson does his best to ignore how his shirt strains more and more against widening shoulders and pecs still throbbing thicker. Editing the shopping list before him with a precision that would require decades of work in the field, Tyson clicks his tongue and scratches his short sweaty hair as he wonders how on Earth those two punks’ll ever get a single thing done on their place.
Rubbing his chin as shaved stubble starts to thicken into a neckbeard, he shakes off some deja vu and reasserts- Tyson doesn’t know how we’re going to get our place fixed up. To this end he starts the easy work of collecting the equipment and parts they’ll need. Doing so with ease and efficiency, grasping each heavy tool like a craftsman, in no time he’s amassed a load he should be struggling to carry. And yet, he’s not.
As the load he carries grows heavier with each new piece thrown under his arms or into a handy toolbox he’s stumbled across, so too does Tyson’s core put on more mass. Abs that only just laid themselves like bricks across his stomach begin to push out further, bulging into more of a muscle gut with every heavier step. Arms that were struggling to catch up to his prodigious pecs and new bulky traps suddenly throb larger with every new piece of added weight to body and load.
Tears sear down his already strained tee as his torso barrels out. His treasure trail continues exploring up his stronger gut and his arms grow to a size that’ll easily eclipse his still-eyecatching pecs. And with each new tool handled, with every new bulging muscle packed onto his lengthening frame does his mind change even more.
Already struggling between two points of reference, that which recalls coming in today with his roommates and friends begins to wane more and more. The stubble on his face continues thickening as with every heaving breath produced by his thicker chest, memories from a new life begin to displace those which he thought was true.
Callouses from yardwork, woodwork, the gym, even just using a wrench as often as does, scratch against his neck as he rubs it with his fat new hands. Veins bulge larger on his arms and legs as they itch hairier, not from his still adding mass, but from the years- decades` accrued from living a life altogether different. Even his hair begins to speckle with salt as the man that only just recovered from over-bleaching begins to thin once more.
Wandering back to the front with a load of tools weighing twice as much as the heaviest thing he’s ever carried, Tyson finds himself walking past a mirror. When’d he put that in. Frowning and crossing his arms he figures Willie must’ve thrown it up, that cocky little loafer. Still, looking at his chest fur and built ass, he figures he might as well leave it there. Never hurts to inspect the goods and all.
Suddenly built like a brick shithouse, strength oozes out of every veiny chunk of muscle. Hand scratching at his sweaty beard he has a vague memory of looking more refined, a body built for ogling rather than hard work. But why’d he ever waste time on vanity like that. No, he’s a man of substance.
He then squints at his face as a few wrinkles etch across his eyes. “What the heck?” No heed is paid to the rough, deeper baritone that echoes through the store. No, when faced with aging quicker than he swears he should, he simply can’t appreciate his dulcet new tone.
“Swear I shouldn’t look a day over uh, 35? No. No, I’m younger than that?” His mind keeps throwing ages out, each feeling less real than the last. His back aches more as his mind weighs heavier with memories from a life far longer lived. Looking down at weathered hands and his straining pecs as his chest fur grows thicker, as his hairline retreats as his muscle gut rounds out ever-so-slight more, he finds something grounding.
Clear as day he remembers celebrating his fiftieth last year with his boys. Willie and Brandon. He doesn’t quite remember hiring them, it’s like they’ve been with him the whole time despite that being impossible. Scratching the new underside of his belly he grumbles like any heavyset older man does.
Where are those good-for-nothin’s. Better not still be at home. Muttering to himself he at last returns to the front of the store to find neither of them. Setting the toolbox down with a loud clang he rolls his eyes. Must be helping the customer he grabbed these for. Yeah, that makes sense. In the meantime, Tyson’ll just wait here and try not to get off from looking at his reflection in Willie’s new mirror. Bulge throbbing larger with each stolen glance as he continues to fill out.
● ● ● ● ● ●
Speaking of the devils. Willie and Brandon have continued arguing for far longer than either had expected. Usually when they’re not dating they’re good as gravy, but this majorly shitty situation has both men well past their breaking points.
After Willie ignores what Brandon’s saying for the Nth time to score another cheap dig, Brandon opts to just abandon him for now to salvage any momentary peace of mind. Whining that they all signed the lease as he wills himself to be done for now, Brandon goes off to where he thinks Tyson is. Willie just watches him go, eyebrow twitching into a scowl all the while.
“Fine! Be that way bitch! You know Ty’s on my side!” Lips pursed so tight they’re almost white, Willie stamps his foot. “Ugh!”
Standing there. Now alone. Willie finds himself even more sour without a sounding board to tear into as now the only thing to reflect on is how shitty he’s been to Brandon and Tyson. No, there's no sense to pretend he’s been scattershot, how shitty he’s been to Brandon alone.
As soon as Brandon’s out of sight, Willie takes a few deep breaths as his best friend-cum-frequent ex meekly suggested he do a few times over. While it helps slow his mind and calm his racing heart. It does little to help Willie’s literally hot head.
In fact, it feels like he’s still heating up. Looking down to find small sweat stains in his pale blue shirt under his arms, irritation resurfaces anew now at this shitty toolshop. Refusing to look sloppier than necessary even in this most masc of stores, Willie opts to just remove the offending garment.
Mouth twitching into a frown as he struggles to undo each button in turn, he can’t believe how slippery his hands are from sweat. Griping to himself that his deodorant better hold up, he at last gets the shirt uncinched and lets it fall to the floor heedlessly. Doing so it becomes little more than dingy rags sold by the store. Willie doesn’t notice however, he’s far too preoccupied with his lip still twitching.
Burning even. Reaching up almost fearfully, Willie gasps in shock as he finds something on his face. A moustache? No, it can’t be. His soft fingertips feel around in surprise at the wiry hairs pushing out against his upper lip before his palm feels too the push of long tangled strands pushing out from his chin.
Wondering when, wondering how his face somehow skipped stubble straight to this scraggly facial hair combo as sweat continues to trickle through hair growing greasier by the second, he glances down at his arm to find that strangeness does not stop at his newly scratchy upper lip. Willie’s eyes trail down his wrist to find his bicep looking larger than it ought.
Watching with interest, his upper arm twitches larger with every miniscule movement of his fingers.Gasping in shock as he sees his arm truly peak with muscle for the first time in his life, with the deep breath he discovers a byproduct of his amassing muscle and the heat of this hellish store. It’s just as he feared.
Easily overpowering his usually faultless deodorant, Willie smells musk pouring from his pits like he’s never experienced before. And yet with every breath he craves the scent more. Eventually tearing his eyes away from a bicep he wants to take a bite out of, Willie looks to his hitherto hairless pits to instead find thick, dripping strands of pit hair. Curling like a bush, thicker than his trimmed pubes, as he watches Willie sees more and more skin buried beneath the tangle as it grows denser and spreads forth like weeds overtaking a sidewalk.
It takes everything within him not to reach in to scratch the jungle for the sole purpose of smelling his musky, stained digits afterwards. The idea sets a needy fire in his stomach, and a far more pressing one throbbing in his crotch. Desperately trying to focus on anything besides the alluring sensations overtaking his body, he quickly finds it an impossible task.
Sweat streaming in rivulets down his heavier arms, the scritch and squelch of his sweaty pits as he tries to move, it’s just overwhelming. Willie simply can’t help it as his hands keep inching towards his crotch, clearly growing its own burgeoning bush, challenged by his pits. Stopping just short, Willie allows compromises with his Id to instead just scratch at said bush as it creeps up into a new treasure trail.
Stealing a glance at this thick trail, he’s surprised to see his undershirt catching further up his waist than it usually does, exposing an adonis belt like he’s never seen. Willie’s concerns and frown are quickly washed away as a cocky smirk etches its way onto his face. Staring needily at his pubes rising into a tapered highway, he starts to wonder why he’s wearing a shirt at all. Why’d he want to hide this figure for a second?
Almost as if he’s willing himself larger as heat continues to rise, Willie raises his muscular arms behind his head and hears his ribs crack wider. His spine stretches longer as muscle easily fills the new real estate. Pecs immediately swell enough to stuff his shirt to its breaking point and with one hand he tears it off and throws it to the floor.
Scratching his prickling ass with one hand and pubes with his other, feet that burst free from confines without his notice leave sweaty footprints in his wake as he finds his way over to a mirror he has a vague memory of setting up so he can always check his physique. Gotta look good for customers and all. It’s what he’s here for.
Pits thickening even further as sweat trickles down the sides of his chest in rivulets, Willie takes time to inspect every new bulging muscle group. “Fucckk I look so fucking hot…” Vocal fry tinges every word as his adams apple bulges larger to convert his whiny buzz into a deep rumble.
And yet, even as his eyes swim in washboard abs, even as his hands scratch through picturesque stubble and his mind struggles to focus as his heady musk derails his own train of thought. He’s filled with a need for more.
Could do with some chest hair. What was it that bitch said, that he wasn’t a real man? Willie’ll show him. Scowling as a few curls begin to circle around his hard nipples and speckles the center of his pert pecs, Willie feels his attention drawn ever south as the root of those most hormonal of changes begin to overwhelm him.
Hard as a pipe, Will bites his lip as he feels his thickening cock struggle for room, jostling against the heavy balls that must be fueling his new masculine changes. Sucking up drool snaking from his lips, as he desperately tries to adjust his similarly dripping pants Willie struggles maneuvering his thick limbs around his chest. Finally getting a meaty paw in his pants he grunts as he tries to pull at his surely stained underwear before pausing with a dumb look.
Wait, Will laughs to himself. He’s not wearing any underwear. Sticky hand venturing back into the shorts he’s free-balling in, Will adjusts and wipes the pre that stains his hand into his hairy chest before giving his hand a good sniff. Doing so he feels the new stubbly beard that has spread across his jaw like a stain, connecting sideburns, moustache and erasing his goatee to instead have a perfect beard.
Hips twitching forward as his cock throbs in tight shorts, the horny, sweaty, horny man looks around the store in search of relief. Pent up like he’s gone weeks without cumming, Will worries he might just blow his load if he makes a single wrong move. Taking another deep breath of his sweaty pits certainly doesn’t help as he moans into the open air of the store, barely keeping it in his pants as his cock keeps snaking out of his shorts.
“Fuuuuck~ Where’s Brandon when you need him.”
Panting as he holds back from losing control, barely able to walk without humping into the air, with all the willpower the oafish man’s able to summon Will narrowly avoids an orgasm. Hearing his boss grumbling from a nearby aisle he jolts up and starts to pretend to look busy before remembering he doesn’t care. “Fuck that, lol” With a smirk and a clear lurch due to the still raging boner he wanders off into the stacks in search of Brandon to help him blow a load.
● ● ● ● ● ●
One cannot overstate how bad Brandon feels about the hefty part he played in this massive mess. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, what they’re going to do. All their stuff is sitting in a uhaul outside a building more hovel than home.
Wondering how non-professionals can even begin to fix a broken window, Brandon stares at tools and material he can’t begin to imagine a purpose for. Picking up a ratchet he struggles to think of something, anything he can possibly do to help Tyson before just tossing it back down.
He just feels so stupid! Trying not to tear up again he turns to Tyson. Wait, he would’ve sworn he was following Tyson and yet his bos- er, friend is nowhere to be found. Frowning, brows furrowed from his anxiety, Brandon paces back and forth trying to brainstorm anything he can possibly offer to ameliorate even a shred of their situation.
It’s not long at all before the same oppressive heat that affected his friends begins to fall upon him as well. Looking up to make sure he’s not standing under a vent, Brandon wonders why on earth the toolshop even has their heater on. He was already working up a sweat on the way just from the brisk walk from their wretched home.
Unwilling to shed his shirt like Willie did, Brandon does his best to respectfully fan it, tugging at his neckline to usher air down his thin chest. After a few drags his lips squirm as unexpectedly, this tickles. Refusing to giggle and risk attracting Willie to his location, he stifles it and looks down his shirt to find whatever’s tickling him.
His sweat immediately shifts cold as underneath his heavy, sweat-stained shirt in the center of his chest he finds a few surly strands of chest hair beginning to sprout. Now, Brandon’s never been hairless but chest hair has always eluded him, and now there’s a healthy patch beginning to spread between his two thicker nipples. To say nothing of the even lengthier swirls encircling them.
And then his mind goes to Willie. Willie always wanted him to shave, wanted him smooth. Shivering from the ticklish curls working their way up his lither stomach, Brandon frowns as he tries to push Willie from his mind. They’re not even dating right now! He doesn’t even owe that jerk anything. If he wants to grow chest hair it’s his right! And oh does he want to get hairier.
Tense beyond belief, convincing himself that his still-growing chest hair has been there for a minute, Brandon doesn’t notice as his thin body firms up under the shirt. Veins bulge and pulse down his thin arms as their sinewy fibers expand and throb larger, inching closer to filling his sleeves more with every shrug and anxious twitch. The slight pudge on his stomach rapidly tightens into limber rows of abs below the perfect foundation for pecs to burst from on his chest.
Sick of feeling trapped in his mind, totally unaware as his body continues to change beneath his notice, in order to ground himself Brandon attempts to focus on the store’s fixtures around him. Doing so brings back frustration aplenty as his real troubles simply reignite. Stamping his feet he whines about their motley crew being wholly unable to essentially rebuild a house.
They’re absolutely useless! What is a programmer to do on a construction site!? As soon as the thought occurs it’s like his mind hits a brick wall. Brandon pauses, a programmer? That’s what he is, right? Replaying the sentiment, the idea gets less familiar with every pass. Pretty sure he’s got a CS degree? He’s good with computers for sure. He thinks?
His mind starts leaking memory like a faulty program. The handful of programming languages he made sure to at least be familiar with fade one by one. Memories of slaving over simple games and messy code burn away like flash paper as he sees sunshine breaking through a house frame he helped put up. He- He’s not a prog-? He’s never been all that good with techy stuff…
Staring at his hands before him, Brandon watches as smooth thin digits more accustomed to a keyboard begin to crack and bulge wider. Soft fingers give way to skin that seems as rough as sandpaper, and as dirty as the bottoms of his feet.
Woozy and nearly hyperventilating, Brandon leans against the counter behind him. Feeling his back prickling with goosebumps as his body hair erupts even thicker on his small tummy. New leathery mitts catch the edge of a shelf just in time too as his legs cramp and burn with a soreness like he’s never felt.
His shaky legs are like jelly beneath him as from top to bottom his body grows more compact. Losing a few inches, the man who was already shorter than his companions feels his lost height shift into extra mass on his limbs. Already thicker thighs bulge with power and strength as biceps finally strain his sleeves enough to tear through his shirt even as it changes into a tougher fabric more suitable for his line of work. Muscles contorting thicker, Brandon feels the straining muscles throb larger as his highest operating level continues to drop.
Mind still speeding despite his processing power absolutely tanking, Brandon tries to slow his thoughts down and focus on his changing body. Retreating into said muscled-up body is surprisingly far easier than it should be. Which should concern him. Instead as he focuses on the feeling of his more powerful arms flexing, as he smells the musky pits hidden beneath them, he feels all worry drift away.
Why should he be upset about being bigger, being stronger? They needed someone to fix up their place didn’t they? Squinting his eyes and scratching his greasy hair, he realizes he doesn’t really remember what place he’s thinking about? Tyson’s place is fine?
Rubbing his hands down thighs more akin to pistons, feeling their thick curls scratch against his rough fingers, Brandon can’t help but grin. And then he rests his hands on his new waist, playing with the darker expanse of hair on his stomach as he rejoices in his rapidly clearing mind.
He’s a little hungry?
Stomach rumbling, his eyes slowly scan the floor before him and while nothing immediately catches his interest, when he sees a lunchkit with his name on it, well. What else is he to do but have a bite. And so he does. It must be his and all, he simply forgot about it!
Tearing it open to find a sandwich, his eyes are larger than his stomach as he devours it hastily before reaching in hoping there is more to find in the bag, and so there is until he’s as full as he desires. Which takes quite some time.
So distracted by hunger, consumed by taste, Brandon doesn’t notice as with every bite and swallow his muscular form changes all the more. Rapidly mass begins piling on atop his bulky muscle. Abs are swiftly hidden behind a sizable layer of fat as his pecs grow softer from healthy weight.
Patting his delectable stomach with a content smirk, he struggles not to burp as he loosens his workbelt. While his physique may have plateaued, the jungle still racing across his body makes it clear that his new fur coat has not slowed. Above his heavy ass the curls inching much higher above his waistline are caught in his belt causing him to yelp before guffawing.
While he thought he was hairy before, fur enough to call himself a beast makes it clear that this was not the case. His face that had only ever known stubble is soon hugged by a thick, now crumb-filled, neckbeard. One that will require constant maintenance not to encroach upon his upper cheeks or even connect with his thicker eyebrows. Should the beyond-low-maintenance man ever care enough to do so.
Below the neck thicks grow even hairier. The few chest hairs that Brandon was initially excited over are absolutely buried beneath a tidal wave of new coverage. Pouring over his shoulders and down his upper arms, yearning to connect with his hairier forearms, Brandon’s upper body is almost entirely coated in a consistent jungle of fur.
Raising an arm to inspect pits staining through his shirt as he continues eating, Brandon recoils from the musk before laughing. As the thick, sticky curls of his pits reach out to connect with that all-consuming tangle. For half a beat something about laughing about his b.o. feels wrong, but then he shrugs the concern off with ease.
Stink’s funny. And if it’s not funny it’s hot.
Sitting there having forgotten what task or another Tyson asked him to do this morning, he feels his dick throb as he smells something else in the air, and hears the all too familiar sound of some horny stud stomping towards him. Turning around there’s the foggiest memory of the Willie he knew before that’s displaced by the Man before him.
Brandon can hardly think at the best of times, sitting there, eyeing Will’s heavy bulge and ravenous eyes there’s only one thing on his mind. Falling to the floor he finds even more cushion on his ass as it fills out entirely and finishes covering with curls thick enough to rival those on his head, Brandon yearns to be filled.
Looking up just in time to see Will sprint over, champing at the bit and pawing at a cock clearly throbbing and dripping down his leg, Brandon does what anyone would and falls onto his back presenting himself. Will almost goes feral as he charges down the aisle. He doesn’t remember being mad, he doesn’t remember anything at all besides his need to fuck Brandon.
Likewise Brandon doesn’t remember a worry in the world, their wretched rental is not a problem. Nothing is. Feeling himself pushed across the floor of Tyson’s shop as Will thrusts harder with every hump, he tries to moan before Will stuffs his fist in his mouth to stop him.
Standing above, ever-aggressive Will feels his body harden into one made for this and this alone. His beard retracts into stubble as his moustache thickens out even more, emblematic of the dom he has always yearned to be.
Lying below, gagging on the dirty fist in his mouth, the rest of Brandon’s too-complicated memories and concerns drift away alongside his skill at anything besides helping Tyson around the shop. Carrying the strength of an apprentice, and always hungry to serve however he’s able.
And then almost as soon as they began, Will finishes up and starts to leave Brandon a cum-covered heap on the floor. Tyson doesn’t like when they’re fucking on the clock, let alone in the store. Looking down at the ecstasy in Brandon’s eyes, Will smirks and leans down to lick the sweat off his lover’s legs as he yanks the man’s pants up and pulls him to standing.
Just in time too as when Brandon wobbles to his feat, Tyson yells from the front, “Boys! What am I payin’ you for! Get up here!”
Rushing to the front Will’s first to find the new Tyson as Brandon wobbles behind with eyes almost as glazed as his ass. There they find that briefly double take as Tyson has finished changing into their senior. Into their burly bearish boss.
Hand on his muscle gut and frown clear on his face, even through the beard absolutely covering his mouth, Tyson waits for them to explain themselves despite already knowing exactly what’s afoot. Will poorly feigns cluelessness as he adjusts his package. Behind him Brandon can scarcely string two thoughts together as he recovers from being reamed so.
“Which one of you was supposed to open the store for the day?”
Will looks to Brandon who slowly looks to find the ‘Store Open’ sign pointing the wrong way. “Oh, uh oh? Sorry… It should probably be facing the other way. Right, Sir?”
Tyson sighs and goes to fix the sign before gesturing to a heavy toolbox on the table, “In any case I got a delivery to be run out if either of you are interested. Some kids down the block need to rent some tools.”
Watching his eye-candy employee regard the box with disinterest he changes his mind, “Second thought might as well both go, I can handle the legions sure to come in today.” Will frowns as Brandon brightens up and makes for the toolbox, grunting as he heaves it out the door.
Feeling peckish himself he tacks on one last request, “Y’know what boys take the truck ‘n get me lunch while you’re at it. Have fun, now. Don’t you fuck in the company truck!”
Slightly more into the idea now that the boss man’s told them not to, Will feels like he’s about ready to go again as he watches Brandon heave the box into the trunk. Hopping into the cabin it’s immediately filled with their musk, already heightened from their recent tryst.
Will immediately forces a fist into Brandon’s pants and before he can protest that Tyson asked them not to, he’s already forgotten what it was the problem was. And so, one hand on the wheel, the other on Brandon’s shaft Will keeps working hard as he ever has while Brandon delights in the peace of mind that’s always eluded him.
Grumbling to himself, sure that Will’s already working hard to add more stains to their old shitbox, Tyson complains to the empty store, “One of these days those boys’re gonna have to grow up.” After making sure they didn’t leave too much of a mess in the aisle earlier he softens up shaking his head with a smirk as he collects a single cum-stained garment from the floor, hardening up elsewhere.
“Hrgh. Can’t complain t’much. Sure Brand n’ Will r’doin what they do best.” Imagining the dainty hands of men that need to rent out a phillip head screwdriver he frowns. Ain’t right that a man don’t know how to work with his hands. Luckily, his boys have a habit of making anyone into a regular. He can already picture them coming back with an eager new employee or two ready to dirty their hands with some real work.
Eager to be anywhere else after the third snowstorm this spring, Mitch finds his mind keeps wandering to the sunny shores of Rio. Accidentally manifesting a new beach-centric life for himself, he wills his boyfriend along for the ride.
Back with another sporadic story! Two twinks TF into a Brazilian twunk and his bearish lover. Hair, musk, and reality change centric, hope you enjoy this story about yearning for a sunnier, sexier summer! -Occam
Sun warm on his face, the great roar of ocean waves crashing onto the beach lulls him to continue sunbathing even as seagulls caw nearby. Stretching in his rest he feels a speedo catch on his tight hips and bubble butt. Mitch quickly reaches down to scratch his crotch and adjust the speedo’s straining band, his fingers slide down bronzed abs glistening with sweat.
He- he doesn’t have abs?
Mitch’s eyes open to find the world not nearly as summery or idyllic as he had dreamed. Snow continues to flurry down from the heavens as winter continues to relentlessly storm through what should be the beginnings of spring. Stark blanket of snow covering everything in sight, Mitch rubs his face and sighs. Beyond regretful that he woke up from his vibrant dream.
Phone chiming again, Mitch realizes he was brought back to reality by a text from his boyfriend: [All good over there babe?]
Channeling the dreary extended winter he continues sighing and types up a real thoughtful reply: [ya]
Pursing his lips he figures he should put more of an effort in before, in the back of his mind, the gleaming sun returns. It is odd that he dreamed of the beach, isn’t it? Looking down at his pasty neck and a body that’s somehow too thin and pudgy at once, he’s never been the type to enjoy the surf and sun.
And yet, his fingers seem to disagree as his mind meanders. [Hey, Jason, what do u say we take a big trip once this whole thing blows over? Ever thought about Rio?]
Blearily looking back at his screen as he unconsciously sends the message, Mitch stares agog as he hasn’t for a moment thought about a trip to Rio. Never considered a trip to Brazil at all for that matter. Brazil. It’s not like him at all, he doesn’t speak Portuguese, he doesn’t like crowds. He doesn’t even like the beach!
And yet, even as his conscious mind swears up and down that he’d rather die than get sunburned on some beach that’s half a day’s flight away. Something deep within him desperately wants to be on that shore. The logistics of planning a trip for him and Jason alone begin to cause a migraine and he chastises himself for humoring the idea. Simply not in the cards, nor, he remembers for the third time, something he wants to do even in the slightest.
That is, until he looks out at the snow once more. Surely it’s understandable that he’d yearn for sunny skies, empanadas in hand as he touches up his perfect tan. Mindlessly watching snowflakes continue to dance the oppressive white gives way to the deep, rich blue of the sea and sky once more.
What’s with him today? Mitch shakes off his dreaming of heatstroke and sticky sand to pointedly focus on the reality before him. He needs to find some way to burn his snowed-in day away. Could read, could game, Mitch struggles to focus on anything as his mind keeps drifting south. Vaguely light-headed, and even lighter of stomach, Mitch sets his on-edge mind towards breakfast.
Brewing coffee, Mitch smirks oddly as he sees that the beans were grown in Brazil. He tells himself it’s just appreciating the happenstance, but behind his self-soothing the sensation can only be described as pride. Pride that leads him to unconsciously puff his thin chest even as he throws meat on the stove and bread in his toaster.
One hand focused on preparing breakfast, the other keeps finding its way to the hem of his shirt. Stomach’s a little itchy. Must be the shirt. Coming to this conclusion, Mitch at last notices how the sweater he’s always worn explicitly because it was too big is suddenly tugging on his upper arms and chest.
Setting his breakfast off the heat, Mitch tugs at this thick fabric and watches as it retracts to hug his chest in a way that almost looks like pecs. Lips curl into a smile as Mitch sees his arms twitch against tightening sleeves. Not even noticing a hand easily snaking under the rising waistline to scratch at his stomach, he follows suit and simply tears off the sweater, throwing it to the kitchen floor.
Stumbling out of his pants en route to a full-body mirror, Mitchel gasps when he sees a body far more impressive than he thought he’d ever achieve. Sure, it seems like his ever–waxed treasure trail returned and there’s some unsightly stubble on his face that he’d need to be rid of when he sees Jason, but so it goes.
The little fat that rounds out his face seems to dissolve as his jawline sharpens underneath the patchy beard. His stick thin neck thickens as he checks angles like a man made to model rather than sit inside and whine.
Thighs almost bloating larger as he takes in his appearance, Mitchel’s mouth may as well water as he lets his mind wander to the azure sea again. Hands trail down abs slightly sticky with sweat as the scent of salty air and tanning oil assaults his senses once more. Wandering back to the living room he reposes onto the couch as if it were a beach blanket perfectly made to hold his growing form.
Giving into the sunny daydream more with every passing second, Mitchel almost begins snoring as he’d swear he feels the summer sun beaming down on him. Fingers still trailing up and down abs bulging larger, cupping pecs that are struggling to grow to their rightful size in a body bereft of strength- well, it’s no wonder they find themselves playing with the bush of pubes curling out from his underwear.
Exposed skin tans from the burning sun in his mind alone as his thickening bush continues to tangle and rise higher onto his bronzing stomach. Skin so pale as to blend in with the snow outside is washed in a tan as darkening waves of sun kissed skin conquer. Neck lolling and mouth agog as he falls back onto the couch, Mitchel does his best to quiet a moan as his pre-dripping dick throbs into his palm.
Shittt~ he can’t get off at the beach, can he?
Crotch now laden with a heavy bulge made to catch eyes in a speedo, Mitchel feels it start to get soggy with pre and in his foggy mind he decides to wander towards the sea to settle down. Never one to sleepwalk, trying to amble up with a far heavier body than he’s had to move consciously, Mitchel swiftly returns to the couch onto his wider back.
Having stumbled on the quickest path back to wakefulness, Mitchel gasps back to life as he should know it to find two wider hands stuffed down his pants. Retrieving his rougher palms before noticing the veiny forearms and even more impressive biceps they’re attached to. “Que merda?” Mitchuel mumbles out, barely noting the raspy deeper voice as he’s far more preoccupied by the fact he just spoke in a language he doesn’t know.
Small heart pounding in his heavier chest, the dreamlike scent of fruit and cooking milho vacate as the oppressive musk of his muscle bound body fills the space. Struggled breaths through expanding lungs inhale more and more of his sweaty stink and with heavy intake there’s a subtle scent of salty air growing stronger once more.
Chest panging in a manner than usually signals an anxiety attack to Mitchel, at present he reads his body's desperate pleas as nothing more than need. One which is his eager to fulfill as he twists his deeper neck to get a sniff of the sweaty jungle still thickening in his pits. Não está certo, né? But it’s so hot, how can it be wrong.
Couch creaking underneath him, Mitchuel tries to keep his mind focused on the reality before him. Tanned legs and a heavy bulge throbbing with need, it takes a good deal of his focus not to start humping into his tight underwear and paw his cock to completion. Retracing his steps mentally to try and remember if he accidentally ate a psychedelic or something, Mitchuel doesn’t notice as his thoughts are increasingly bilingual.
Finally standing to his full new height, the knowledge of snow-covered streets outside the window behind him melts away as he begins to forget the nature of the reality he woke to this morning. He was going to have café da manhã… have breakfast… sim…
Wandering to a messy kitchen, tripping over a sweatshirt or something discarded on the floor Mitchuel snatches it with his feet and gives it a good sniff to see if it's clean before grimacing and tossing it back to the floor. Whatever, not like he needs to wear anything to cook. Scratching the trail of curls on his stomach still prickling thicker, he smirks as in place of what should be a half prepared bacon egg and cheese sandwich he finds small rolls he at first doesn’t recognise.
“Oh! É pão de queijo! Eh? What? Cheese bread..?”
Clearing his throat as an even deeper voice echoes back. Micuel quibbles as he tries to decide if he actually knows what that is, taking a long sip of café to ground himself, he shrugs and simply begins eating. Doesn’t matter what he’s having but if he wants to keep his perfect body he’s gotta fill it with something.
Tearing into the small puffs, Micuel moans as the familiar taste fills him with certainty of self. Wanting to keep his mind sharp as his body, he uses his small caffeine buzz to focus on a book that’s always on his kitchen table. Only, he finds it hard to make any progress at all? Words dance before his eyes as he wonders why the book’s in English.
Sure he speaks it well enough but he’s never been that much of a good student. Thin eyebrows furrow into burly caterpillars above his dark eyes as he forces himself to try and read on. Fortunately for the born-and-bred carioca, In his hands though, the book does its best to reform itself into a tome he’d be realistically able to read.
Changes on his body finalizing as the book in his hand stains with sand and saltwater, the book becomes some barely intelligible guide to getting the perfect beachbody. One clearly functional as Miguel’s body becomes the textbook example. Shoulders crack wider as his pecs bulge towards the perfect size to allure anyone to hop on his dick as they’re covered by a patch of dark curls.
Shivering in the kitchen as a breeze blows through an open window, Miguel smirks as he sees another perfect sunny day shining outside. Stretching his muscular arms and lithe waist in the almost-too-bright sun, the man slightly lowers his speedo to ensure no inch of skin is anything less than perfectly bronze. Exposing his thick bush yet again, Miguel mindlessly plays with his pubes and bulge as he thinks out loud, now in fluent Portuguese.
“Ahh, O que devo fazer hoje?” (Ahh, what am I to do today?)
Bouncing his ass in his breezy den as he simply delights in the splendor of the tropical air, the troubles of life snowed in on the costa leste americana is thousands of miles away. And anyway, the question is rhetorical. Obviously he’s going to the beach, he should see if Jason wants to go.
And then his mind fractures.
Isso não é… That’s not his boyfriend, is it?
Thicker brows furrowed, he tries to remember the finer details of his relationship with his longtime boyfriend. Paging through his simplified mind more like a pamphlet than a book, beach boy Miguel can’t remember bumping into a twink so, ehh, nerdy as the man his memory asserts is his lover.
And yet, sure as he knows the back of his hand or brand of speedo on his waist, that’s his lover. His amante. It’s just, he would’ve sworn that Jason was more, well, just more. Massaging his temples, feeling his fingers scratch through salt-laden curls, Miguel tries to refresh his memories.
Jason was Brazilian. They went to school together, grew up in a favela right by his side. Watched as it blew up into quite the touristy spot, one that might attract the meek man being produced whenever Miguel thinks of Jason.
“Puta merda, minha cabeçaaa!” (God damnit my headdd!)
Josan was more than that, though of course it’s difficult to imagine anyone being more than Miguel somehow Josan managed it. The beach bunny just couldn’t quite remember how. Images of his lover flicker to mind.
He can see Josan’s ass, teasing him, luring Miguel to be as hornier as Josan was at any given moment. Back arched, covered in tattoos accrued from a lifetime of rushing from one excitement to another, performing twink with his cinched waist as if he weren’t even more of a lunkhead than Miguel.
Or sim! That’s it Jaosn was an absolute tank. Biceps the size of Miguel’s impressive legs, back wider than the front door at his place. Always eating to put mass on, the only man able to overpower Miguel’s musk and treat the built gym bro like a ragdoll. And behind that bulging veneer he’s just a teddy bear, bottom to boot.
Tck, não. Joãn was never that obsessive about his physique. He’d come with to the gym sure, but he’d never sculpt or perfect. Just put on mass, strength… Yeah, and he was hairy! Hairy for sure, between the pair Miguel was definitely the brains too, not that it really matters since they’re always by the other’s side.
Whining to himself, bass petulance rumbling from his muscular chest, Miguel takes a deep breath and retreats to where he can always find peace. What he knows best. Cheers of people playing in the waves accompanied by bossa nova from a nearby bar. Daydream washing over him as if he were in the sea, his heavy hand moves as if possessed and reaches forward to cup João's soft chest. That’s it! That’s his urso.
Across town, scrolling on his phone Jason feels his cozy bedroom grow even warmer. Working up a sweat even as he sits still, the hitherto twink grunts as he feels his clothes are suddenly a little tight. No need to keep clothed he tears off his sweater and lays back down, noticing a slight belly he shrugs and half-covers it with a blanket.
Hand behind his head, as he gets back to his phone, Jason sees something from the corner of his eye. At first it’s just one long dark strand sticking out from his few blonde pit curls. And then there’s another, a patch, then one can scarcely see beneath the dark jungle of curls. Mindlessly giving them a sniff, Jason recoils as his musk smells like that of a completely different man. The man he is becoming.
Groaning, he sits up and clutches his stomach as it begins to bloat. Josan stares as the same bountiful garden of hair races up from his pubes, cresting over what looks like an expanding beer belly pushing aside pecs similarly dusting with body hair he’d not dreamed of having with his natural blonde locks.
Moaning as anyone would, he holds down a few burps as he looks down at thickening thighs and the heavier bulge in between them. Cupping which he feels it throb with an intense need. Stubble that’s already become a beard rubbing against his neck as he looks down, João gasps out to no one, voice cracking deeper as he does.
“Carambaaa~, eu sou sexy, né?” (fuckk~ I’m sexy aren’t I?)
Smirking as he begins playing with himself, his eyes as blue as the sea darken into two onyx gems. Black as the thick hair on his head, and the even thicker pubes in his crotch. Sucking up some drool that was beginning to spill into his pristine goatee, João puts a hold on self-love to take a call from his lindo.
Switching it to a facetime instinctually, João immediately brightens as he sees his own face reflected back at him. Exercising the self-control not to immediately start phone-sex, he impatiently waits for Miguel to speak up.
“Ei, bebê! algum plano para hoje?” (Hey babe! Big plans today?)
“Na, na verdade não, só estou esperando a nev-” (Nah nah- just waiting on the snow to-)
“Neve!? Nossa, amor, não é à toa que todo mundo acha que eu sou o inteligente, heh!” (Snow!? Jeez babe, no wonder everyone thinks I’m the smart one, heh!)
João pauses at this, wondering if people really do think Miguel is the smart one before realizing he doesn’t really care. Together they are just one anyway. Always at the front of mind, João finds himself far more preoccupied with the next time him and Miguel’ll have some fun.
“Você tem o Speedo que eu enviei?” (Have the Speedo I sent you)
After a beat, João turns to a mirror and zooms out so Miguel can see the uniform already on. Mouth falling open at the sight of his bear in all his glory, Miguel feels his own blue balls suddenly grow far more urgent. Seems they’ve got something far more pressing to do than hit the beach, though there’s certainly time enough to enjoy their little slice of heaven afterwards.
Looking to the horizon, Miguel shivers one last time as the shining sea for some reason reminds him of blankets of snow like he’s never seen. Shrugging off the strange daydream of winter storms and a life indoors, he neglects to throw on a shirt as he starts his quick commute to fuck.
The world is brighter when he begins his walk through the bustling streets of Rio. Sun breaks through the canopy of buildings while thousands of voices singing and shouting vie for his attention. Only one man is on his mind as he waddles on, and only one destination lies afterwards. Miguel just can’t wait to have the sea on his skin, and João sunbathing by his side.
Wallace swears his friend wasn't always a star athlete and is snooping around the field to confirm his uncomfortable hunch. When he puts his foot in the wrong clue it seems like he'll get to the bottom of the case quicker than he cares to.
It's my blog's anniversary and I couldn't just pass it up so here's a foot-forward hairy soccer player TF! Vaguely inspired by a FIFA ad burned into my mind forever ago, hope you enjoy this bottoms up Transformation! -Occam
He’s not a professional investigator, not even a student reporter, even. Honestly he wasn’t even sure if journalists actually did reconnaissance like this or if that’s just something that’s been made up and glamourized for movies.
Still, something about the soccer team’s whole deal has set him on edge. Or moreover, whatever they did to his friend Rich has. And whatever it takes Wallace is going to get to the bottom of it. They were lab partners, this Wallace is sure of. At the beginning of the semester they paired up, two peas in a pod. He’s sure of it.
Vague memories of their professor and lab techs confusing them for being so similar still bubble up, but that can’t be the case, because Rich, or Ricky as he swears he’s always gone by, looks like he was bred to play soccer. And Wallace might simply crumble to dust if he were to step foot on the field.
If he were playing that is. At present, wandering around the green to snoop for clues is absolutely fair game. After watching a short video from a comedian showing off how far a fake press pass can get you, Wallace could no longer push down his burning curiosity and, after forging some shoddy press credentials, he made his way down to the university’s field during a practice.
Watching from afar, Wallace is yet to find anything out of the ordinary. Mostly interested in watching the couple dozen athletic men run back and forth he begins to wonder what sinister ongoings he expected to find?
Obviously Ricky would tell him if there were truly sinister ongoings, they are friends after all. Speaking of the devil, Ricky’s laughter resounds as he throws an arm around a teammate and Wallace’s chest pangs with pathos he can’t understand. Envy? Regret? The phantom pain of something lost.
Blushing from the embarrassment of expecting to find his old friend here, of seeing the Rich that haunts the edges of his mind, Wallace chastises himself for believing in something so patently foolish. Obviously people don’t just change from reedy academics to professional athletes. And that’s all he has truly known Ricky to be, dead weight on titrations and counterproductive on lab reports.
Rich is a figment, a dream. Nothing more. Clearly Wallace just needs a break, one that he will not find watching these barefoot athletes rile each other up. He does a double take. Barefoot..? The faux reporter’s mouth falls open, tilting his head in surprise as he indeed finds the soccer team is currently running drills in just socks.
“Surely that can’t be right?”
Squinting, Wallace figures he must simply know less about soccer than he thought. Not particularly surprising. Preparing to leave, he sighs and throws his clipboard in his bag and writes off his increasingly pathetic plan to interview the players. That is, until he scans the rest of the field to find a pile of their discarded cleats.
Once he sees it he’s like a man possessed. Unable to look away, with each moment focussed on the lifeless, surely smelly stack of shoes Wallace feels that strange deja vu building. Something about them evokes that feeling he gets when he daydreams about Ricky. No, Rich.
Gritting his teeth, the fire of amateur sleuthing reignites within Wallace. Leave no shoe unturned. Ensuring the team and the couple of other spectators are distracted, Wallace stumbles onto the sideline, only noticed by an actual reporter from the university paper who simply rolls his eyes and continues his pursuit of legitimate sports journalism.
Falling the few feet onto warm turf, Wallace immediately finds himself face to face with the pile of shoes. Triple checking that the coast is clear he inches closer, kicking himself for not preparing some back-up disguise as an athletic trainer.
No matter. He must keep at it. Trying to use the strange sensation buzzing in his head like a dowsing rod, Wallace waves his hand over the heap of cleats before grabbing a single shoe that he swears is calling out to him.
“Shoot! This thing’s massive!?” He whispers.
Holding up to his relatively petite leather oxfords, Wallace can’t help but laugh to himself. The men out there are absolute tanks compared to him. Compared to him. Heady footstink pours from the shoe as he holds it in hand, warmer than it should be. The expression on his face dulls slightly, obviously it won’t fit. Mouth ajar, heavy eyelids droop lower as he blinks slowly. He’s gotta try it on.
Kicking off his loafer faster than he can think, Wallace shoves his size foot into this titan’s cleat. The collar of the cleat doesn’t even touch his ankle as his toes have well over four inches of room at the shoe’s front. Imagining the size of foot that this cleat would require, there’s a twitch in his pants.
“Fuck…” Breathily sighing, Wallace would’ve sworn he wasn’t into feet. Maybe it’s the tension from sneaking around, maybe it’s the overpowering musk blowing towards him from the rank cleats, or maybe it’s simply how his pale, tiny foot is completely eclipsed by the shoe. He certainly can’t say, at present Wallace is so overwhelmed he can’t string two thoughts together.
Instantly chubbing up, his focus only returns as he hears a whistle blow. Pent up in more ways than one, he kicks his leg out and sends the cleat that scarcely clung to his foot flying back into the pile. Seeing the crowd of athletes begin to wander over to his position, Wallace scrambles on his back and frantically reaches into his bag for the clipboard.
Nerves clear as day on his face, his alibi is half-hearted at best, certainly not aided by how thoroughly lodged his clipboard is on his crotch to hide a boner. Unable to fly in time, Wallace struggles to steel himself for whatever player might stumble towards him. In quite the unearned lucky break, who comes to Wallace’s side but Ricky.
Shirt hanging from his waistband and exposed pecs sweaty from a heated practice, Ricky looks over his hairy pecs down at Wallace. Clearly confused, he reaches down to offer the clearly spilled reporter(?) a hand.
“Ay, yooo? Wallace, what’s up? Came to watch me and my boys orr?”
Keeping the clipboard firmly wedged against his waist, Wallace’s already shaky grin quivers as he accepts Ricky’s aid with his free hand. Feeling the athlete’s rough hand, gritty with sweat, the clipboard twitches as his cock throbs into it, his still-red face burns even more scarlet.
“Ah, uhm, well yeah sorta? Just joined up with the paper and we’re doing a profile on your new season!” Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he surprises himself at spitting out something even remotely believable as his unshoed foot feels suddenly warm.
“Tight, tight. You know it’s mid-season tho right?”
“Well of course, did I say new season? I mean new, uh?” Scrambling, scrambling, scrambling, “Uniforms, right? Your new cleats?
“Ohh, yeah- well they’re not that new? But uh, guess that makes sense?”
Having shredded any and all pretext to his presence here a few times over now, Wallace realizes this was his worst blunder yet as he directs Ricky’s attention to the pile of shoes and then Wallace’s clearly shoeless foot. Sure that he’s about to be assaulted for perving on the team, Wallace takes a nervous step back.
“Yo bro? Did you try one of them on?”
“What!? No of course not! Who would, why would I!? Heh..?”
Ricky stares at him, through him. Wallace can’t tell if he’s scowling or simply lost in thought. And then, just as soon as he began, his expression smooths into one of placid pleasantry.
“True bro true. Why would ya, huhuh!” There’s a beat as Ricky tries to remember something that his coach said before he shrugs and scratches his furry stomach. “So uh, any questions lil bro?”
Sweating bullets himself watching Ricky’s arm twitch from scratching his meaty belly, Wallace gulps and shakes his head. “You know? I think I’m all set actually Rich. I’ll uhm, see you in lab!” Sprinting off his shoddy press pass flutters away in the wind as he abandons his shoe and dignity on that field.
Ricky shouts after a little confused, “Text if you uh, need anythin’” Crossing his arms, he watches Wallace run off, eyes catching on his lab partner’s sock. Where the sole of his black no-shows should be, there is instead a small white patch. The image strikes him as familiar, but before any connection can be made it falls through his sieve of a mind as his coach calls the team back to attention. And he can think of nothing else but the game.
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
Out of breath from seriously running for the first time in years, when he at last slams the apartment door closed behind him, Wallace collapses to the floor. Peeling off the button up and dress pants he just sprinted through campus wearing, he airs out his hairless pits and still slightly twitchy cock as he lies on the cold tile floor of his entrance way.
“Ugh… What was I even thinking!”
Latching his arms around his weak knees, Wallace pulls himself up to sitting before he reaches to yank off his remaining shoe and the sock underneath. Grimacing at the slight odor hiding within he throws them to the side before grabbing the other and yanking. And then yanking again as it just tugs on his skin.
“What the-? Ow.” Again, “Ow? OW!?” Worried his foot has somehow gotten some sick foot fungus or the like, Wallace leans in close to inspect the sock and is shocked at what he finds. Covering nearly the whole bottom of his foot and creeping up the sock’s sides, the busybody feels at the fabric and is dumbfounded to find it a wholly different texture than the softer sock it should be.
It must be glue right? Glue from the cleats? Trying to make sense of the dilemma, Wallace unconsciously continues rubbing the cheap scratchy fabric that brings to mind the gym. At least, it would were Wallace not increasingly distracted by the feel of the coarse socks on his smooth fingertips and the slight tug against the bottom of his feet.
Setting it on the floor, he tilts his head as he sees it next to its now barefoot pair. It looks a little larger doesn’t it? Wider. Massaging the socked foot to find any leeway to remove it he is constantly distracted by the strange, seemingly spreading, white texture.
Wallace may as well be drooling as he stares at his thin fingers trailing across the thick sock. Given enough time he surely would be. Needily gulping, he does his best to look away but as the black fabric continues to lighten and seemingly bulge as it cheapens into starchy, sweat-stained fabric. Meaningful thought overridden handedly with rumbling pressure, the sound of blood coursing through his ears, he is only brought back to sentience by the sound of his phone chiming.
“Ey yo brobro u got that report ritten up yet coach wants to b sure im gonna pass the class lmaooo dk y i signed up for smthn so hadr”
As if he were waking from a night terror, Wallace pants like an animal trying to come to his senses. Unaware if he lost time to delirium, Wallace looks down to find himself wearing a short, entirely white sock.
“lmaoobro i ment hard”
Ricky would know what’s up. Surely right? He just needs to ask. Scratching at his ankle, Wallace pictures the look on his lab partner’s face when he thought he snuck on one of their cleats and reconsiders. It’s probably nothing. He just forgot what sock he had on, yeah. That makes sense! Not like he was all that thorough in any other regard sneaking around the soccer field.
Twirling his cell in his hand, Wallace bites his cheek and opts to figure this out himself. He’ll see a doctor tomorrow and get this stupid thing cut off or whatever. Pointedly paying no mind to the problem at foot, his nails scratch away half-heartedly. And as they do they drag across thickening curls around the whole of his ankle as a light tan begins to ebb out from the clearly otherworldly sock. He’s far too preoccupied with seeming normal as he texts Ricky back to notice.
“Finishing it up now, partner! Tell Co your Coach not to worry.”
Message sent, Wallace sighs as focus fades ever so slightly. Unconsciously, he starts to type up a question he truly would never care to ask.
“You guys going to be ready for the game against Indiana”
Staring at it unblinking for a few moments the school-spiritless student nixes the question before tossing his phone down and grabbing his laptop to fulfill his promise to Ricky, and Coach. Or the coach rather. Stretching his back and legs he groans as his calves cramp slightly. Eyes taken by the computer screen, the academic doesn’t notice as his legs have somehow grown unevenly.
One pale, essentially hairless, more bone than muscle. The other increasingly, impossibly becoming that of an athlete. New strands of muscle branching out from the bottom up, thick curls lancing out from the sock’s rising cuff as his foot cracks wider and his leg continues to lengthen.
Almost constantly moving in search of a comfortable resting position, the pair of limbs are more jittery than they ever have been. Leading the charge, the socked leg continues to obviously grow larger and lither, pushing out a couple inches further than its unclothed pair as Wallace jostles them against each other.
Adamant to not get distracted by his sock-stuck foot even as the garment begins to stretch further up his growing calf, Wallace throws on a blanket and nobly tries typing up his report. Ricky, as ever, was less than helpful in the lab proper. Wallace’s not sure why the lab tech even allows the jock near hazardous material with how foolish he tends to be anywhere but the field.
Legs bouncing anxiously even out of view, Wallace’s mind immediately begins to drift as he allows the first thought of Ricky to derail his assignment. Ricky. His mouth feels dry as he imagines the man’s hairy, muscular legs. Ricky. Running alongside him on the field, running faster than him.
Flexing his own buried calves, unknowingly accelerating their change as new curls rub against his blanket, Wallace opens Ricky’s instagram to watch his stories. There are a handful of highlights saved to his stories. Unable to quite make sense of the few soccer clips his partner has thrown up, Wallace alt-tabs to read up on the sport to hopefully understand more.
One google search reads to another, which leads to a short video, which leads to watching influencers do tricks with soccer balls, which leads to him palming his crotch under the blanket. Cock hardening, the fabric of his pants begins to feel strangely silky as his thighs rapidly begin to bloat. Leaning back, feeling his bulge fill his hand when Wallace lifts his hips into the air and feels his dick bump against his laptop he moans far louder than he’d intended.
The assignment tab isn’t even open anymore. The idea of working on a lab report is wholly washed from his mind, and in its place are memories of Wallace chasing a ball he should be loath to touch. Wallace’s eyes glaze over as he simply watches sweaty men playing with soccer balls on loop. Cock dripping with pre as he sees bronzed bodies sprinting and colliding with each other, Wallace stares mouth agog until the sun sets.
He doesn’t know when the videos switch with his imagination, but at such point he begins seeing himself and Ricky on the field. Athleticism fills his body and perfect midfield tactics begin to overtake his mind. Fabric touching his unsocked foot clings to it like static before tightening into a sock just like that on his wider sole. Bones crack as the newly captured foot rapidly grows to match its wider pair.
His clearly thicker legs twitch and bulge in his sleep as socks engulf his calves entirely, Wallace’s mind’s eye wonders when his legs grew to such a size. In dream his hairier legs chase a ball towards Ricky, causing his snoring lips to stretch into a grin as his still-hard cock twitches more intensely with each racing footstep.
When the sun rises and the light of day shines across Wallace’s dead laptop and crusty eyes, the wanton student yawns and stretches awake. Reflexively sniffing pits that offer a slightly more acrid musk than usual, he feels his pants cold and wet against his hips and finds his situation has continued to worsen even in his sleep.
From the waist down his entire body has changed. Not even acknowledging the fact that both feet are now a few sizes larger with socks that want to cover the whole of his calves, Wallace balks at the nylon shorts that cling to his dense fur-covered thighs. Discarding the blanket, apathetic to the laptop as it tumbles to the floor, at last he sees the wet patch covering his heavier crotch.
Frowning and complaining to himself with a voice faintly deeper and duller, he reaches to remove his cum-soiled shorts only to find them as stuck to his waist as his sweaty socks are to his feet. Medley of ‘what the fucks’ filling his living room, he falls over himself as he yanks time and again to remove the shorts.
Each attempt has the shorts highlighting new aspects of his built lower body. Ass the size of the ball he can’t quite remove from his mind. Thighs thicker than he thought his waist should be. His cock throbbing oppressively and filling his underwear to a point that seems impossible to hide as the heavy balls underneath pang with need.
In the end he only stops pulling at his pants when his hand cramps, Wallace looks at the digits and sees the palm is wider, his digits rougher and longer. Unsure if it’s from contact with the shorts or if its yet another change from overnight he was simply yet to notice, Wallace gives up and tries to just towel off the stain from his shorts before throwing clothes on and rushing out the door to find the only man who might know what’s happening to him, Ricky.
Behind him as he struggles to force his larger feet into obviously straining tennis shoes, the now cum-stained towel slowly discolors and patterns with their university’s logo. His embattled mind continues to similarly tinge with memories of a new life and his book-cluttered home disappears a sheet of paper at a time while laundry piles up and fills the place with an omnipresent musk that rivals his new locker room.
Sprinting down the street, Wallace doesn’t question how he knows where Ricky is as each heavy footstep brings him closer to his bro. He doesn’t hear as his shoes begin to clank against the concrete sidewalk as his cheap tennis shoes smooth and tighten into cleats just like the one he snuck on the day prior.
No, there is only one thought in his mind as he runs, faster with every step as his upper body begins to change. He needs to find Ricky. Slight paunch on his waist hardening, his one-track mind shifts more bandwidth towards finding his teamma his partner, the edges of his mind, of his self continues to fill in with the ephemeral thoughts of an athlete. And so too does his morphing body continue to reflect that.
Feet stomp wider in his new cleats as his upper body rapidly firms up. Every contorting step forward tightens his core from the never-honed torso of a sun-fearing student and into that of a prime athlete. Propelled forward with ever increasing energy, Wallace takes increasingly deeper breaths as his chest and diaphragm expand with his widening shoulders and newly bulging pecs.
Unhappily hiding his new socks and newer piston legs, the pants Wallace threw on over his shorts begin to shorten and silken into athletic shorts, underneath the still-stained inner pair of shorts cling to his legs as they sop with sweat and tighten into compression shorts. By the time he arrives at the gym he’s clad in an outfit just like the countless other mindless men working out at the time, save cleats for more sensible shoes.
Ricky sees him coming before he even notices he’s arrived.
“Wallace bro! What’s up? You here to get pumped?”
There’s a smile on his face as soon as he hears his bro calling out for him, one that’s far too difficult for him to wipe and remember the reason he’s actually here. Focus, he needs to focus.
“Look bro- Ricky, something’s going on-”
“Wearing cleats to the gym bro?”
“Wearing..? Huh?”
Looking down he for the first time notices his entire outfit has changed. Now needing to crane his thicker neck to see past his newly acquired pecs, Wallace immediately tries to kick off the very cleats that began his sick transformation. Miraculously, for the first time he’s able to tear some jock-wear away.
Pristine cleats clatter to the floor and before anything else Wallace frowns at having worn down their studs from running on concrete. Feeling the cold jersey sticking to his burning hot chest he starts to forget where he is before Ricky speaks up.
“Here, you can borrow some of mine lil bro.” After a beat he reconsiders, “Or just bro huh? You been bulking~ huhuh!”
Tossing his bro some more appropriate shoes, Ricky then reaches to massage Wallace’s traps. In response Wallace can scarcely do anything but smile as his mind is overwhelmed with pleasure more than he can truly comprehend With each grasp and drag of his fingers every pillar of himself begins shifting, begins being rewritten.
“Nnn- no… Ricky please! I need help, b- bro.”
Feeling the nylon and lycra suctioned against his skin as he continues growing and squirming under Ricky’s touch, Wallace moans as the once slow waning of his past life begins to crumble outright. Hair and eyes darken to a flat brown as his upper body rapidly carpets with curls. Ricky’s hands move down his shredded back as his treasure trail works its way up to connect with his sparsely hairy chest before erupting to coat his pecs like lichen, spreading up to peak across his shoulders.
All the while his interior life smooths and simplifies. Concerns about his Master’s program and favorite classics immolate so memorized stats of the greats can take their place. Countless games watched and played line his mind and overwrite his personality, soccer rising to the preeminent place in his mind as everything besides his game and his team pales into nothingness. And yet he tries to cling on.
“Oh I’ll help bro, anything to make sure you’re good to go for the game tomorrow!”
The game. The game tomorrow.
Freezing in place, everything within Wallace tenses up as the words sink into him. Did he have a game? Some small fraction of a fraction of self pleads for him to realize he wasn’t on the soccer team. But Ricky wouldn’t lie to him. Not his bro. Staring into the distance the gym looks far more open, emptier. It’s shiny waxed flooring the green turf of a field he knows far too well.
Motions burn into his tight legs as adrenaline sends his heart racing. Unburdened by thought, Wallace follows Ricky around like a dog, seamlessly mimicking his sets like he was made in a lab to be an athlete. Hairier arms pack on pounds as his lower body refines into one designed to propel him across the field.
Tan settling into a sunkissed bronze that will ever catch eyes on the green, his hair lengthens into a cocoa bird’s nest. In sparse moments when his sensible mind breaks free from Ricky’s thorough regimen, Wallace tries to speak up only to offhandedly think of the games he’s played and life he’s lived and is sent flying back into the recess of his true self. Wallace, the midfielder.
Unconscious of what’s going on himself, Ricky watches as the Wallace who once knew Rich continues to struggle less and less. In no time at all the bro he knows and loves takes complete control, cocky smirk and all. Taking huffs of his sweaty pits in between sets, Wallace asserts himself on the space just like he does on the field.
“Shittt bro, you ready to hit the showers? You’re steaming up the mirrors from here with your stank!” Ricky laughs and pats his teammate on the back, wiping the sweat on his own stained jersey with a guffaw.
“You think I’m gonna waste this musk bro? ‘S a tool! Gonna have those chumps tomorrow breathin my b.o. like it’s air, won’t know what ‘em!” Reaching down to remove his jersey, the sticky shirt clings to his drenched body. When at last he gets it over his wide shoulders he sends a spray of sweat onto Ricky and a man on a neighboring machine.
The pair of soccer players laugh as their fellow gymgoer scowls.
“Yo bro, if you want more of that, come to our game tomorrow!”
“Gonna be killerrrr!”
Checking the time the duo realize they’ve gotta run or they’ll be late. Continually riling each other up even before they leave the gym Wallace and Ricky jostle past a few other people working out without a care in the world, besides winning the game tomorrow that is. In their wake they leave nothing but a handful of sweat covered machines and a pair of pristine cleats.
Grumbling to himself, the man Wallace splashed with sweat prepares a laundry list of complaints about the pair. Hoping to perhaps get the whole team barred, he snaps pictures of the soiled machines before noticing the discarded cleats. Of course those oafs would leave clothes behind.
Good Samaritan despite how they treated them he immediately quibbles and plans to return their shoes to them. And then he thinks again. God those are big aren’t they? Looking down at his own feet he wonders if the cleats might hold them shoes and all… Kinda wants to try them on? No. No, he shouldn’t. Right? But why not? It certainly couldn’t hurt to just try them on? Might as well…
Aaron and Harrison have a thrilling chance to watch a game rink side, and they've been given two jerseys to boot! Suddenly they can barely look away from the game enough to notice that their neighbor rival no longer looks quite the same.
And here's the last story before my hiatus. Obviously inspired by a certain hit sports drama, here's two strangers TFing into Russian and Asian-Canadian lovers. Heavy on mental and language change and longing. Hope you enjoy and best wishes until next ! -Occam
“That’s right, folks! Tonight, two lucky fans will have the opportunity to watch the game from the penalty box!”
It had been advertised, sure. But Aaron was under the impression that you can usually say no to these things if you weren’t interested. And god was he not interested in wandering down courtside to sit alone.
He didn’t even like hockey! His bestie from work won the tickets and needed a date. So he begrudgingly found himself here. Aaron’s sure she thinks she’s doing him a favor by not taking the offer to go courtside in his stead, but as he’s escorted down flight after flight of stairs he grows only less pleased to have come at all.
Music blares loud enough that he can hardly hear his own thoughts as he at last approaches his seat to be. Arriving, he finds his apparent neighbor already settled. Clad in a Buffalo Drakes jersey, the lanky man turns and reaches out a hand to great Aaron.
“Hey dude! I’m Harrison, not actually a Buffalo fan but hey they gave me a free jersey, and shitttt! Dude! I can’t believe we get to watch the game from here!”
Half-hearted handshake done, Aaron watches as Harrison’s attention returns to the game. Looking at the small booth, Aaron turns to the brawny guard who escorted him down and asks about the logistics, “What if like, a player needs to use the booth?”
The goon waves him off, “Will not be problem. Here, jersey. Put on.” Tossing a Toronto Tigers jersey at Aaron, the brute nods at a similarly suited bodyman behind Harrison and then they leave the pair to enjoy the game.
Sitting down on the uncomfortable bench, Aaron catches back up with the game. It seems he didn’t miss too much, suddenly a horn blares as the Tigers score, making it 1-0. At that, Harrison crosses his arms and averts his attention from the rink. For the first time he notices the jersey in Aaron’s lap.
“Oh? You a Toronto fan, eh?” Aaron didn’t catch the slight accent earlier on his distracted seatmate. But perhaps it’s just in his head, lotta accents sound Canadian anyway.
“No, they just gave me this for the game. Just like yours for the Drakes, right?” After a moment of confusion, Harrison looks down at his jersey and snuffs out a chuckle. “Heh, oh yeah. Duh.” Figuring he should throw on his own, Aaron does so and both men opt to move on.
If they had paid even slightly more attention to their new uniforms they might have noticed that neither corresponds to a player on the ice. There is no Chernov on the Tigers, nor a Song on the Drakes, at least not yet.
Desperate for an upside to the still rising anxiety of being here as a Drake player slams into the glass, Aaron tries to find out if Harrison’s, well, playing for the same team. “Soo, uh? Did you come with anyone to the game?”
Still focused entirely on the game, Harrison takes longer than he should to respond, “Yeah, uh yeah… My girlfriend tagged along, sure she’s uh, she’s fine.” Swing and a miss.
Leaning back against the cold wall of the booth, Aaron wonders how this could ever be a reward. At the same time, Harrison bolts up and cheers brazenly as the Drakes score. “Fuck yeah!” The glee on his face is so pure that, after flinching from the shout, Aaron can’t help but grin himself.
Though, behind his conscious mind, there’s a small but growing part that feels like he’d much prefer the Tigers to have scored instead. Grin disappearing at that quibble so small he can barely notice it, Aaron follows Harrison’s gaze and begins paying closer attention to the game.
Bodies collide. Men shout and scream. Hurl taunts and throw jabs. Feet away there’s a bloodsport. Any single action of which should cause Aaron’s tension to skyrocket, and yet tension begins to release from his shoulders. Never has he even begun to try and understand the sport, and yet his eyes begin to view the rink like a fan, like a player.
“Ey Alaron, you think your boys got this?”
He didn’t realize he was now standing up next to Parrison, double taking he would’ve sworn the man was taller than him but seems as if they’re about the same height. Must’ve been slouching before. Rotten habit. Straightening up his back he realizes he’s still slouching. Now standing a full inch taller than Parrison he furrows his brow.
“Earth to Alaron?” Parrison waves a hand in front of Alaron’s face.
“Ah, sorry friend. I think the better team will surely win.” The pair stew on the idea, both surely thinking that means their team. Minutes ago both swore they had no skin in the game, Alaron wracks his brain trying to understand why his blood is now starting to race as he watches the game clock tick. His team is winning.
“Forgive”, every word comes off slightly off, like suddenly Alaron’s lips are accustomed to moving differently, “You said you are here with girl- with your girlfriend?”
Increasingly distracted by the game himself, Alaron almost forgets he’s waiting for Parrison to respond when he hears the man whispering to himself, clearly lost in thought. “I did? Didn’t I? I certainly didn’t buy tickets…”
After another beat the look of confusion plastered across his face sinks even deeper, “Why would I need to buy tickets?” Alaron squints at the man as he asks this bizarre question. Seeing Parrison scratch his head, his attention is rapt on the man’s hairline as his roots seemingly begin to darken. Spreading like an ink blot his blonde curls start to tinge brown, though as they stain darker it’s clear there’s no sign of stopping.
Before Alaron can question the strange dye job, or even stranger question, the attention of both men is suddenly pulled to the rink. As if they have some preternatural ability to know when something is soon to occur, they watch with baited breath.
The Drakes Score.
"Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talkin about Starkey!” Pariso shouts at the ice, barely holding back from pounding at the tempered glass of the penalty box in his excitement. How does he know this Starkey?
Feeling the energy almost radiating off his cohabitant, Alarex feels himself abandon any concern for Pariso’s state as his lips curl into a sneer. That should be his team scoring. There’s a deep tension in his arms as he crosses them, they feel heavier. Looking down he realizes he is no longer drowning in this jersey.
Tugging at the neckline he sees that the tee he threw on this morning is suddenly taught against a chest, against blatant muscle. Before he can choke out a shocked gasp, Pariso suddenly throws an arm around his shoulders to seemingly taunt him.
By the time Pariso reaches down he stumbles slightly as his arm has to travel a few inches further than he had aimed for. With a shrug he grabs Alarex’s upper arm in his wider grip. “What’s the matter bud? Dontcha want a good game?”
Playing over the man’s words in his head, Alarex notices something has changed in his companion. His voice, it’s deeper. Gazing up and down the man’s frame he finds Pariso is not the man he approached. Flat black hair distracts from the stubble starting to scatter across his jaw.
Staring intently at Pariso’s lips he feels his heart skip a beat in his chest as the man’s fingers twitch on his arm. Flexing he knocks the grip free and returns his attention to the game. Side profile hardening, he wonders if he too has changed. If he has somehow been changed.
Beneath his notice his feet grow large enough to tear the soft fabric of his shoes, toes bursting into the cold rinkside air. But he refuses to acknowledge this. When his face itches from stubble starting to thicken just as it did on Pariso he ignores it. When he feels his arms and chest grow to a size that cannot help but fill the hockey jersey that was a few sizes too big he swears this has always been the case.
Without his shoulder pads though? Nyet.
Eyes clamped shut, a searing headache suddenly replaces any ability to think. Pariso’s fingers twitch towards the back of his neck, hairy with untrimmed patches wont to race down his back. But they hesitate from caressing. Not here. Alarex fails to notice but with Pariso standing so close his thankfully obscured bulge begins to fill a protective cup.
The Tigers score.
Bolting up his pain his gone as Alerx shouts his praise to the team, running far hotter than his erstwhile neighbor, “Да, чёрт возьми!” Heart racing, for a moment he can’t believe he cares this much about the game, but of course he does, that’s his team. Piarris, sheepishly side eyes him, face blushing red- though he’d swear it was just from the cold.
Standing for the first time in a minute, Alerx adjusts his legs into the wider stance his bulky upper body demands. Feeling his thicker thicks struggle not to rub even so he imagines how good they must look before sneaking a peak at Piarris’ ass in turn.
Jaw clenched under his still thickening beard a litany of horny waking dreams fill his mind as he watches Piarris react to a near miss by the Drakes. “Shit!” Alerx takes in the man’s face in the harsh stadium lights, soft and masculine at once. His eyes wet as he stares across the rink.
Wanting more than anything to reach his hand up the back of Piarris’ jersey, Alerx instead sighs and tries to distract from the Drakes absolutely selling it on the ice. “So, how are things? Since last time. Are you still with..?”
The fire in his eyes from watching his team fades as he turns to look at the seated man, his bulge visible despite more than a few layers trying to hide it. “No, we uh- It didn’t work out. It’s not like with, uh…”
Visibly uncomfortable with whatever he clearly yearns more than anything to say, Piarris is thankfully torn back to the game as his team scores. Alerx doesn’t hear his cheering as he pumps his thicker arms into the air. No, instead he simply remembers the countless other times he has seen Piarris’ joy.
Sweat drips down the player’s brow as spit unmistakably flies from his gaping mouth onto the box’s glass. He vividly remembers their first meeting on the ice. Alerx’s body tenses as he can almost feel the stick in his hands, his calves straining against the tight lock of his skates.
Making eye-contact, smirking through his visor. Pierre breaking as he looks down to the ice. Bumping into each other at the hotel gym afterwards. Static in the air pulling them closer before Pierre pulls away, “Not here. Alexei. Not here.”
That night, their first. He remembers his hot warm body against Song’s. Drool dripping down his cheek as he allows himself something he never has before. Cupping the novice’s pecs as he trails his tongue down Song’s sweaty abs. What Alexei would give to do so every night.
“Eh, Chernov? What’re you thinkin’?”
Brought back to the game before him, Alexei tilts his head as he looks into Pierre’s eyes. “Song. Sorry. Did you ask question?”
He won’t be able to play this blush off as anything else, “Yeah, I asked if you had plans for after the game?”
Alexei swallowed, what else could he want but to spend it with him. The resting scowl on his face lets up as he shrugs, “Nyet. I think I will stay in.”
“Do you want to…” Pierre doesn’t turn to look down.
“More than anything Song.”
Alexei sits in his new sore form, heavier than it should be. There’s a weight in his chest, he knows it must be in Pierre’s as well. Looking up at his twitchy rival he fights a smile as he watches his eyes follow the puck even from here. His chest burns as a heavy coating of fur struggles to grow under his tight pads.
Undressing him with his eyes, seeing how his pecs fall, yearning to grip his ass as he’s done countless times, Alexei struggles to ignore the cheering in the back of his mind. Someone else calling his name. Chernov keep your head in the game!
What are two rivals doing in the penalty box together anyway? Is not right. Get out there and run those Dakes into the ground!
And then he blinks and he’s on the rink. Where else would he be?
Soaring towards the center of the ice, trailed by a pair of men he trusts to lead him to victory, Alexei nods, men he knows well. But no one does he know nearly as well as the man he is approaching.
Squaring up against him, stick in hand, he bends down only after Pierre does. Between them the ref inspects the ice before starting the final period. Game tied 2-2. Everyone waits for the play to begin. All wanting to win more than anything in the world to win.
That is, besides the two people making eye-contact so intense it’s clear that they’re into the other’s soul. Years of meeting like this, of meeting after this, of fucking like animals, of embracing like lovers, of struggling with the weight of the world on their shoulders. One period and then that weight will be lifted for but a moment.
Wanting a break from the world, four men start a book club. Distraction is unfortunately not so easy to escape as they and those closest to them find the allure of social media far too absorbing.
Six TFs for the price of one! Nerds to jocks, jock to twink, and Japanese and Latino TF’s to top it off. Had some fun with this one and hope you enjoy! -Occam
The crew was assembled in Nate’s living room, their little bookclub’s agreement had been the only thing keeping their little coterie from doomscrolling every day away. And even then, the task of reading the Portrait of Dorian Gray hasn’t kept all of them hooked. At present, Arjun and Michael were fresh into an argument that is perhaps the only thing stopping Tommy from checking out all together.
“I just thought it would be gayer?”
Well used to scrounging together queer subtext wherever he can find it, usually in manga, Arjun will not stand for this. “It’s from the fucking eighteen hund- He was sentenced to jail for- Are you just ragebaiting me?” Arjun crosses his arms while the uninvolved parties hide their grins as he stares daggers at Michael’s smirk. Hesitant to have a spat break out over the coffee table before his roommate returns, Nate tries to broker peace.
“Girls girls~ Clearly one of the most talented authors in all of Ireland knew what he was doing. He had to keep it as subtext so less- discerning, readers like Mike wouldn’t catch it.” Quite unable to help himself but toss a lob at Michael, the now-trio now have at it. Giggling as the other three half debate the book, half go for each other’s throats, Tommy gets a text and briefly checks his phone.
At least, he intended to just check but jeez it’s already out and all? Might as well scroll until the session’s back to the book right? Eyes flickering down to his phone he realizes he’s not on a social media app that he recognizes. Abandoning any pretext of sneaking a peak he raises it to the table to see if anyone recognizes it.
As soon as all eyes fall upon the screen it flashes and there's a high pitched droning buzz. Conversation immediately halts as all four men are absolutely rapt, staring at the spiraling colors and flashing lights that seem to take up their whole being despite only flaring out from a phone.
Returning home sweaty and panting from running up the few flights of stairs to their place, Jackson tries to not intrude on his roommate’s book club. Turning to find them silent and staring, seemingly absorbed by whatever’s on the screen, the bodybuilder strides closer to see what’s up.
“Yo, uhh Nate? Arjun? Y’all good?” Not sure if this is a joke or something serious he doesn’t understand, Jackson edges closer to the table. When his heavy footsteps seemingly break through Tommy’s trance, eyes still glazed over he turns the screen towards the approaching behemoth and ushers Nate’s roommate into the group’s stupor.
Doing so, propelled by some force outside of his own mind, Tommy in the process removes the screen from Nate’s line of sight who after a moment to recover now sees his hunk of a roommate half-drooling at Tommy’s phone. “J-Jackson?” Seeing the rest of his group slowly coming to as Jackson is drawn deeper in, the host takes initiative and bats at the phone, knocking it face down on the table.
Looking around in shock, Nate waits for someone else to break the silence. In the back of his head is a single impulse ‘try not to scroll’ at first he hears it as a challenge, but after another beat he can’t help but feel the words are warning of an inevitability. Tossing it over, trying to understand what happened, his already waylaid train of thought is derailed by Jackson.
“Uhh sorry for interrupting guys, how’s Dorian Gray going?”
Clearly all on some supernatural edge, the normalcy invited by happy-go-lucky Jackson is welcome. “Girl, you won’t believe the nonsense Mike’s bitching about today.” And just like that it’s business as usual. As if nothing untoward spewed from a cell phone directly into their minds. As if the very same phone wasn’t lying face down in between all of them.
“Same time next week?” All mumble their agreement, sheepishly looking as Tommy reaches to upturn his cell. Whatever happened has been decidedly memory-holed but the unpleasant psychic reverberations clearly left a bad taste in their frontal lobes. “And let’s try harder not to goon mid-book club, right Tom?”
Rolling his eyes, he can’t quite bring himself to act as tricksy as he usually likes. Everything just feels a little heavier, like some impossible load is weighing upon him, waiting for him to misstep. The same is true for all parties, the phones in their pockets far more distracting than usual. Nevertheless, for now they stay strong, Arvan and Michael head off to the bus stop while Tommy begins his brisk walk home.
Stepping back out from his room, Jackson shoots them all a see ya later before telling Nate he’s going to hit the shower. There’s a sense of dread within Nate as he watches his roommate grab his cell from a charging dock, but he pushes it down. He’s being irrational, he just needs to chill out. To this end he sits on the couch and throws some much needed distraction on the TV.
Michael’s bus is already here! Bidding farewell to Arjun whose nose is already buried in some manga he had apparently had all along, Mike hops on and stares out the fogged up windows. Worked up from squabbling about something he can’t quite remember, Michael bounces his leg anxiously enough that his phone falls from the pocket.
Watching it clatter to the sticky floor of the bus he frowns and stills his leg, “Fuck it.” It’s not like they’ve been banned from social media, it’s just a cleanse, a break, a do what you can. And after that heated session, Mike just needs some kind of distraction.
Opening Instagram though, he finds the strangest thing, he’s somehow already posted a story? Pit growing in his stomach, his twitchy finger reaches to tap and find out what it is. Somehow he already knows it isn’t some accidental black screen, and then he taps on it and finds a body like he’s never seen before.
Every bulging, bouncing pound of flesh demands his attention. From the hunk’s veiny arms, to his thick distended abs, to the bubble butt ass that’s both soft and firm at once. Already, having been pent up from avoiding porn for some time as part of the social media purge, Mike feels his cock struggling for room in his pants.
And then he looks down and realizes he’s not even wearing pants. He’s not on the bus. He’s in the bathroom wearing only a towel, looking in the mirror. And he is not nearly as big as he should be.
Slightly unkempt hair on his face starts to thicken into proper stubble as the few chest hairs that stretched above his neckline are joined by a rapidly amassing coat of trimmed curls. Turning to the side, Michael’s mouth is agog as he sees a built silhouette begin to carve itself into existence.
Veins usually hidden by his slightly pudgy arms start bulging out of his skin, throbbing as his arms fill with blood before expanding into biceps thicker than he can rightly handle. In between, underneath the still spreading jungle of chest hair, two ponderous pecs surge larger with every heaving beat of his heart.
The hairy mitts that his hands are becoming twitch and reach back to play with an ass that’s quickly straining the shoddy knot holding the towel up. Taking shaky breaths as some small part of him tries to resist, Michael feels abs push out from his diaphragm as the whole front of his body becomes this beyond powerful figure.
His eyes twitch as he stares into his reflection, and then his face drops into the placid stoic face of a man appreciating his form. He looks fucking good. No longer holding onto whoever he was, his fingers reach under his ass to bounce it for the perfect shot. Yeah, they’re gonna love this.
Michael sits on his toilet as needy twinks immediately begin pouring into his DMs in response. Another day, another post, another dozen holes to potentially fill. Time for him to find his favorite and have his way.
Elsewhere, in another bathroom, Jack’s drying off from his quick post-gym shower. Never personally a part of the book club’s little attempt at paring back their time online, the jock has no initial reservations as he reaches for his phone for a brief distraction as he towels himself off.
Cell in hand, there’s an itch in the back of his mind. A warning he barely caught that’s just as soon washed away by the rising impulse to scroll. To go next, to fill each and every waking moment with bright colors and sounds cultivated to keep him watching.
And what could he open it to find besides some waifish nude model. Usually he’d move on immediately, twinks aren’t his thing yeah? Jackson’s confident enough in his masculinity to just acknowledge the dude’s hot, sure if he was into men he’d tap that, probably. But then, why can’t he stop looking at his arched back and smooth ass.
Only at this point does he look to the man’s hat-covered cherubic curls to see that this soft-core smut was posted to his own account. Immediately he starts frantically scrolling to delete it, he hesitates, why shouldn’t he post this? He took it. He wants it, he wants himself to be seen.
Jackson’s towel drops. His perpetually overgrown eyebrows thin as he furrows them, struggling to understand. Recently pumped arms fall to his side as hairy biceps glisten before smoothing and growing lither. Bulky muscle he’s been packing on for years suddenly evaporates before his very eyes.
Pupils twitch as Jackson’s stare shifts to his heavy cock seemingly shrinking away. Watching as his bush trims into a perfectly alluring landing strip, memories of his skincare routine and the countless hours spent waxing, trimming, and lasering away any imperfections fills his mind.
Speaking up, “N-Nate?”, he hears his voice echo higher against the wet tile. He feels his muscular ass softening as his thunder thighs diminish, losing the strength he has long slaved to produce. He smells the bathroom air fill with rosy perfume and fruity exfoliants to replace his usual Axe 5-in-1.
His chest tightens as his usual wide, triangle figure shrinks into a body that’s instead built to be manhandled. Eying his reflection, the twink-to-be tilts his head and wonders what he was ever confused about? He’s only ever stepped into the gym to attain this pert, perfect body.
Lips effortlessly pout as he stares at his boyish face in the mirror, curls spilling from the out of place cowboy hat he didn’t remember throwing on. Must be a photo shoot or something. Dragging his fingers across his thin waist, seeing the soft, supple skin redden, Jack can’t quite remember what he was going to call his roommate about.
No matter. He’s perfectly content to lounge in the mirror for some time yet. Phone erupting with men more than eager to fill his whole, Jackson sees Mike slide into his DMs and grins. Who knows what else tonight might hold~
Trudging through the couple inches of snow towards home, Tommy is decidedly not on his phone. Clearly scared straight by being the one to cause whatever that bizarre derailment to bookclub was, his phone is completely off as he reflects.
Breath misting from his mouth, Tommy replays events in his head but any time the memories stretch past Mike and Arjun’s argument things get fuzzy and his head starts to hurt. “Girl, whatever…” he chides himself and shivers from the cold.
He just needs a break, to take it easy. His boyfriend Noah better not have anything big planned for tonight. Standing outside his door for a moment to collect himself, Tommy takes a deep breath and puts the strange morning behind him.
“Heyyy Noah, how’s it going babe~”
Lying on his back upside down, Noah turns with a smile “Hey sweetie~ Do you think this picture I just posted of us is hot?” Existential dread drills him as, before he can react, he sees his petite boyfriend raise the phone in hand for him to see.
Tommy stares mouth agog at his lover as Noah’s quilted sweater almost drips away off his thin arm. Spreading from the phone his skin underneath pales before the muscle underneath bulges thicker. Noah doesn’t react in the slightest as his forearm creaks longer, muscle throbbing thicker down its length.
Barely concealed by fraying threads, heavy biceps strain the fabric before tearing into the open air, causing him to grunt brusquely. Changes accelerate as they reach his shoulders before launching upward to give his pouty face the cocky stubbled sneer of a circuit gay, Noah tilts his head as his long hair curls shorter. “What’s the problem Tom? Look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
Tommy backs into the door as he sees, opposite the man’s hardening face, his chest widening into two titanic pecs. Clawing at the entrance to their apartment, Tommy feels his heart beating wild in his own chest causing him to look down to find his own top beginning to strain.
“Nonononono! I didn- I didn’t even get onnnugh!” His voice cracks as he struggles to cry, not to cry. He doesn’t even know which. On the couch Noah’s face shifts stoic, placid, as if there’s not a single complex thought in his head.
“Did you not want me to post it?”
Eye twitching, Tommy tries to contain himself, to fight against memories overwriting everything he knows. As he raises an arm he feels the straining green sleeves give way to a meaty bicep, one sun kissed rather than naturally tan.
Jaw clenched from stress as he tries to remember what book they were reading, Tommy feels it burn as his face so smooth that it’s never had even peach fuzz bursts into a chinstrap beard, disconnected from the mustache clinging to his upper lip. Feeling his slicked-back hair flop forward into a middle part, Tommy knows he’s a perfect copy of the face on that screen.
As soon as the realization hits him, as soon as the perma-shaved treasure trail thrusts onto his torso, he wonders why that would ever not be the case? That is a pic of him and Noah at Splash Fest and all. And why would he not want it posted, how else are he and Noah supposed to show off their bodies.
For some reason his blood runs still cold at the idea, but looking down and seeing his pump he shakes off the unease. Feeling his underwear tighten into a jock-strap, he figures it must be because of the cold. It’s just chilly outside, that makes sense. With one last sigh to release tension any memories of their book club and social media cleanses drift away.
“Yeah, yeah. Looks tight baby. Speaking of tight tho..?”
Having paid no attention at all to Tommy as he came to terms by crook, Noah looks up from his phone. “Huh? Oh did you wanna fuck?” Knocking the phone from his hands, Tommy decides how the rest of the night is to go, only pausing once at the start to decide if they’re to film it or not.
Pouting on his couch, Nate is hung up on how he handled the tiff at his book club. But for some reason, every time he recollects it the scene changes? He swore there were four of them. He swore they were all fairly standard looking. But the image in his mind keeps changing.
First Mike bloats into a titan that one would be surprised to learn is literate. Then Tommy, who's usually kind if not inattentive, turns into some vain raver. This is all before the whole thing is interrupted by his roommate, who Nate swears to god should be built! Surely he’d remember if he lived with an OF twink, right?
Memory issues have done little to help him get less worked up about whatever shit was going on with Tommy’s phone. Growing more tense by the moment, the host bites his lip and turns off the TV. He needs to mainline distraction, surely he’s earned a little cheat. Just one hit, right?
He deserves some mind-numbing content like everyone else. And he knows just where to find it. Opening YouTube in search of his favorite vlogger, Nate immediately freezes as he sees a video he apparently uploaded himself?
Clicking on the thumbnail without a thought, Nate sees sandy beaches and sunny skies accompanied by un hombre- uh, a man so hot he can hardly take his eyes off him. Mind instantly absolved of stress, Nate sinks into the couch and lets the man’s narration wash over him.
It’s not long until buttons start popping off his shirt. After laughing about the first couple he takes it off and wonders why he ever put on something so, uh, tan peqeña. Tanning skin slowly spreading up from his tightening waistband, Nate’s fingers happily scratch at the widening treasure trail lancing upwards from his pubes.
“Es, uh? Deseo que… wish I could go there…” as the newly dark hair on his stomach races to connect with his few blonde chest curls, they spread further afield and begin encircling his larger nipples. The dumb smile on his stubbled face twitches as in no time at all his light beard darkens a strand at a time before the whole thing is as dark as the hair in his head.
Feeling his ginger locks thickening, Nate scratches at his head and realizes something is happening. His arm is heavier, his fingers fatter. Instantly turning on the front camera, he gasps as he sees two bulging pecs below a face he doesn’t recognize. At least, not as his own.
Massaging it to inspect every feature closely, every scratch and pull brings it all that much closer to the one from the video. It’s almost as if he’s deliberately noticing things that look less like the man he’s becoming.
“My nariz- ugh. Mi nose.” Leaning in close he sees it grow. “My uh, mis ojos?” Icy blue gives way to rings of dark brown as he blinks. Atop them his nigh invisible brows darken into two dense caterpillars. Rigorous inspection confirms more and more that all es bien. That he is who he always has been and that is El Rey.
Looking down towards his lips he notices how much thicker they are before he realizes they’re still moving. Not only that, they’ve been mouthing along with the video still playing on his phone. “¡Que cara- What the fuck?!” He shouts in now accented English.
Tossing the thing across the room to hopefully end whatever spell must be affecting him, Nate finds himself face to face with a standing mirror that Jackson must have bought some time or another for content. Seeing his body grow to its final form, his mind goes almost totally blank as he sees his strong stomach and even stronger arms.
“Ay! Soy sexy, aren’t I?”
Despite the video being far from his eyes, he and the little Nate in the video flex at the exact same time. Biceps bulging higher and revealing his far hairier pits, Nate laughs as he hears a muffled joke play from his dropped phone. He’s real good at this isn’t he?
Needs to take a trip with Jackson sooner rather than later, he’d hate to disappoint his fanaticos. After all, se merecen el mundo.
Despite it all, the last bastion of their book club remains distracted from his phone. Reading the latest translated volume of Jojo’s, Arjun is so content that he isn’t even thinking about his argument with Michael, or whoever it was even with.
That is, until he turns the last page and closes it. Done with the chapter, he so intensely wants to hit up Tumblr, or Reddit. Or literally anywhere he can find someone to yap with. Scrolling through his contacts to find anyone who’d humor him, he quickly sighs as he sees no one but his fellow book club members online.
Finger twitching towards Tumblr, he figures that if no one else is taking the social media break all that seriously, why should he. By the time he clicks he realizes he doesn’t even know what book club he’s thinking about. Happy to find he’s already logged in, Arjun sees that in fact, he has somehow already made a post.
Some brawny Japanese wrestler he couldn’t begin to name, and yet his manga rotted mind tries nonetheless, “Kare wa? Uh, looks kinda like Baki?” Perhaps Jojo’s being on the mind has him thinking like a weeb cause obviously the man’s no Baki in form, or style.
Pride starts to pump in his chest as the bookish Arjun realizes he knows more about wrestling than he thought he did. Obviously the guy’s a heel, and his body’s built for strength rather than mass-appeal. Shit though I- uh he looks killer though.
Drinking in every inch of exposed skin, Arjun shivers as his Desi tan starts to fade. Skin shifting into a nigh porcelain shade, the muscle just beneath it tightens into anything but. Arjun’s thin, hairy arms immediately send tears through his sleeves as they smooth and bulge into biceps that intense grappling demands.
Rolling his shoulders as traps struggle not to tear apart his shirt’s seams, Arjun grunts as he suddenly sees the world from a vantage an inch higher. Then another, then another. Nervously looking around to see if anyone’s hearing him grunting, he sighs thankful that no one seems to have.
And then, after a beat, he smirks and laughs as realizes he’d far rather the opposite. To show off, to dominate. Blush burning on his face as the cock tightly buried between his legs pushes against his spandex, Arjun shakes his head and wonders what he’s thinking. His promo thirst trap can’t have gotten him that riled up, right?
His uh, his thirst trap? Promo!?
Arjun’s thighs immediately burst into two massive meaty trunks that absolutely do not befit his reedy upper body. Seeing the beyond muscular legs of a wrestler stretching off his seat Arjun, Arj no, Ritsu wonders how they’re so out of place before laughing.
“Hah! Suruhitsuyōgāru-“ he clicks his tongue, he’s been meaning to work on his English more, American audiences need to hear his taunts and all. “I uhh, need to flex off the shirt, yes!” As his upper body is certainly something he’s put more than enough work into.
To point, Ritsu launches into a flex and tears his shoddy top to shreds. Strands of grey fabric fall to the floor as his thin brown chest gives way to the powerful weighty pecs of a Japanese wrestler.
Eyeliner shades his lashes as his nondescript haircut falls into perfectly stylized coifs, almost dripping with sweat. Ritsu goes to put his phone in his pocket before realizing there’s obviously no room in his trunks. Standing with a stretch, the sound of his bones popping and muscles expanding fills the bus before he turns to the driver and winks. “Tanoshin- eh? Hope you enjoy the show, driversan.”
Making no effort to hide the hard bulge in his uniform, Ritsu strides past the driver and into the cold winter air. Not too pleased to be strutting around in his match attire, Ritsu starts sprinting back towards his host’s. Pretty sure that twunk’ll have a change of clothes. If not, mind flickering in between Nate and Jackson, Ritsu’s got a pretty good idea how to burn some time.
And so, across town six phones flicker as their owners become who they always have been. None the wiser as to who they may have once been nor how they became the beyond alluring Adonises they are now, the six men now live to show off. To distract. To dominate. Going about living as if they were designed to catch eyes, the book club-no-more are all the happier to do just that. Catching eyes, amassing click, and convincing their ever growing audiences to keep scrolling.
Obsessed with a man he's lucky to still get the time of day from, Xavier tries a Hail Mary love potion only to become the brainless man of Felix's dreams.
Classiccc love potion TF with a slight emphasis on Xavier's dumbing down! Hope you enjoy his obsessive trek towards a simpler, hairier life! -Occam
Workplace friends probably does a good enough job at summing up their relationship. They were the briefest of flings turned simple coworkers once more. Sure probably closer than anyone else, but as Xavier watches Felix wander around their small office making sure everyone’s cheery, he can’t help but crave something more.
If he could spend his whole life observing, talking to, being with Felix- Well, he could scarcely think of anything more preferable. He’d love to have the man under a microscope if not in bed next to him, Xavier yearns to know what makes him tick, if only to enjoy his presence all the more.
Such intimacy is not necessary for Xavier to admit that to him, Felix is absolutely the perfect package. From the moment Xavier saw him he could hardly contain his crush. After spending time with him enough to learn that he is also charming, intelligent, and, in a more shallow vein, rich- well how could Xavier ever resist!
The only thing is, as is often the most pressing dilemma in one-sided relationships, it that the relationship is now starkly one-sided. In their brief trial relationship Felix was quick to break it off. They’re just not all that compatible, he said. Xavier told himself he’s just not enough. But given time, given resources, perhaps he could be.
Harkening back to his undergrad days, Xavier staves off sulking as he remembers his college roommate, and, more pressingly, the memory of what happened to him long repressed. Jeremy was a lifelong Longhorn Basketball fan, grew up obsessed and wanted more than anything to be on the team. Being 5’2” and asthmatic, there was never any actual possibility there and by the time he was accepted to the school any hope that he’d have a miraculous growth spurt had long since faded.
That is, until a true miracle presented itself. Thinking back, Xavier can’t believe he forgot this. All this time he couldn’t make sense why he was friends with a professional basketball player, why it took Jeremy who seemed outright made to play basketball two years to join the team. Because before Jeremy was the six four miracle for the team, he was a dweeby fanboy.
And now just in time, as if delivered into his mind when he needs it most, Xavier remembers the small hole in the wall shop Jeremy visited before his drastic change. Unable to wait even a second longer, Xavier takes an early lunch and sprints the few downtown blocks to a small hovel crammed between two bars- designed to totally escape one’s notice until it demands your entry.
Obeying his desires and ignoring the sinister crackle of air changing as he steps inside, Xavier’s mouth falls open as he inspects the strange colorful jars and arcane tchotchkes that fill the ostentatious suite. Normally he’s averse to browsing, but his curiosity burns with an intensity that’s not to be sated. Reaching for a small snowglobe, Xavier’s delighted watching its flakes spinning up as his hand nears. Just before Xavier can touch it though, he feels his neck turned for him to see what can only be described as a witch.
Small, wrinkled, and grinning, she holds forth a small bottle and without a thought Xavier sprints past incomprehensible artifacts and grabs it from her hand. The witch’s words wander into his mind without her opening her mouth. ‘Twill make ye into the perfect man for wee Felix. Put some thought inta what that means fore ye never do so ‘gian’
The sentiment just as quickly flies through his other ear as he feels himself propelled out of the store. Back on the street Xavier turns to find a blank alley wall. One brick dislodges and for a brief moment he hears the cackling voice for a final time, ‘Ai! And do take care o’ cross contamination an’ the like Ta! Ah haha ha!’
Narrowing his eyes as the brick relays itself, Xavier plans to write the whole thing off as a manic episode before he feels the small vial in his hands. Looking closely at the rosy glass he sees Philter of Longing inscribed upon it. Stowing it in his pocket, he checks his watch to see how much time has passed and, with a gasp, he starts his brisk walk back to work.
Returning to his desk, Xavier spritzes himself with cologne he always uses to fish out a compliment from Felix before sitting with a sigh. Potion burning a hole in his pocket, he can wait no longer. Wrenching it free, he ravenously pours the elixir on his tongue and swallows. So preoccupied by its strange taste, Xavier doesn’t spare a thought towards proper usage of this impossible magic, ethically or otherwise.
Mouth puckering with intense acidity, it burns as he chokes it down with a grunt. He swears he can feel it land in his empty stomach, and as soon as it does his arms bristle with goosebumps as his heart races. Suddenly on edge, he jumps out of his seat when Felix stands and leans on his cubicle.
“Hey Zayyyy~ you smell great!” Heeheehee~ Xavier struggles to stop a grin from showing as he puts his arms behind his head. Looking up at Felix peacefully smiling, he wonders if he should try and figure out what kinda hottie he’s going to become. Mind buzzing more with every passing second, subtlety isn’t an option as Xavier opens his mouth.
“Sooo, uh- I know we promised not to talk guys since- well you know.” Felix waits for the other shoe to drop, “But! But! I was just thinking there’s uhh, there’s a guy! Yeah I want to set you up with someone but I’m not sure if he’s your type.”
Despite himself, Felix blushes. Looking bashfully away, he misses the slight fistpump Xavier does to celebrate his real masterwork deception.
“Well, I would say I don’t really have a type y’know. It’s just kinda there or it’s not if that makes sense.” Keeping as stoic an expression as he can, Xavier tries not to take that as an insult, “But I mean, if you’re twisting my arm about it~ Well who isn’t into a bit of beef, like, a himbo if you know what that is?”
Nodding slowly Xavier gets that, big muscly guys what’s not to like. Not forgetting the philtir still bubbling in his stomach he lets a smirk show, he certainly wouldn’t mind gaining a few pounds. His thin arms are completely obscured by his shirt as he flexes. “No wonder we didn’t work out then, you know I like to stay trim heh!”
Paying his joke no mind, Felix slowly nods, “Y’know, kinda? I think it’s more of a personality thing though. I can get stuck in my head a lot so it’d be nice to be with someone who’s less of a thinker. Does that make sense?”
Felix can almost see the ellipses appear over Xavier’s head as he narrows his eyes in thought and judgement, “You wanna date an idiot?”
“That’s- well I mean, kinda yeah? What’s the deal with your guy then?”
“My guy?”
“Ugh! Xavier! You didn’t want to set me up, you just- Whatever girl, I’m going to lunch.”
Perking up, Xavier feels somehow even more pulled to follow his work-crush than usual. “Oh sweet, I’m starvinggg can I come?” Bolting up he finds his forehead bumped by Felix’s hand as his coworker pushes him back into his office chair.
“Zay? You just got back from lunch, did you not eat?”
“Oh shit, yeah I uh, went to the uh, pharmacy? Yeah.”
“Hmmmm… Well I guess I can grab you something, even though you’re being a little ass today~” Felix’s generally touchy feely so reaching out to ruffle Xavier’s hair isn’t out of the ordinary, but as his fingers connect he can’t help but notice something feels different between them. Patting him once on the head, he briefly inspects the man staring at him a little more longingly than he’s comfortable with.
Turning before he sends any mixed signals, out of sight Felix can’t help but think that Xavier does look a little more attractive than usual? His clothes are sitting better, almost like he’s filling them out more? Whatever, clock’s on and it’s time to go grab, for himself and Xavier apparently, something to eat. “Oh! And do finish that report if you could Zay babe, I’ll have a look when I’m back! See ya~”
And with that there’s a Felix shaped hole distracting Xavier from his work. Having begun sweating as soon as he drank the philter, sitting at his desk he feels the all-encompassing heat continuing to rise. Pulling at his collar, Xavier accidentally pops a button off sending a wafting wave of b.o. into his face. “Bwoof-”
Looking down, Xavier finds two impossible to miss stains in his pits. Wandering away from his desk to ensure their boss isn’t in, Xavier lets loose a sigh of relief as he rushes to change into something a little breathier. Yanking out a change of clothes he keeps in case he ever decides to go to the gym, Xavier feels the button up strain and he smirks. Who needs the gym.
Sure that there’s no downside as his feet are suddenly pinched by dress shoes, Xavier stumbles into the bathroom and locks the door. Squeezes his thicker arms free from his shirt, he laughs at just how much his body has changed. Checking out his sharper jaw as his hair darkens and flops longer, Xavier almost forgets where he is and reaches down to start masturbating.
Shaking out of his most primal urge, Xavier settles on just posing in the mirror and checking out his new bod. Experiencing what it’s like to truly be proud of the man in the mirror, his excitement at bulging biceps rapidly becomes cockiness. Who can blame him, he’s already so much hotter. Time flies as he delights in the muscle amassing more onto his upper body with each grunting flex.
Kicking off his shoes as they approach two sizes larger, his eyes trail up his thicker legs. Making a note of the thicker hair beginning to coat them, Xavier rubs his burning hot thighs as they already begin to strain his new shorts. “Fucccckk~” There’s some distinct vocal fry in his voice as his fingers trail across every growing muscle.
Tickling the rows of abs carving into his stomach and grasping at pecs beginning to form, it’s unclear how long this new outfit is going to last on his growing form. Putting off further inspection of his body as he feels ass suddenly expand enough to compete with the bulge growing larger in front, Xavier leans in close to the mirror to inspect his changing face.
Obviously he knew he’d be more handsome in some vague sense but it’s truly bizarre to see his face irrevocably change. Pores shrinking as his jaw squares and his darkening hairline reclaims half an inch of forehead, Xavier feels sideburns and other stubble prickling on his cheeks and chin. Before he can truly revel in new facial hair though, he makes eye contact with his mirror-self and gasps.
Sea blue irises lose their lustre as from the pupil outward crystalline brown speckles begin to overtake their watery blue. Drying up as they do so, Xavier can’t help but blink. By the third the blue eyes he had always adored are completely gone. Beyond the superficial color though, there’s a dullness beginning to creep in. Upper eyelids slightly droopier, his resting expressions slightly more placid. The light behind his eyes dimmer
When someone knocks on the door he clears his throat and shoots out a “One sec!” Adjusting his package as he hears his rougher voice, Xavier shoots one last pose at the mirror, apathetic to how his midriff is already exposed. Scratching pubes growing up into a treasure trail on his way out of the bathroom, the impatient accountant outside can hardly recognize him.
Scoffing at the boor abandoning dress code, when the mousy man enters the bathroom to find clothes discarded and an aura of pervasive musk he can hardly believe himself. Turning back to confront the man trodding down the hallway he finds Xavier already gone, sweaty footprints in his wake.
The busybody’s lip twitches as he whines, “I can’t believe someone so thoughtless works here!” Already drafting a complaint to HR, when Xavier returns to his desk it is increasingly clear that tidiness shall not be his only barrier to continued employment.
“Oh Shit!” Losing track of time yet again, Xavier falls into his office chair and frantically boots up his computer. Staying strong, he ignores the sound of the chair creaking under his new weight as he takes a minute to adjust to his new palm size. Clumsier fingers eventually log in just before he’s locked out of his account for good.
Face to face with his desktop, he groans mindlessly for a moment before tabbing over to Teams and opening the report sent to him. Should be a cake walk, the easiest thing in the world. Scrolling up and down the document, Xavier can scarcely remember where to start. Eyes glaze over as he tries to read a cell. Thoughts slow as he tries to even remember what each column stands for without scrolling to the top to remind himself.
“God what’suh- Where do I..?”
Squinting, his confusion rapidly begins to grow into a headache as formulae and procedures begin to almost dissolve from his memory. The bright screen burns his darker, duller eyes as he stares blankly at the first hurdle. He knows how to do this, he swears. He’s done it hundreds, no, thousands of times. Basically the expert! Basically the fuckin’ uhhh king! Yeah!
Hands have a hard time staying on the keyboard as his throbbing bulge strains against underwear that certainly did not grow with him. Across his body whatever hair continues to flourish and prickle darkens even further as his fatter fingers play with the thickening pubes masquerading as a treasure trail.
Desperate to sneak a peak, Xavier looks away from that shitty stupid-hard report to inspect something harder. Having to actually lean to look past the new pecs still twitching larger on chest, Xavier feels his cock strain his pants even further. Stubble on his chin surges into a beard and as it scratches his neck he delights to a degree that he almost loses himself altogether.
Moaning out a “fuccckkk~” in his new baritone, Xavier sucks up drool he didn’t know he was spilling as his hips almost reflexively gyrate in his creaking seat. Reaching down, he pulls up a shirt to expose his hardening body before biting his lip at the mind numbing sight. If only Felix could see him now. The idea sends a shiver down his spine as he expands in every direction at the thought.
Rubbing his built abs with a meaty guffaw, he almost falls back in his chair when he realizes Felix can see him! He’s just gotta send a pic! Laughing at his brainfog, his smirk fades a little as he realizes how much acuity he’s losing. As if he’d possibly be able to remember what acuity even means.
Glee returns easily enough as he snaps a few thirst traps to send over to Felix. He simply can’t get over how good he looks. Staring at just how thick his bicep and pecs are, Xavier just keeps looping the live picture to see the muscle fibres twitch as he presses the button. With each repeat the eyes watching lose even more lustre.
The already hopeless report fades from his mind as the memory of ever doing analysis of any kind becomes anathe- far too complicated for his increasingly rudimentary mind. As it stands however, the task does not simply disappear and after yet again reminding himself that he can’t just masturbate at his desk, he looks up just in time to see his monitor fade to black. His computer going to sleep,
“Fuck!” he shouts far too loudly.
Racing back to the keyboard he slams a few keys to try and wake it up in vain. This is chill, it’s okay. He’s just gotta, he’s just gotta remember his log in. And then he’ll remember how to file or do whatever he has to do for Felix. And then Felix will be so proud of him!
The idea fills him with warmth as if it were the only thing in the world, making Felix proud. When the thought of what follows that fills him his cock finally strains his underwear to its breaking points. Clenching his jaw he barely avoids tearing off his pants. Gotta focus. For Felix.
Pastword “Ah shit, typoed” password “Wait no, that wouldn’t be my…” Xavier123 “no… not that… Oh!” Felix123! “Shit…”
One attempt remaining.
Xavier wracks his brain, pulls out all the stops, desperately tries to remember what he could’ve possibly put as his password. Taking a few deep breaths, Xavier finds himself breathing solely through his mouth now, as if he ever knew any different. Staring at the warning message on his screen, at last the idea comes to him and he starts to enter what simply must be his password
In the end it doesn’t matter what thoroughly calculated password he summoned forth. As soon as he starts rushing to type, still unaccustomed to his heavier hands, he fatfingers the enter key trying to hit shift and is met with a damning message to contact his server administrator. Not like it matters now of course, he can’t remember who that even is, or what a server adminwhatever would even do.
Allowing the screen fade back to black once more, Xavier is met with his chiseled bearded face atop a thick neck and thicker shoulders. Seeing dense, dark curls of chest hair creeping up his neck, feeling even widespread patches race down his massive thighs and across his wide feet, Xavier sighs.
Wondering what he’s going to tell Felix upon his return, Xavier tries to get the gears rolling on an excuse. But after trying for half a second to think of a defense he throws in the towel. His pupils quiver as he realizes just how much his mind has dulled. A second longer spent thinking about it makes him wonder what he even has to make an excuse about, did Felix ask him to do something?
Feeling his chest pang as Felix returns to the forefront of his mind, he can’t find it within himself to be concerned with the increasing vacancies in his too-busy brain. With a sigh he feels the blissful veil of ignorance stretch deeper than he thought anything rightly could. Thoughtless grin on his face, the Xavier who greedily wandered into that shop for a ticket to convince Felix to date him is no more.
In his place is a half-dressed, sweaty, hairy man struggling to get too-tight socks off as he hears Felix return to the office. Turning around like a leaf to the sun, Xavier’s eyes alight with simple ecstasy. “Felix~ You’re back~” His baritone dances even more than it did when he was a tenor, his joy apparent with every crest and fall.
Looking upon the brute of a man getting his sweat all over Xavier’s chair, Felix is of two minds. The first and most reasonable telling him to call security regarding the half-nude intruder. But, staring in shock at the man, seeing the innocence in his eyes, how he hangs on to Felix’s every movement, Felix blushes as he realizes just how predominant Id is within one’s mind.
“Hey, hi, uhm sir? Have you seen someone named Xavier around?”
Nodding and rushing over, Xavier’s face somehow lights up even more, “Yeah! Felix, it’s me! I’m better, you like me now, right?!”
Mind going a mile a minute, Felix can’t make heads or tails, and the cock growing harder in his pants is doing nothing to help. It can’t be him, right? Taking a deep breath to think, Felix’s lungs are flooded with a fraction of the musk radiating off Xavier. Head so close to the man’s pits, it’s a wonder he’s still standing.
Eyes nearly as glazed over as Xavier’s now always are, Felix puts all conscious thought on hold as his mouth falls ajar, wanting more than anything to feel Xavier’s lips on his own. Needier than ever, he’s happy to comply. Leaning down he kisses Felix and feels more pleasure than he can fathom.
Half-cumming already, he rears back as an echo resounds in his empty skull, magically dumbed down for his simpler mind ‘careful about yer cooties ye plonker!’ Xavier isn’t quite sure what a plonker is but looking down at Felix he quickly wipes his lips on his glistening arm. Too little too late as the witch’s spell has consequences well beyond what she’d intended.
Tail suddenly between his legs, Xavier starts to whine out an explanation of the second hand dose Felix must have just received. Racing through his increasingly spotty memory of the last hour in a bit, struggling often due to his still-shrinking vocab and faculties, Xavier leaves Felix agog and stunned. After a bit he looks up tilting his head, “Well I mean if it just makes me your perfect match, then I shouldn’t change all that much right?”
Nodding excitedly, gladder than anything that Felix is exercising grace regarding trying to manipulate him with magic. Dread fills his eyes as Felix’s sun-kissed blond begins to darken and his jaw begins to shadow with stubble. “What? Something on my face?”
At the sound of shirt sleeves struggling to contain his biceps, Felix realizes what’s going on and takes control of the situation. Ushering his apparent perfect lover out the door and into his car, he has Xavier draft an email to their boss which he must rewrite from scratch, even as his body creaks and cracks amassing strength.
Racing home, often having to adjust his hands on the wheel due to lengthening arms and spasming biceps, Felix ushers Xavier in to inspect his apparently new body. Suffice to say, he’s certainly not disappointed by his wider chest and heavier package. Turning to Xavier whose eyes have scarce left Felix since he returned from lunch, well Felix can scarcely think of a better test run for his new robust self.
It doesn’t take long for the pair to settle into their new bodies, their new lives. Xavier is ever content as long as he’s by Felix’s side, it’s what he was made for after all. For his part Felix is quite pleased with his new muscular form, clearly influenced by Xavier getting off on his own changes under the effects of the Philter of Longing.
Speaking of, Felix bears no ill will to his new liver, it was after all an action taken by a different man, one not nearly to his taste as his new brainless eye-candy. Checking himself out in the mirror, as he does often, Felix can’t imagine things turning out any better.
Bit of a dour note, but I'm going to be putting this blog on a bit of a hiatus in the new year. Glad to have provided some degree of enjoyment and relief over the past couple years through my little stories, but given how anal I've been about consistency the blog's become a bit of an unmanageable time sink in a world where I need money to live.
Saying that I've got three more stories ready to be published for the next few weeks ! After them it'll probably be quite some time before you see anything new, but I'll still be puttering around as a reader !
In my absence I encourage anyone looking to give writing smut a go to reach out. As ever, I'm happy to lend a hand and there's no better time to try something new than the present !
Joey and Ibrahim think they know each other's deal. Needy twink and macho jerk. After hooking up goes wrong, they're pent up and the only thing that can get them off is the other. Thinking back, did Ibrahim always look so neat? And surely Joey didn't arrive unshaved?
Ending 2025 with my favorite type of story, one where a manly jerk femmes up and an acerbic twink gets hairy and buff. Hope you enjoy this last two for one TF of the year! -Occam
“I just think y’all would be so good together babe.”
Joey’s coworker Salome had long been trying to set him up with her brother, Ibrahim. Sure, he was absolutely a hunk. Without a doubt would he be the hottest man Joey’s slept with, but even from pictures Joey could tell they weren’t compatible. He holds back from calling him out as the DL bro he surely is as Salome continues, “Rami just needs to meet the right man…”
Social media accounts chock-full of gym pics, each with its own uniquely obnoxious caption about grinding to be an alpha, Joey’s fairly confident they’re not to be a match made in heaven. Having dealt with a homophobic top or two in his time, the sex is usually pretty food. Twinkle in his eye, the twink feels he’s due for a reup and despite Salome swearing her brother’s looking for a partner, Joey works on the assumption that Ibrahim just wants to hookup.
An assumption well made, it turns out, Joey arrives at Ibrahim’s doorstep and the man greets him with a grunt. Ushering the smaller man into his messy apartment, he thinks about waving away the trail of fruity cologne left in Joey’s wake before deciding it smells enough like perfume for Ibrahim to maintain his hard-fought reputation.
Doing what little snooping he can as Ibrahim contemplates at the door, Joey confirms every suspicion he had about Salome’s brother. Undecorated den smattered with some dirty laundry and unwashed dishes, this is by all accounts the home of a bachelor who at least presents as performatively straight. Rolling his eyes, Joey turns from the frankly gross interior to bump directly into Ibrahim’s unwashed chest.
Looking down at the twink his sister’s been long trying to set him up with, Ibrahim struggles to not insult the man’s femininity. Though, while his mind may be struggling, his body certainly has no problem with making its need known as his tenting gym shorts do little to hide the increasingly frequent twitches of his cock growing turgid.
Trying to pretend he’s not blushing as he adjusts the shorts from discomfort more than shame he clears his throat to get Joey to give him some room. Apologizing as he steps away, Joey speaks up first, “Ah, sorry Rami. I- Uhm? Salome’s told me so much about you!” Ibrahim immediately bristles at hearing the name Rami. Emasculating.
Grimacing down at the twink he lowers his voice and basically sneers, “It’s Ibrahim. Don’t act like we’re the same bi-” Salome’s voice echoes in his head as he sees Joey’s eyes widen in surprise. You treat him nice, I swear if you don’t have a date for my wedding baba’s going to kill you! Biting his tongue as Joey similarly holds back a scoff, Ibrahim gestures past the stack of dirty dishes in his sink. “Ugh, no. Shit, That’s- Sorry. Do you need anything to drink, or?”
Having lost count of red flags and strikes already, Joey’s ready to go on the offensive. Sorry Salome but something in Joey’s starting to take over and not going to let a man walk over him no matter how hot it’d be. “You should really clean your apartment when you’re having a guy over.”
Stepping back in surprise, Ibrahim would be lying if being insulted by the twink wasn’t a little hot. “Heh. First I’m hearing it’s a problem. Usually makes bottoms just want to open their legs more.” Closing the distance back with Joey, Ibrahim tries to act like he’s not flexing in the smaller man’s face.
Arms crossed, Joey only feels more driven to challenge the man as Ibrahim’s sweaty gym-bro content flickers through his mind. Initially planning for an in-and-out hook up himself, Joey feels the growing instinct to leave Ibrahim high, dry, and horny. “Oh? You just want me to open my legs huh?” thin fingers trail across Ibrahimm’s thick chest, dragging listlessly through the hair.
“I mean… Yeah? Not like fags got anything else goin’ on in thier heads when they see me.” As soon as he says that he flinches knowing he’s going to get a lecture from Salome, but Joey doesn’t even seem to react.
“Well there, Rami. I’d say if what makes one a fag is how much they’re thinking about fucking a man, well~ You’ve got me quite beat at the moment, hm?” His eyes narrow as he flicks one of Ibrahim’s hard nipples and feels the man’s cock throb into his thin waist.
“Wh- what’s you’re fuckin’ problem!? Uggh.” Tightening his jaw as he feels pre start to soak into his underwear, Ibrahim for the first time reaches out to touch Joey. Assuming this is just foreplay, he can hardly focus on anything as the smooth pale skin graces his rough palms.
Forcing back a grin as he pulls away, Joey doesn’t know what he’s doing as he pulls away and turns to taunt him, “You know? I think I’m good actually? This whole gym bro thing just isn’t doing it for me.” Gesturing to the man’s impossibly impressive body, the only thing hotter to Joey is the look of disbelief on his bearded face.
Ibrahim stumbles forward, fighting back moans as his cock rubs against his tight shorts, “Oh like you’re s- such a prize, bi- bitch… I’ll have another twink drooling over my- my cock the second you step out the door…”
Driven by forces outside of his own mind, Joey smirks as he leaves Ibrahim’s apartment. “Guess we’ll just have to see about that hun, tata now~” Waving goodbye as the door closes behind him, Joey looks down to find his own cock harder than it’s ever been before.
Panting, the twink stumbles out of the complex and struggles to walk the few blocks home. Distracted as he tries to understand what drove him to do that to Ibrahim, when he imagines the masc man’s needy face he has the answer loud and clear. Walking with a limp that can only mean one thing, Joey initially hastens his pace before a stray thought begins to pop up: let them look. So what? Why hide his fuckin’ manhood. Shocked at the idea, he makes it home and falls into his apartment just in time.
Back at his own unfortunately empty apartment, Ibrahim’s anxiously scrolling through Grindr trying to find someone willing to drop everything and head over. Like he said, usually it’s the easiest task in the world to allure someone over to suck his cock. But it’s like all the oxygen in his mind has been sucked to his still throbbing cock. He’s off his game. Tossing his phone away he stares at hie boner as he lets it free from his shorts.
It’s refusing to soften even after Joey’s long gone. He just keeps going back to that feeling of his cold hands clawing at his chest hair. The look of judgement, of disdain on Joey’s face as he appraised his apartment, at his ego. When at last he lingers too long on the twink’s image, his meaty palms have no choice but to tear away at his shorts and start masturbating.
At exactly the same time, Joey falls to the floor and starts rutting onto the cold tile. Ass in the air, the twink moans as he sees the brawny man in his mind- only? He would’ve sworn he looks a little frailer, like there’s a little less mass on his bones. With every thrust back into his waiting hand, the Ibrahim in Joey’s mind has less body hair, and even more need on his face.
Likewise, in Ibrahim’s horny imagination, Joey’s hand reaches up from cupping his pecs to instead grasp at his neck. Feeling it tighten, Ibrahim chokes out a grunt as he sees the twink’s face shift into a sneer. Expression hardening, he swears he sees the pale, thin arm bulge with new strength as the fem-top he had on tears from a flat chest bulking into pecs.
Watching as their hook-up, their opponent, continues to transform both men near their breaking point. Ibrahim’s mouth waters as Joey’s cock thickens enough to tear his jock asunder. Joey laughs as Rami’s waist thins, his back arches. And then they cry out as at exactly the same time they lose control, spewing their loads. Joey staining the cold tile with his seed while Ibrahim coats his furry chest.
Chests heaving as they feel the weight of the ecstasy they both unleashed, both men can’t spare a thought but for the other. Eyelids slip closed and for a moment there is nothing in the world save each other. Ibrahim sees Joey as cum soaks into his chest and he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have such smooth skin. Joey sees Rami’s pendulous cock and feels his hand on his hairless shaft, longing for something to grab.
And then they awaken.
Coming to his senses first, Ibrahim awakens to a cum-splattered chest. Pinching the bridge of his nose as he groans about the crust in his chest hair, Ibrahim does a doubletake and realizes there is not nearly as much hair covering his chest as there should be. Reaching to wipe it off, he suddenly feels squeamish like he rarely does.
“Whatever.” Standing up with a grunt, Ibrahim saunters over to the bathroom, paying no mind to how his arms and legs feel a little drained. It’s as if he hasn’t been to the gym in a week or two. Turning the light on to see his reflection, Ibrahim finds it is not just a feeling. While he retains bulk and visible strength, it’s obvious that he is not nearly as vascular as he should be. As he has been.
Beyond that, the thick hair he’s always been proud of seems to have almost vanished overnight. The jungle of curls that hid his meaty pecs and thicketed his hairy ass has up and gone overnight. Worse than that, as he stares in shock at his, to his mind, lessened form, his hands aimlessly reach for a razor which he tosses to the floor as soon as he realizes what he’s doing.
Breathing heavily, his shaky hands can’t help rub what remains of his soft pecs. Feeling their still impressive weight, as his noticeably thinner palms feel the supple skin he can’t help but let his mind drift to Joey. Eyes slightly fogging over he lets out a moan as he imagines being dominated by- “Aah~”
The sound of his voice cracking higher stuns him back to his senses, but does not free him from the all encompassing need. Knowing he needs to assert himself over that bitch he scrolls through his phone for a thirst trap to send. Photos in his library are suddenly more curated, more crafted than they used to be. Landing on one with soft light he’d never deign to use before now, Ibrahim sends a thirst trap to the twink, smirking, he imagines how Joey’ll come crawling back to him any moment.
Afterwards he tosses his phone in the bag and heads to the gym. Desperate to make up for his apparent lost gains, he doesn’t spend a second to wonder why Joey’s still on his mind. But he’s certainly not leaving. As he throws on a pump cover he at first is nervous at being seen as lesser by his usual bros, and then he frets that Joey might see him in this state.
Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt
Still snoring on the floor Joey awakes to Ibrahim’s text. While the gym bro had found himself with waning strength, the twink wakes up feeling, more or less, hungover. Squinting at the bright screen, he palms a larger package, hard with morning wood and sticky with cum.
Reflexively, Joey almost laughs at the situation he’s found himself in before shaking off the stupor and grimacing at the mess he’s made. Stumbling to his feet, he tells himself he’s off to clean it but as soon as he’s stepped away he forgets the mess is there.
Looking around his apartment, Joey tries to remember his usual morning routine but continually comes up blank. There’s a distracting musky stink in the air, one he’s sure is due to his being unable to freshen up from last night, but with every breath he’s less sure that he minds the odor.
Giving it a good sniff, he follows the scent to its root and finds his head stuffed in his pit. Grinning as his waxed pits have somehow flourished overnight, he scoffs at performing such bestial behavior. What’s gotten into him!? He’s almost acting like-
Ibrahim. Wait, should he reply with a pic too? Ignoring the texts from Salome asking how the ‘date’ went, Joey lays back on his couch and takes a quick pic to bait that horndog. Smirking, he feels a quiver in his stomach as he sees the slightly thicker bicep and the few blonde strands flying free. He doesn’t remember putting on a few pounds, but it looks good. Real good.
Scratching a treasure trail prickling at his tank top. Joey groans as everything in his apartment is suddenly leaving him unfathomably bored. Much like Ibrahim to him, Joey suddenly can’t remove the brute from his mind. Joey wonders what he’s doing right now, and as if the answer was beamed into his head, Joey feels a rising drive to hit up the gym himself.
Tapping his foot with pent-up energy, Joey side-eyes a neglected gym bag left by a long forgotten ex. Well, it’s never too late to pick up a good habit huh? Neglecting to grab deodorant, do his morning facial cleanse, or even wipe the cum staining his door mat, Joey departs; His mind suddenly set on growing into a man who can finally put Ibrahim in his place.
From the second they lay eyes upon each other at the gym, it becomes clear that they have no reason to be here besides observing their other. For Joey to perform, for Ibrahim to gawk. Never do the pair go a minute without a thorough inspection of their rival. Ibrahim watches as Joey puffs up his chest after working up a sweat on a machine.
Unable to take his eyes off the should-be twink as he sits on a bench and starts to flex at his reflection, Ibrahim’s mouth almost begins to water when he sees the bush of pit hair unveiled as his bicep peaks higher with every grunting flex. Hungrily staring at Joey's face as stubble starts to prickles across his upper lip and jawline, Ibrahim tilts his head as the man Salome always described as a neat freak suddenly frowns and reaches to take his shoe off in the gym.
It’s a wonder he doesn’t turn to stare at Ibrahim as the needy man blatantly gasps, covering his mouth from shock as he watches Joey take a deep sniff of a clearly holey sock before raising his sole towards the mirror and displaying a thick foot that’s far too large to ever fit in the measly size nines Joey walked in wearing.
The only thing that could possibly distract Ibrahim from the foot-forward display is what’s immediately next to it. Impossible to miss in Joey’s stained sweatpants is a bulge thicker than a man of his size could possibly be able to handle. He tries to remember some bro talking about how twinks always have the longest cocks, but looking back to Joey he isn’t even sure why that thought even reared its head. After all, Joey’s certainly not a twink, right?
Ibrahim’s mouth dries as he looks up to see Joey staring at him through the mirror. Stepping off the machine, not caring enough to wipe it down, every step closer to Ibrahim strains his sweatpants and tank more. If Ibrahim didn’t know any better he’d swear Joey was getting taller, thicker with every step.
By the time he arrives and squares up with Ibrahim, with Rami, the tank top reveals more than a few inches of a thick treasure trail racing up his new abs. Barely hidden through the straining tank are the new curls crossing his thickening pecs, headlined by the two wise nipples swirling with hair.
His voice crackles and his neck thickens as he croons down to Ibrahim, new callouses on his hand scraping Ibrahim’s jaw as he forces the suddenly meek man to make eye contact. “Like what ya see Rami?”
Of course, Joey knew Ibrahim had been closely watching him the whole time. It only drove him to work out even harder. Watching as the once-jock’s mouth watered while Joey got a pump at the free weights, drinking in his adoration, confident that the clearly smaller man stared at his ass as he jogged.
Obviously whatever’s going on wasn’t his doing, and any time the idea even occurs to him that something strange is afoot, the thought pushes itself further and further away. What is ever clear to him is that with every rep, every set, every new machine, he’s becoming that much more powerful than Ibrahim. More masculine. More dominant.
Double-checking the man’s needy eyes in between exercises, Joey’s shocked to see his jaw suddenly smooth. Nearly all his facial hair gone, as if it were never there. It’s almost surprising as the performative doe eyes that Ibrahim continues to do every time Joey catches him staring. It almost drives Joe to call him out as pathetic, if only he didn’t take advantage of the interludes to stare at Ibrahim’s thinning waist and shrinking ass.
When he first arrived he was sure that Ibrahim had more mass than this, more mass than him- or at least, that they were on the same playing field. But looking back at the man’s pouty lips and thin legs he knows that obviously can’t be the case, I mean look at him. An action that Joe continues to do, yearning for his thick ass and bony hips he can grab like handles.
While the burgeoning jock stares at a shrinking man he can see as little more than the perfect meat to fuck, Ibrahim begins to have a drastically different understanding of himself. Sure that he once built his body for strength, maintained his form to become the epitome of masculinity, when he looks in the mirror he can see nothing of the sort. Now he sees a body purely constructed for the male gaze- or rather for the gaze of one man.
Gulping as Joe makes his way over, when the man’s baritone reaches Rami’s ears, he shivers and shrinks even further. Skin tightens as he seems almost more youthful despite not losing a second of time. Hair lengthens and curls as he stares into Joe’s eyes, challenging him in a way that Joe has little recourse but to desire him even more.
“Could ask you the same thing Joey?”
Clicking his teeth, the new tank’s grip tightens on Rami’s jaw as his own patterns with a thick stubble that will never leave. “You know it’s Joe.”
“Whoops~”
Face burning with blush, Joe makes sure there are no other men around before whispering into Rami’s ear. “Meet me at my car in ten, promise we’ll drive somewhere this time and not just fuck in there.”
Rami watches as the new stud just up and leaves. Slightly annoyed at how little thought was put into his desires, he can’t deny the idea is more than alluring enough to trap him in that filthy car. He can’t pinpoint what it is about that asshole that keeps getting him to come back, but he knows that he’s got Joe wrapped around his finger just as tight. Unwilling to leave the gym without freshening up, Rami’s content to leave him waiting a few minutes longer.
Both getting on with it, Joe tries to quiet his pent up blue balls as he waits for that prissy bottom to arrive. Rami takes his time with a facial cleanse and ensures his cologne and perfume are layered just so. It’s as if they always know just how to push the other’s buttons, like they have preternatural insight into each other's minds. But that’s not it of course, they just fuck, often.
Set up by Joe’s coworker and Rami’s sister, the pair have their ups and downs but rarely go a week without a steamy hookup. As is to be the case today after a thorough session at the gym, in Joe’s car despite his promises. Rami acts like he hates it, but something in the back of his mind finds the filth hotter than he can imagine.
Fastidious neatfreak Trent can't believe people are actually into Pits. After being badgered by a coworker and dipping his toe in the water, the accountant sees the light on the way towards being a musky dom whose pits no one can deny.
Musky, hairy, bottom to dom TF! Hope you enjoy Trent stuffing his head in his own pit before becoming a man who can't live without forcing twinks to do the same! -Occam
Trent guesses he missed the boat. Pits are just kinda gross, surely he’s not alone in thinking so. For the longest time he just thought it was some kind of an in-joke. OF models and other thirst-trappers would post some clearly comedic pit-forward pic, the comments would go crazy, the models would get more views and more traction. Obviously people aren’t actually into musk- eugh.
It wasn’t until he started chatting about what he’s into with a coworker that his bubble finally burst and he realized just how truly real pit fiends are. Backed into a corner and more than a little icked by the idea of playing with some dude’s pit hair, Trent is doing his best to leave the conversation.
“Shut up! Trent. You’re telling me you’ve never even been a little turned on by your boyfriend’s b.o.”
Squirming at the idea, the fussy accountant tries to shrug but can’t hold back a full body shiver, “Ugh- no? I mean, it’s just like basic hygiene right? I- It’s normal to want a man to not stink when you’re in bed with him?” Trent’s coworker stares at him like he just spoke in tongues.
“Girl! But you’re a bottom! Don’t you want your men to like~ actually be men!?” Trent’s dating history flashes before his eyes, seeing a parade of milquetoast, almost hairless men he does wonder if his coworker has a point. Flickering back to a memory of the one time he dated above his station with a twunky jock, Trent recalls in great detail how their situationship quickly blew up after he complained about how he always smelled like ass coming back from the gym.
It never even occurred to Trent that he must have thought Trent would be into his musk. The idea still fills the neat freak with disdain. Interrupting Trent as he’s clearly lost in thought, his coworker issues a challenge, “Look babe, I’m not sayin’ you need to develop a pit fetish but maybe reflect on your, I mean it’s a phobia right?”
Rolling his eyes, Trent turns to his keyboard to get any amount of work done as his coworker gasps and starts interrogating him about how often he shaves his own pits. Even as he types and jokes at the man, he can feel his hairless pits trickle with stress sweat. Heading to the bathroom, he reapplies deodorant and the rest of the day is thankfully free from such scent-centric conversation.
Being left to his own devices does little however, to distract Trent from the conversation repeating in his head. Every time it does he swears there’s a whiff of someone’s b.o. in the air, every time he worries it's him but after each barely sneaky sniff he smells only his overpowering deodorant even as his coworker’s words continue to echo in his head.
When the day is done and he retires at home safely onto the couch, Trent begrudgingly tries to convince himself that perhaps his coworker is right. If this is apparently a cornerstone of the modern gay man he should really give them the benefit of the doubt- ugh. Trent’s fingers race as they scroll to find some respectable thirst trap that may convince him to not cringe at the idea of musky filth.
Aiming to start slow, the nonbeliever scouts where he usually does. Pulling up one of his favorite gaybaiters, Trent refuses to yield to his prudish instincts to instead stare into the man’s post-gym pits.
Expecting a pit to form in his stomach, as he inspects the gif closely- almost academically, Trent instead feels a tug. Drawn to the mouthwatering bicep and thick pecs, his eyes eventually land on the garden of dripping hair that rests in between them and is unable to look away.
The man’s gym-recap turns to static in Trent’s ears as every impulse firing in his mind is consumed by desire still ramping. He can hardly believe it, which is perhaps of little surprise given how far any conscious thought is from his mind as everything within him fixates on that musky pit he always loathed.
What could stir him from the reverie Trent’s lost in, almost drooling at a GIF, other than a distraction rising in his own armpits. He flinches hard enough to shake his small couch as he swears there’s a prickle in his smooth pits. Worried it’s a bug he flails onto the floor to remove his shirt.
Phone flying in the chaos, it lands face up still looping. Trent immediately kicks the discarded shirt away before closely inspecting the prickle as it evolves into an itch. In his periphery Trent sees the giggling brute still flexing in his direction as he stares at his hitherto hairless pit.
With a gulp, his fingers twitch as they reach to scratch it, nails pushing into malleable skin scrape away at whatever deodorant still hangs alongside the salty residue of his stress sweats. The skin burns red as he scratches, staring at his phone, there’s a tightness in his chest as he realizes he’s feeling envy.
Grunting as he feels his pants start to strain from the irrevocable proof that pits are an erogenous zone, Trent bites his lip to try and distract from the increasingly overwhelming pleasure. And then he hears it- the scritch of his fingernails digging against stubble.
Stunned, his wide eyes look down to find clear stubble prickling against his fingers at a rapid pace. The idea of waxing them hasn’t a chance to occur as his mouth falls open and his eyes cross. With every drag through his growing forests of pit hair the few strands thicken and spread even further.
Curls rapidly lengthen, at times catching his fingers in a tangle despite the slick sweat coating them both. Far too distracted by the increasing jungle, Trent is too preoccupied with seeking-pleasure to notice his thickening biceps and chest, still nowhere near the hunk that showed him what he could be, the one still flexing on loop nearby. Nor would he care even.
Memories of time in the gym start to distract from the ecstasy as he feels his body tightening and tanned. Sweaty curls lengthen on his head, dripping onto wider shoulders as the musk spewing from his pits continues to thicken. Smirking the thought pushes his mind that the hot body is just a byproduct, the real goal in the gym is to show off his stink.
And with that, his hips flex as he can’t hold back any longer. Falling onto the couch he ruts into his tighter shorts until he’s absolutely spent. Everything within him begins to fade as he lies down, apathetic to the sweat stain he’s sure to leave on the couch. Arms behind his head, Trent cradles his head against his thicker bicep, nose firmly tucked into the acrid bushes under his arms.
Night drags on and in unconsciousness Trent’s changes do not slow. Lungs filling with his own musk with each and every breath, he dreams of jacked men in the locker room stuffing his face in their pits. His slightly more muscular body still manipulated like a ragdoll in their arms as he bathes in their oppressive odors.
Eventually, something switches, after another encounter with some burly man’s b.o. Trent realizes he should be the one dominating these other men. Sniffing his pits in the waking world as his thick curls spread even further down his arms growing with each twitching flex, Trent knows he smells better than any other beta that stumbles into the locker room.
His subconscious promptly summons forth twinks for him to assert himself over. Flexing as whatever clothes he imagined drip from his body, dream-Trent launches into a double bicep pose that immediately causes the giggling pit-fiends to cum themselves. Laughing at how dominant, how oppressive he has become, Trent’s deepening voice resounds off the locker room as his heavier chest forces his grunts deeper in the waking world.
Underneath his bulking body, Trent’s couch creaks and his briefs strain to contain the package growing unwieldy. Dripping with pre and real cum, the musk from his crotch and stained underwear is barely perceptible underneath the orchestra of odors pouring from every inch of exposed skin.
Stubble on his face scratches against his shoulder as sweat from his pits seems to force a beard on the usually hairless man’s face. Of course, every other square sweaty inch of the man is in short-order covered with its own thick coat of fur. Pubes bulge against the straining underwear as his bush grows thick enough to show through any pants before launching a treasure trail upward to meet with the new few strands rising on his chest.
Swirling around his nipples and poking from in between pecs pulsing larger, a garden of chest hair erupts and spreads to enswathe every inch of still expanding real-estate on his on and near his pecs. Legs, always unhappily shaved, suddenly bloom with a thick current of curls stretching from the tops of his bony, wider feet to the bush of pubes so thick his crotch will never see the light of day again.
All of this is supplemental of course, the most notable of his body parts only continues to demand his attention. His tongue darts out of his snoring mouth and drags through the matted jungle in his pits. With each taste, his hard cock strains his briefs even further before at last the twitching beast can no longer be contained.
Imagining a twink riding his crotch, his pathetic hairless face jammed into Trent’s pits as he thrusts into his grabbable ass, the musky brute shoots load after load into his sweaty pelt. Splattering his chest, face and pits with the first splatter of his new life Trent’s fantasies slow to a crawl as peaceful sleep finally comes.
One hand lies in his crotch, scratching in his forest of pubes and grasping at the rod should its everpresent need return. The other remains posted behind his deeply snoring head, a difficult pose to maintain, but one required to always allow his pits the freedom to spread his scent, to continue to fill the place with the musk already burned into the walls and every piece of fabric that happens into the apartment.
When he awakens at last, head in pit he simply goes about his business as, to his mind, he always has. Getting a morning pump in before throwing on clothes far too tight to reasonably wear work. Not like he could care less though, phone constantly pinging with needy twinks begins to grovel at his feet and clean him with their tongues, Trent takes a deep breath and smirks, so tempted to invite any number of them over.
Not today, not now. No, now he’s got work to do. Hopping on the bus just to force as many people as he can to quake under his presence, Trent eyes the few morning commuters with an arrogant sneer. Sitting at crotch level, some marketing assistant feels his own package twitch as he suddenly feels a need to be as close to this man as he can be.
Blushing he thankfully hops off the bus at the next stop, checking his phone though he finds a few pictures of the man’s sweaty upper body, purposefully exposed pits, and heavy bulge. Swearing he didn’t take them, the assistant certainly doesn’t delete them as he pockets the phone and walks into the office with a gait that can only mean one thing.
Elsewhere on the bus, some grad student is working on a report before being distracted by the man’s musk. Turning to complain to the man or demand he put on deodorant, when he looks up to see Trent he’s stunned silent. Shaking his head at the idea of confronting the beast, the academic can’t quiet the urge to assert himself.
Trying to focus on his work, he feels hot and gasps in shock as he begins to realize a new musk is rising from his own skin. Surreptitiously sniffing his pits, the student grunts as he smells a musk uncomfortably similar to the man filling the bus with his stink. Watching as the barbarian turns in his direction and burps, the student shouts at the bus driver to stop and storms up to Trent.
Squaring up with a man twice his size, the student prepares to fight an unwinnable fight before he takes a deep breath and feels woozy. Suddenly struck with a burning itch in his pits, he scratches at them before clicking his tongue and leaving Trent be. For his part the musky man just watches as the academic struggles to get his clothes to fit right as he puffs his chest leaving the bus.
Meanmugging Trent from outside, the academic strains his clothes with each passing moment, resisting the urge to get back on the bus to spar with Trent only accelerating his changes. His upper lip twitches as a thick moustache pushes itself into existence and the rest of his face prickles with stubble as Trent just smirks and imagines the man’s final form, the alpha makes sure he has a good view of his pits as the bus begins moving once more.
But a few minutes later, Trent arrives at his stop and wanders into his office. He would feel out of place, striding on the corporate level wearing gym clothes, but that’s not who he is anymore. Wherever he goes is where he belongs, and if that isn’t the case he will make it so, trail of musk both in his wake and rushing ahead to announce his presence. To announce his dominance.
Sitting in the office chair now barely able to support his weight, Trent leans back and throws his arms behind his head and waits. His coworker doesn’t even make it to his cubicle. Following Trent’s musky trail like a dog, the man who convinced Trent to give pits a go feels his mind consumed by just how thoroughly he took the advice to heart.
Struggling streamers Sherman and Law are lured onto the Chinese platform New Fortune. Boasting interactivity through polls, neither can halt the changes brought upon them as their new audiences mold them to be the perfect footholds for the brand to spread.
Another streaming based TF, Sherman refines into New Fortune's wholesome fitness streamer in Zhou Meng while Law becomes his brash little brother Liang. Hope you enjoy! -Occam
How is any content creator supposed to rise above the noise these days. This is the dilemma Sherman faces tonight after a long session streaming with his friend Lawrence, as he does most nights. Poring over his meagre metrics, Sherman aimlessly wonders what he’s doing wrong. Is he just unlikeable? Does he need a gimmick?
The reasons for his halted progress towards true popularity are as countless as the fellow streamers sitting in the same boat, hovering around a few hundred viewers. Tonight perhaps his curse may be lifted. Just before logging off from this particularly slow session of streaming, Sherman gets an IM in a language he can’t understand, at first he assumes Japanese, plugging it into a translator he discovers it to actually be Mandarin.
Sure it’s some scam or taunting message, he sighs and reads it anyway only to perk up at its content. “嘿，菜鸟。如果你想吸引观众，就去 New Fortune——中国的观众更多，这还用说吗？Hey noob- If you want an audience hop on New Fortune. Way more viewers in China duhhh”
My god- why didn’t he think of that! Running the math in his head, Sherman’s sure the idea’s foolproof. If he can get a couple hundred viewers on Twitch, well- that’s gotta be at least a few thousand in a country so much larger than the US, right?
Refusing to workshop the idea any further, Sherman starts looking into making an account on the site. Replying to his apparently Chinese viewer, after writing “哈哈哈” an inordinate amount of times, the audience member offers to do most of the heavy lifting on porting his channel over sending him a link to instead learn about streaming on the site.
What he learns only leads him to see more dollar signs. The primary activity on New Fortune seems to be having the audience vote on what you’re going to do, which in turn incentivizes viewers to get their friends to tune in and bolster their voting bloc. Combined with the platform's efforts to get more creators from abroad to use their site, Sherman can’t find a downside to the switchover, perhaps unsurprising given how little he’s looking for one.
Within the week Sherman’s got an entirely new, far more expensive setup. Crossing his arms as he eyes the scarlet red backdrop with metallic golden highlights Sherman can’t help but feel this whole thing is a little appropriative. But his concerns are met with encouragement from New Fortune and his increasingly Chinese audience.
His usual fans trepidatiously ask about the increasing prevalence of hanzi in chat which leads Sherman to at last mention his planned switch over. At first all the Sher-heads out there are antsy as he was, but after he pitches the platform using talking points delivered to him straight from New Fortune, they too see the appeal in having more sway in the content Sherman produces.
Then at last the day of his switchover arrives, he begins streaming on Twitch as a large countdown shines on screen. 3, 2, 1. His viewer count starts skyrocketing. Boggling at the numbers, he assumes that New Fortune must be inflating the metrics as a show of strength for their platform, but he doesn’t care. He’ll be getting paid regardless. And on that note, time for the first vote.
“Mods, you ready to see what we’re doing today?” It was only then that the happy-go-lucky streamer realized he left his mod team behind with Twitch. Chat now monitored by whomever his mystery messenger, or his in at New Fortune HQ trawled together, Sherman can only watch as a poll he had absolutely no input in pops up on the stream.
Instantly his thousands of new viewers pile in on a result he’s yet to translate. His audience similarly fills the chat with ?’s barely perceptible between the mandarin filling the comms like a tidal flow. Before he even has a chance to translate the poll’s options, voting closes with option one overwhelmingly winning. Annoyed at not knowing anything about this poll he awaits a DM explaining what’s next.
无上装直播 - 72%
第一人称射击游戏 - 3%
吃播 - 20%
卡拉OK - 5%
Balking at the truly indecipherable characters, he’s thankfully dm’d the translated options by the mod and is further gobsmacked at the options presented. In what world would he ever do a karaoke or mukbang stream!? And why the fuck did they both finish above his tried and true FPS content? Rolling his eyes at the three options in far last, he then sees that stream shirtless one and he sits in shock.
Does- does he have to do that? As he sits there, shirt on, the chat begins erupting with irritation he can grasp without even needing to speak the language. Even his favorite chatter from Twitch, BostonBro69, calls him out for pussyfooting, “Bruh- Chat’s spoken ditch the tee??? R u a bitch?”
Gritting his teeth, knowing his body is nothing to be proud of in the slightest he struggles to take the shirt off over his headphones before tossing them to his chair and trying again. “You guys better be tipping, ain’t doing this shit for free.”
At first mocking Sherman as he reveals himself to just be wearing boxers, the chat goes wild as he begins to raise the shirt over his waist. Expecting to feel the usual chill of his streamer’s den, Sherm’s shocked as each new inch of flesh exposed heats up. Brow furrowed underneath his rising shirt, he doesn’t see as his body begins to firm up.
The streamer’s slightly pudgy stomach rapidly tightens into a thin, maintained waist, cum gutters carving into the sides of his waist as muscle thickens across his chest astride two clearly visible pecs. Catching his reflection in his onstream cam, Sherman’s mouth falls open in shock as he traces the newly defined muscle in shock, feeling his clearly heavier arms twitch with biceps as he does.
“What the..?” Eyes flickering to chat, Sherman starts to question how this is possible, it can’t be a filter can it? He sees it with his real eyes? Before he can continue, one of his mods sends him something to read aloud in Mandarin, ‘like what you see?’ Forcing a smirk on his face he does his best to read it, “Ne zooeyhan, nee swo con, uh- dào de ma?”
So focussed on giving it his best go, Sherman is oblivious to his curly hair slightly straightening, darkening from its shoddy blonde into an indisputable brown. Flattening across his forehead as he throws his headphones back on. Blinking hard as his pronunciation gets shockingly better as he continues reading, his chat goes crazy as his sea-green eyes appear to darken into a hazel- or no, a light brown? It’s quite difficult to make out through the screen after all.
Chat going apeshit at the new eyecandy, Sherman smirks and figures he can’t not throw out a flex. Doing so he exposes his small bush of pit hair as it almost seems to straighten, darkening similarly to the hair on his head as he bathes in the praise he can’t quite understand. BostonGuy69 shoots a message in support, “Lookin killerrrr bruh didnt know u had it in u lul”
From then on Zherman has an absolute blast streaming on New Fortune, surely whatever effect causing him not to question his impossible transformation is heightening his enjoyment for the platform. Throughout his gaming session there are a few more votes, while after an hour or so he usually dips from FPS’s to play some brainless trendy games, it’s as if his audience is trying to push him away from gaming altogether.
As much as his usual fans try to get him to get him back to his usual MO, the new audience on New Fortune start to prune his gamer era away. Even when his old crew miraculously win a vote to get him back in a shooter, Zherman struggles to remain interested, eyes flickering back to chat, squinting as he swears he almost understands what his non-American audience is saying.
“That was fun guys, but I should probably get started on my gym sesh. Zaijannn~ Huh?” As soon as he says goodbye, not noticing he did so in Mandarin, Zherman sees a poll he didn’t call for pops up. For a second he swears he understands what the characters mean before shaking that idea out of his head. It’s just because he just mentioned working out, yeah
锻炼直播 - 98% (Workout Stream)
注销 - 2% (Log Off)
In the end his ‘guess’ was indeed confirmed however as he sees his audience has an obvious interest in watching him sweat. Well- who is he to disappoint. Smirking coquettishly, Zherman saunters over to the pull up bar in his room and starts going at it.
With every repetition, the streamer’s gains increase at a shocking rate and his brown hair darkens even further. Surely waving it off as sweat, in reality it is anything but as it thins and straightens even further into a coal black that he offhandedly brushes into a middle part.
Counting with each rep, he laughs as he sees his chat do the same. In between heavy breaths, he squints to make out anything substantial bits he might be missing. Doing so his eyes finish darkening from their honey brown into a chocolate almost indistinguishable from his pupils. Onyx eyes slightly obscured by the fold appearing above them as he wipes sweat from his forehead.
“Eugh- One last set crew. Let’s go!” Feeling his thicker arms strain on the pullup bar he now realizes he’s never had before now, Zhorman starts counting out his final rep, “One, Two, Three, F- Four, Wǔ, liù, qī, bā, ugh… Shen- what?” Eyes glazing over, the almost seamless transition between languages begins to sink in as Zhorman feels the weight of unfathomable change begins to sink in.
“Need to- I need t’sleep.” Stumbling to his bed, the streamer falls face first onto the mattress as the stream continues on without him. Not like he had any say in the votes, they continue on as his snores are barely picked up by the mic. Every aspect of his appearance is picked over. He is made tanner. Smoother. Sharper. Snores resound from his chest with deeper timbre as he’s made the perfect emblem of masculinity.
The should-be stubble growing on his face sheers away as he snores, heavier pecs rising while whatever body hair clung to his bronzed skin besides his pits fades away. Unseen from the lens of his audience as morning wood throbs in his shorts his foreskin reclaims the head of his cock as it demands he masturbate the second he is free from the stream. Such time is far from the present however.
When Zhou Man eventually awakes he finds himself a totally new man, “Ni Hao- eh? Hey, my fans! Still here, èn?” Watching the chat fly past as he stirs away and does his morning stretches to show off his clearly more defined body, Zhou Man doesn’t realize at all he’s focussing more on the Chinese viewers than the American viewers chatting even more infrequently. His face brightens when he sees his favorite viewer in chat, GuiyangGe69, “嘿兄弟，今天去健身房吗 Heyyy bruh, hitting up the gym today?”
Man laughs as he nods and flexes before settling into a more respectable temper, “当然，朋友，早晨一定要从正确的方式开始！Of course, gotta get the morning started right, friend!” With that he grabs his tripod and starts off to his favorite haunt, chatting up his audience in mandarin more fluent by the second. As time passes he starts disregarding the English chatters all together, leading them to try and translate their messages to make any headway towards getting his attention.”
Morning routine well underway, a vote begins under his notice that he instantly understands. Not translating that is, as it’s in his native tongue. 炫耀 or 羞怯 Show off or Shy. Cocky smile on his face he knows how this vote will go and starts adjusting his behavior without a second thought.
炫耀 - 98%
羞怯 - 2%
All these people are here to see him and nothing else. Zhou Ming is not in the market of disappointing his fans. Sitting on the bench he throws out a flex and quiets a grunt as he feels his thick biceps bulge even larger. Shooting a graceful smile towards the camera, his life as he knows it flashes before his eyes as it readjusts. he’s an immigrant to America as an ambassador to New Fortune. Here to inspire other content creators to make the switch and get their gains, physically and otherwise.
When his profile picture at last adjusts to show his new, true self he can’t believe how good he looks. Playful and domineering all at once. Meng knows he’s the perfect man to lure other streamers into their new selves. Into their new success.
Sitting there at the gym on his phone, oblivious to the attention he’s getting IRL. Meng notices a message from one of his best friends and a fellow streamer, Lawrence. Law’s been with him from the start, the perfect content creator buddy and his go to duo- only? Meng swears he’s never been on Twitch and he knows Law’s certainly never been on New Fortune?
After a moment Meng shakes out of his confusion and does what instinctually comes to him. He starts up a vote, already knowing what the result is to be. Should he call up Lawrence and do a group stream. Smirking, he knows the second Law sees his success that his best friend won’t have a thought on his mind besides following his best bro’s example. And so it begins.
Meng finds Law doing an IRL stream just wandering the park, accepting his friend’s call as he always would, the wide smile on Lawrence’s face quickly falls as he obviously doesn’t recognize Meng. “Dude, who are- Is this some kinda bit Sherm?” Tilting his head as he hears the name, dissonance arises once more within Meng. No matter though, not like he can’t speak English. “Law, it’s me Meng? Do you want to come meet me at the gym?”
It takes everything in Law to not burst out laughing, the Zhou Meng he knows wouldn’t be caught dead in the gym. The Zhou Meng he knows- uh. His eyes flicker to the stream, is that his friend’s name? What else would it be? It’s- “You should start a poll Law. They’re very good for views.”
He knows something’s wrong, he knows he shouldn’t listen. But Meng is a bigger streamer than him right? And his best friend. He wouldn’t steer him wrong. Looking towards the chat, Law’s eyes are drawn to sporadic messages in what seems to be Chinese. Their frequency only increases as the poll in Meng’s chat appears.
Having tested the waters with Meng, whatever forces that be are eager to accelerate their little experiment as they move on to Lawrence. So easy it was to make the gamer a role model, now it’s time to make the ever-cordial Lawrence into an arrogant goon. To point, the audiences are asked who Lawrence is to Zhou Meng:
周亮, 兄弟 - 56%(Zhou Liang, Brother)
劳伦斯, 最好的朋友 - 1%(Lawrence, Best Friend)
沉亮, 男朋友 - 43% (Shen Liang, Boyfriend)
Results streaming in, Lawng can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Doesn’t really understand what must be the hypothetical presented? Is this a quiz? Scratching his head, Lawng pauses for a beat as his fingers seem to be trailing easier than they should be through his afro. Or no- he doesn’t have an afro, his curls are wayyy looser than that.
Shaking his hair, his indeed looser curls spill down his neck, tickling as they fall he grins. Lawng’s eyes then fall upon his hand as he swears it’s well, paler? Trailing up the arm with phone outstretched he can’t shake the uncanny feeling that his skin is not nearly as tan, as dark as it should be
Rubbing his face in shock, the stubble on Lawng’s face is thinner and straighter than it once was. Cheeks that were once patterned with tight strands are barren as he feels a tightness in his eyes. Were he not a consummate professional he’d drop the phone and in the stream as he knows something is up. He’d never of course, his best- his brother’d trained him to be a better streamer than that.
Right. His brother, for a second he thought Meng was just a friend, bizarre? Attention firmly back to the stream as his skin continues to pale, Liawng sees his older brother smiling as he waits at the gym. “Oh! Zāogāo! Shoot, I’ll head right over bro!” As he pockets the phone, he can’t help but be slightly annoyed at his older brother, doesn’t he know Liawng was in the middle of something?
The stream continues on as Liawng opts to sprint to his brother’s location, all the while he continues to change. He grows 更强, stronger. 体积更大, bulkier. 更大胆, bolder. All in relation to his kinder gēgē. By the time he’s arrived he’s worked up more of a pump than Meng garnered in his morning workout thus far, a fact he’s more than happy to rub in as he poses in the gym’s entry way.
Flexing at his reflection, Liang’s mind softens as every bone within his body begins to cry out. Demanding he assert dominance, on his fans, everyone around him, on his annoying gēgē. With every performative, grunting flex he continues to change, pecs bulking out larger as he pumps them while he continues to pale and grow wider.
When Meng eventually takes a break from chatting up his viewers, giving and getting tips from them as he proves himself to be something of a mentor to everyone on the platform, he saunters up to his cocky little brother as he finishes becoming who New Fortune desires him to be. Skin cresting into that of a slightly tanner East Asian. His hair finishes its journey to be just as straight and black as Meng’s. Doing provocative dances and posing, he makes it clear that he is altogether a different man to the streamer who brought him onto the platform.
Meeting face to face for the first time in their new forms yet again on their joint streams. The changes in the brothers cement themselves as they become broad, muscular streamers of entirely different sorts. Watching as his xiǎo dìdi peacocks and flexes enough to strain a tank top he bought to barely fit, Meng settles into his more refined and polished body.
Eldest of the pair and clearly creating content catered to a gentler audience, Zhou Meng feels his still impossibly built body tighten into that of a model. Memories of training to be as poised and polished as one can be, Meng knows he is the true face of New Fortune in the states and he is going to make it the eminent streaming platform in the country. In the world
Quite the opposite, Zhou Liang only thinks of himself. Smirking as he hears his gēgē approaching, something within him clicks as he flexes and prepares to pounce. Flexing in the mirror as his pecs bloat even heavier, arms bulging with thick almost throbbing veins, Liang does a poor job of hiding his attentions from his approaching brother.
Laughing as he predicted his brother's assault, Meng puts up little fight as Liang tries to wrestle him into a headlock. “放弃吧，老哥！Give up bro!” Liang shouts as his audience encourages capitulation. English speakers find themselves suddenly quite the minority in chat, although they’re not quite overrun so much as changed themselves.
Calculating the audiences in both chats as he allows Liang a few moments to gloat, Meng watches as the few remaining english messages in chat begin to speckle with hanzi. Tapping his xiǎo dìdi’s muscular arms, proud at how the bestial arms rival the size of his head, Meng straightens his hair and pats his lunkhead little brother on the back.
Briefly chastising him for setting a bad example for the fans, he sets up his tripod next to Liang’s as the less refined man continues to try and big dog his big bro. Guffawing as he flexes, Liang shouts in fluent mandarin that Meng’s going soft with age before a stray memory tries to break through, the name Lawrence surfaces enough to silence him for a moment. And then it is gone, and there is only Zhou Liang.
Ready to move on, thoroughly molded into the perfect streamer New Fortune intended he be, Meng takes advantage of Liang’s pause and turns to the cameras, as if an earpiece suggested him to. Flawlessly switching between Mandarin and English as to ensure his message is heard by all Meng addresses both of their audiences,
“感谢您一一直以来对 New Fortune 的支持！Thank you all for enjoying New Fortune so far! 我们即将举办一一场盛大的活动，希望您能参加！We’ve got quite the event coming up and hope you’ll be able to join us! 我迫不及待地想让全世界看看新财富会带来什么。I can’t wait for all the world to see what New Fortune has in store.” And with that, Liang and Meng continue on with their streams, New Fortune’s first streamers in America. Though as their audiences spread word it’s clear they will not be the last.
