TF Plaza

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[peepshow321]

My Stories

Hi everyone!

This is mainly a reblog account for all the wonderful work everyone puts out, but I’ve done a few stories over the years and thought it might be handy to have them in one place. Hope you enjoy!

Always happy to have a chat or to discuss ideas!

***

Sports Night - Rugby Conversion + Into the Ring

Attorney-Client Privilege

Lockdown Turnaround

Premium Language School

Locker Room Etiquette

CV Boost - Let’s Down Down to Business + Building a Better Future

Never Break the Chain - Part 1, Part 2 + Part 3

TaskRaccoon Premium: start here!

[agmsye]

Roll the Dice - Noah the Barbarian

The entire table gulped audibly as Adrian handed them the character sheets. Even though they didn’t know about the magic, something about the sheets felt weird to them. However that feeling was quick to pass as the excitement of creating new characters took over.

Noah went first, basically vibrating as he grabbed the dice.

“Okay,” he said, grinning nervously. “I’m doing it. Full commitment. Human barbarian.”

Ethan burst out laughing immediately.

“You? A barbarian?”

“I can play against type!”

“You look like you lose fights against folding chairs.”

Noah flipped him off, but blushed slightly, looking at Adrian for the okay to start the character creation.

“Roll in order.”, Adrian nodded softly, “Strength first.”

The D20 clattered against the old wooden table, everyone’s eyes drawn to the shiny piece of plastic.

18

For a second nothing happened. And suddenly Noah inhaled sharply as he sat upright   in his chair, his posture suddenly remarkably straight.

Underneath his hoodie his shoulders shot out to the sides as meat piled onto his frame, the fabric just barely adjusting in time to not get completely shredded under the pressure of the frail nerd’s inflation. His forearms thickened, his biceps bringing the sleeves devastatingly close to breaking point, veins pushing out against his skin. His hands flexing as they grew to the size of dinner plates, powerful and manly. Then his chest expanded, pulling the fabric already struggling with his cannonball arms tightly against his enormous pecs.

The chair creaked.

“Oh my God,” Oliver whispered.

Noah lurched upward as another inch—then another—was added to his height. His knees pressed awkwardly against the underside of the table before the transformation settled. Not monstrous. Not absurd. Just overwhelmingly athletic. Broad. Powerful.

Like a heavyweight fighter hidden beneath a nerd’s clothing.

And then reality adjusted.

The others blinked.

New memories appeared, the image of tiny Noah disappearing like ice under the midday sun, the awkward ginger runt replaced with the overwhelmingly manly mountain of muscle who acted like a tiny nerd. Only Adrian retained his old memories, smiling faintly at the awkward way the towering Barbarian warrior sat there, squeezing his enormous bulk at the table and still trying and failing to take up less space than his intensely huge frame demanded.

Noah himself looked oddly surprised by his new size, carefully balling and relaxing his fists a couple of times, almost seeming unsettled by the size of his own muscles. Only the sound of Adrian’s smooth voice ripped the Barbarian-sized nerd out of his stupor.

“Dexterity.”

Noah nodded and rolled again.

8

The change was subtler this time. 

His posture and movement looked less precise, less graceful. It really appeared like the low roll on Dexterity had grounded the mountain sized geek somewhat. His posture now seemed more confident and solid, heavier even, his behaviour now showing less nervous and anxious shifting. Like someone who relied on power over grace.

A water bottle slipped from his grasp a second later.

“Jesus, dude.”, Ethan laughed, “I still can’t get over the fact that a guy that’s built like a linebacker has finally dipped his toe into playing a Barbarian after all these years. Speaking of which, are you still hellbent on getting on the football team? Coach must be getting fed up with your clumsy ass constantly trying out.” 

Noah just blushed, his ears nearly as ginger as his hair, which he now hid under a cap of the local football team. With his clumsiness he didn’t make for the best player, but he’d tried enough times to like the sport.

Adrian watched from behind his DM screen as reality settled around Noah, curiously observing the mental changes that had begun around the edges. Noah was still Noah … just more.

“Constitution.”, Adrian prompted.

Noah rolled.

The die bounced once. Twice.

19

The effects hit like a freight train this time.

Noah gasped as his frame became denser. Not bigger per se, but more sharply defined, his chest swelling against the fabric and pulling it tight against his mid section, the outline of 6 brick sized abs clearly visible. Even his neck thickened, a prominent Adam's apple pushing into existence and lowering the Barbarian’s voice from a soft tenor to a booming bass.

Even a beard forced itself into existence against his more masculine lantern jaw. Not the teenage scruff he had been able to grow before, but a thick manly beard that looked utterly right on his rugged face.

Noah looked amazing. Not delicate. Not pretty-boy handsome. Dangerously handsome. Like some mythological northern warrior accidentally dropped into a college apartment.

“Hell yeah,”, the incredibly sexy lumberjack said, once again shocking his friends with the foghorn boom of his voice, “Nineteen Con.”

The other three players just nodded. Even sitting down, Noah dominated the room physically now. His shoulders stretched the seams of his hoodie so badly he eventually peeled it off entirely, revealing a black tank top straining across an absurdly broad chest and thick, powerful arms.

The Barbarian shifted in his seat, immediately drawing attention to another result of his roll.

“Dude, can’t you wear underwear for once to DnD? Your sweatpants look ridiculous!”, Ethan complained, trying very hard not to stare at the obvious outline of what was running down his left leg. Noah just blushed, trying to make his footlong soft cock somehow less noticeable through his grey sweatpants. And failing miserably.

Like the rest of him the thing sat heavy, thick and huge off the edge of the chair, even the outline of his bull balls being faintly visible through the fabric trying to cover his crotch.

“Talk about Barbarian Constitution.”, Marcus chuckled.

“Shut up,” Noah muttered.

But he sounded more embarrassed in theory than in practice. The growing confidence from his partially locked-in stats kept blunting his old insecurity before it could fully form.

Adrian quietly watched the magic settle again.

“Keep rolling.”, he said, “Intelligence is next.”

Noah, still feeling high from the absolutely monstrous roll on Constitution, enthusiastically threw the die.

5

The change was immediate.

Noah blinked.

Then blinked again.

The sharpness behind his eyes dulled and he relaxed in his seat. The constant anxious overprocessing vanished instantly as his racing thoughts slowed to a crawl. Adrian just grinned. A Barbarian wasn’t meant to be smart after all. He already had the overwhelming physicality, he didn’t need to think too much.

His posture spread wider in the chair.

Heavy.

Certain.

He looked at his friends with a relaxed and easy smile, confident despite his reduced intelligence.

“Dude, you’re literally playing yourself. Huge in body, but not the brightest bulb.”, Ethan chuckled at his simple friend. Noah just grinned in return and threw up his enormous cannonball biceps in a flex. Reality had settled seamlessly around the giant himbo.

Adrian cleared his throat and nodded towards the dice. “Let’s roll Wisdom next.”

Noah rolled.

6

The effect was subtler but somehow more unsettling.

Noah’s eyes softened immediately.

Not weaker physically—far from it—but more suggestible. More trusting. More willing to follow stronger personalities without questioning them deeply. Especially Adrian. Adrian noticed it at once. So did Ethan.

“Earth to Barbarian,” Ethan muttered. “You’re looking at Adrian weirdly again.”

Noah frowned faintly.

“Huh?”

“You keep waiting for him to talk before doing stuff.”

Noah opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then shrugged.

“Guess he’s the DM.”

Simple.

Logical.

Final.

The room laughed.

Only Adrian understood how profound the shift really was.

Noah’s independent critical resistance had just permanently collapsed. Not mindless obedience. Just reduced willpower. Reduced need to question. The barbarian archetype was crystallizing perfectly. While always physically in charge, he liked for others to take the lead, make suggestions and tell him what to do.

And there was still one stat left.

Charisma.

Adrian folded his hands together behind the DM screen and smiled faintly.

“Last roll.”

Noah rolled the die.

It spun across the wood.

Stopped.

15

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Noah smiled and the entire atmosphere of the room shifted instantly. Not magically glowing. Not supernatural mind control. Just… overwhelming presence.

His posture straightened subtly, massive shoulders rolling back with effortless confidence while his expression relaxed into an easy, rugged charm that looked absurdly natural on him. The lazy grin beneath his copper stubble suddenly carried weight behind it. Warmth. Magnetism.

His face redefined itself, becoming even more devastatingly handsome, manly, rugged. Like his entire look had been designed by someone who wanted to show what copious amounts of testosterone would do to a handsome man’s face.

And reality adapted around him. To the rest of the table Noah had always been overwhelmingly charismatic. He could say the most stupid shit and people would still laugh with him, his entire personality just becoming comfort food, easygoing and welcoming, while never losing the raw sex appeal that made people want to suck his cock or get impaled on his meat hammer within 5 minutes of meeting him.

“Guess I’m just charismatic.”, the massive ginger chuckled dumbly.

The line should have sounded ridiculous.

Instead, all three of them laughed immediately.

Even Adrian almost smiled for real.

The magic settled completely.

The transformation finalized.

Noah Tanner—the nervous valedictorian, comic-shop employee, chronic overthinker—was gone.

Or rather…

Reality now insisted he had never existed in that form at all.

Instead, Noah had always been this. A towering, massively muscular ginger barbarian of a man with movie-star ruggedness, absurd stamina, effortless charm, and the simple confidence of someone who had never spent much time doubting himself. A beautiful brute with long wavy copper hair, heavy stubble, broad hands, thick muscle-packed limbs, and a mind optimized less for critical analysis and more for instinct, confidence, and immediate physical certainty.

And according to everyone’s rewritten memories? He had always been the heart of the group. The guy strangers flirted with constantly. The one who won arguments through sheer presence instead of logic. The one who solved problems by kicking doors open.

Noah himself looked down at the completed character sheet and grinned proudly.

“Damn,” he rumbled. “This dude rules.”

“Our resident himbo literally plays himself.”, Ethan rolled his eyes. “Massive super stud football player, massive super stud barbarian. Tomato, tomato.”

“Still taller than you.”, Noah countered and the room burst out laughing.

And Adrian quietly watched the rewritten world stabilize around the completed barbarian.

One player down.

Three to go.

The grimoire beneath the table pulsed warmly against his knee.

Hungry for the next story.

[kylestfs]

New player!

Jake Evans hated being late, the kind of late that made his stomach twist because it meant thirty students would look up from their notes the moment he pushed through the door, already judging the sweat on his collar and the slight huff in his breath as he tried to act like everything was under control. Thirty-five years old, associate professor of early modern European history, tenure track so close he could taste it, and today the main campus path was blocked by construction tape and orange cones that forced everyone into a stupid zigzag detour. He’d already lost precious minutes, and when he checked his watch again the knot in his gut tightened further. Eight minutes left. Muttering under his breath, he stepped off the paved walkway and cut straight across the soccer field, dress shoes sinking slightly into the soft grass with each hurried stride, briefcase bumping against his thigh. The humanities building sat just past the far goalposts, a straight shot if he kept moving.

Halfway across the empty pitch a voice cut through the quiet afternoon air.

“Hey professor. Got a second?”

Jake slowed, then stopped, glancing over to see a middle-aged coach standing near the center circle in a black training jacket, clipboard tucked under one arm and a portable whiteboard propped beside him like he’d been running drills earlier. Jake pointed at himself, half-convinced the man was talking to someone else. “Me?”

The coach nodded casually. “Yeah. Quick favor.”

Jake checked his watch again. Seven minutes now. “I really have a lecture starting soon.”

“Two minutes max,” the coach replied, calm and steady. “I’m testing a new concentration drill for the team. Just need someone neutral to read a few lines off the board while I time the responses. You’re staff. Perfect.”

Jake looked around the field again. No players in sight, no practice gear scattered, just the two of them and the soft rustle of wind moving through the grass. He exhaled sharply, already regretting it. “Fine. Two minutes. That’s it.”

He dropped the briefcase in the grass and stepped up to the whiteboard. The coach handed him a dry-erase marker like it carried some kind of weight. “Read each one out loud. Nice and clear.”

Jake scanned the first sentence and let out a short, disbelieving laugh. I am nineteen years old.

“Yeah, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not reading that. I’m thirty-five.”

The coach said nothing, just waited with that same patient expression.

Jake opened his mouth to refuse again, to walk away and salvage what was left of his schedule, but the words slipped out smooth and effortless, like they’d been waiting there all along. “I am nineteen years old.”

Heat bloomed across his face and spread downward in a slow wave, skin tightening as faint lines around his eyes softened and vanished completely. His jaw sharpened under the stubble that retreated almost imperceptibly, cheeks lifting into a smoother, fuller shape. Hair that had started thinning at the crown thickened noticeably, dark strands pushing forward to fall messily over his forehead in that careless, just-rolled-out-of-bed style. The slight hunch he’d developed from years hunched over books disappeared as his posture straightened naturally, shoulders settling back without effort. He grabbed at his face, fingers trembling. “What the hell…”

His hands looked younger too, skin smoother, knuckles less pronounced, veins less visible under the surface. Everything about his face felt fresh and tight, like someone who’d never known the drag of late-night grading sessions or faculty meetings. “No. No, I’m thirty-five,” he said, but the words came out in a lighter register, almost boyish.

The coach tapped the next line without comment. I train every single day.

Jake took a step back, shaking his head harder. “I’m not reading another word.”

But the sentence forced its way up through his throat like it had already been decided. “I train every single day.”

His stomach pulled inward sharply, the soft layer he’d carried around his middle for years melting away as if it had never settled there. Skin stretched tight over newly flat, lean abs that weren’t carved for show, just smooth and tight from constant movement instead of desk chairs. His shirt shifted against him, fabric lightening from pale blue to bright athletic white, buttons dissolving as the material reformed into a lightweight Puma jersey that clung lightly to his chest. Across the back bold black letters stitched themselves in place: BAUER 17. Jake stared down at it in disbelief, fingers clutching the hem. “I don’t even like sports…”

The coach tapped again. I am built lean and fast.

“I’m a history professor,” Jake said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I have a doctorate, tenure coming, I don’t—” “I am built lean and fast.”

His legs reshaped next, thighs compacting as soft weight redistributed into long, lean muscle suited for quick sprints across grass. Calves hardened into clean lines. He lost an inch and a half of height in a subtle shift, settling at a balanced five-nine that felt lower to the ground, more agile. Jeans softened and lightened, creeping upward until they became white soccer shorts resting high on his thighs. “This isn’t real,” he muttered, voice unsteady. “This isn’t happening.”

The coach pointed to the next sentence. My feet are made for the pitch.

“Stop,” Jake said, voice cracking slightly. “Just stop.” “My feet are made for the pitch.”

His dress shoes creaked as leather twisted and narrowed around his toes, soles hardening into rigid plastic. Metal studs emerged one by one with small popping sounds until twelve dotted each bottom. The shoes became filthy white cleats, mud already crusted along the sides like he’d spent the morning sliding through tackles just for the hell of it. His socks stretched upward along his calves, thickening into long white athletic ones streaked with grass stains and faint sweat rings.

Jake stared down at them, pulse hammering in his ears. “This can’t be happening.”

The coach tapped again. My cleats give me the perfect foot stink.

He tried to clamp his mouth shut, but the words came through anyway. “My cleats give me the perfect foot stink.”

The odor rose immediately, thick and warm, cheesy and tangy, the ripe smell that builds after hours of running on hot turf. It filled the space around him, sharp enough to linger on his tongue. Jake wanted to retch but his lungs pulled it in instead, the scent settling into something familiar, almost comforting. “That stink…it’s awful,” he whispered, yet the protest felt weaker, like the smell was already part of him.

The coach tapped. My height is perfect for the game.

“I’m not…” “My height is perfect for the game.”

His frame locked in lighter and lower, exactly the build for a regular guy who played soccer just because it felt good to run around with friends.

The coach tapped again. My ass is firm and athletic.

Jake clamped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide with fresh horror. “No.” The sentence came muffled but clear. “My ass is firm and athletic.”

His butt lifted and rounded at once, flat soft cheeks tightening into high, firm muscle that filled the white shorts perfectly without any sag or overhang. It felt powerful, springy, ready to drive him forward on every stride. Then a small wet fart slipped out as everything settled, thick and pungent, earthy grass mixed with warm sweat musk. The stink hung heavy in the air, strong and ripe like someone who’d been on the field all morning. Jake’s face flushed scarlet, but the odor didn’t turn his stomach the way it should have. It smelled right, like it belonged to him now.

The coach tapped. My dick is small and fits perfect in my shorts.

Panic flared in his eyes. “Please, not that…” “My dick is small and fits perfect in my shorts.”

Everything down there drew inward, softening and shrinking until the length shortened and the weight lightened, sitting neat and compact inside the tight black Calvin Klein trunks. No extra swing, no noticeable bulge, just tucked snug so nothing shifted when he moved. It felt simple, normal, like it had always been that way.

The coach kept going. My upper body is lean for speed.

“I teach history…I have a boyfriend…” “My upper body is lean for speed.”

His chest narrowed slightly, ribs showing just under the skin as the remaining softness melted away into a flat, efficient build with faint abs shaped by constant running rather than gym sessions. Nothing bulky, just lean and light.

The coach tapped. My arms are strong for the ball.

“Stop this now,” Jake begged. “My arms are strong for the ball.”

The soft flab on his biceps and forearms slimmed into wiry, lean muscle suited for precise passes or casual throws. Shoulders rolled back into a natural, relaxed posture.

The coach tapped. My armpits sweat like a real athlete.

Sweat poured heavier, soaking the jersey in wide dark patches under his arms. “I can’t…” “My armpits sweat like a real athlete.”

The pit stink bloomed sharp and salty, thick masculine odor that lingered after hard sessions and never quite faded. It blended with the foot stink and the lingering ass musk, heavy and real around him.

The coach tapped. I only want girls now.

Tears stung his eyes. “Chris…we live together…I’m gay…” “I only want girls now.”

The flip came fast and complete. Chris’s face blurred and dissolved like it had never mattered. Instead thoughts filled with short skirts, long legs, glossy smiles, the simple rush of knowing girls were watching him after he scored just for fun. Straight. Straightforward. Normal. The old attraction faded entirely, replaced by something basic and direct.

The coach tapped. I am laid back and simple.

“My mind…my life…” “I am laid back and simple.”

The serious, analytical edge he’d honed over years of study dissolved. No more overthinking every detail. Just easy, chill, going with the flow, laughing with the guys, living for the next casual game.

The coach tapped. My hygiene is just the field sweat and stink.

Sweat cooled on his neck as the smells mingled—pit stink, foot stink, that faint ass fart musk. “I used to shower every day…” “My hygiene is just the field sweat and stink.”

The idea of scrubbing it all away felt strange now, unnecessary. The odors were part of him, comfortable, normal, like they’d always been there.

The coach tapped. I am Ryan Bauer. Just a regular guy who plays soccer for fun.

His voice cracked on the protest. “My name is Jake…I have tenure…” “I am Ryan Bauer. Just a regular guy who plays soccer for fun.”

The old identity slipped away completely. Lectures, research papers, Chris, the careful thirty-five years of building a life around intellect—all overwritten. He was Ryan now. Nineteen. Straight. Boring. Athletic in the most average way. Played soccer because it was fun to run around with friends, nothing more, nothing serious.

The coach tapped the final line. My mind is focused only on football and basic things.

Thoughts slowed to a crawl. History dates and complex theories turned fuzzy and distant, pointless. “I can’t remember any of that…” Ryan murmured, the words already feeling far away. “My mind is focused only on football and basic things.”

Everything sharpened into simple priorities: passing the ball, when to sprint, girls smiling from the sideline, hanging out with the guys. No room for deep thoughts or heavy books. Just dumb, straightforward focus on the game and whatever came next.

The coach tapped the very last sentence. I am a football player.

No resistance left. “I am a football player.”

The last traces of panic vanished, replaced by calm, empty clarity. His stance shifted naturally, cleats pressing into the turf without thought. Body felt light, ready, perfectly balanced for messing around on the field.

The briefcase sitting a few feet away looked absurd now, some relic from another life.

The coach folded his arms. “How do you feel, Bauer?”

Ryan rolled his shoulders, an easy grin spreading across his face like it had always belonged there. “Feels good, coach.”

A ball sailed toward him. He trapped it cleanly with the inside of his foot, no hesitation. Flicked it up and started juggling, touches lazy and instinctive. Without thinking he lifted the hem of his jersey and wiped the sweat from his face, black Calvin Klein waistband showing clearly above the muddy white shorts. Socks sagged slightly from dirt. Hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. The foot stink, pit stink, lingering ass musk—all of it mixed together and felt perfect, normal.

“Training starting now?” he asked, already shifting his weight, already moving.

The coach nodded once. “Right now.”

Ryan took off at an easy jog across the field, cleats clicking softly against the turf, every step simple and right. Behind him the briefcase remained open in the grass, papers rustling in the wind, completely forgotten.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. His mind was quiet now, clear and focused on the basics. Soccer for fun. Hanging out. Girls. That was all there was.

He was exactly where he belonged.

[salmonskinrolltf]

Quick and dirty idea: Boyfriends decide to watch an old sex comedy purely to make fun of the horny heteros. Before long they begin to relate to the straight bros more than they ever could

[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts!

Also: This story contains gay-to-straight themes. Read my ethos on G2S stories here.]

Eddie (left) and Thomas (right) were both tired from long days at work, so they wanted to throw on something mindless. One of their favorite pastimes was watching shitty old sex comedies from the 1990s. Not because they were good, but because it was fun to laugh at the behavior of the bros onscreen. Their constant refrain was, “are straight people OK?”

They curled up on the couch to watch Babe Academy 4. They didn’t realize there was a fourth installment, because Wikipedia said the franchise stopped at part 3. But Eddie found a dusty old tape in the back office of the thrift store where he worked, and it seemed to be legit.

The movie was just as ridiculous as the last one. And they got the main cast back, which was always nice for a sequel. Well, most of the main cast.

Thomas piped up after a few minutes to ask, “Wait, where’s Elmo? The prankster character. He was in all three of the original movies. Is he not in this one?”

Eddie said, “I guess not. It doesn’t feel the same without him, though. And I think Dekker is gone, too. You know, that fuckboi guy. The only one who ever gets laid in these movies.”

“Weird,” said Thomas.

“Weird,” Eddie agreed.

They fell quiet as the movie progressed. They still felt like something was missing for a while, but eventually they settled in. They even started to laugh at some of the jokes.

Like when Fatso farted on some bikini babe’s birthday cake, they both cracked up. Thomas didn’t even go on his tirade about how the '90s were terrible for body positivity, which he loved to do whenever somebody said that character's name.

They got more and more engrossed in the antics of the characters onscreen. More than ever before. When TJ got dumped by his girlfriend and the girl he was seeing behind her back at the same time, Eddie could even feel his pain.

“It sucks when that happens,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, like you have the game to date two people at once,” said Thomas. “You could barely work up the courage to ask me out, and we’d been working within two feet of each other in that food truck all summer.”

He puckered his lips, inviting Eddie in for a kiss, but Eddie didn’t notice. He was paying rapt attention to the screen.

Eddie took a swig of a beer that Thomas couldn’t remember buying. He did all the grocery shopping, after all.

“Fucking sucks, man…” Eddie said. He shook his head, and the light from the screen glinted on his earring. Had he always had that?

“Like, I was dating this chick Melissa one time and I told her we weren’t exclusive, right?”

Wait, what was this story? Thomas knew Eddie had dated like two girls when he was still in the closet, but he’d never heard about this.

Eddie kept going with his story. Something about eating another chick out in the bathroom of their college’s Psychology building. But Eddie had come out in his senior year of high school, so the story was clearly made up. As he blathered on, stubble sprouted from his cheeks and chin. His eyelids grew dull and heavy while his hair darkened, like somebody was turning up the contrast on Thomas’ eyes.

Eddie scratched at his chest and Thomas couldn’t help but notice how much beefier it looked than normal. Actually, the arm he was using to scratch looked weirdly muscular, too. His tendons flexed as he scratched, his beefy forearm giving Thomas a semi.

He felt uncomfortable for some reason, so he turned his attention back to the screen. Right as the birthday girl took off her bikini top, exposing her breasts. Everything else fell away and his semi became a full-on boner. A drop of pre-cum soaked into the fabric of his underwear.

Wow, that girl looked… beautiful. Gorgeous.

He turned to Eddie. “That chick is slammin’, dude!”

Eddie stopped his story to look at the screen and shrugged. “Meh. She’s like a 6. I’ve had better.”

Thomas let out a strangely high-pitched giggle. “No way, man! None of your exes are as hot as this chick!”

They both fell into silence, letting the movie keep playing. Thomas found himself letting out loud guffaws every time a character fell down or got hit in the crotch.

As he laughed, all the fat and muscle sloughed off his frame, causing his shirt to hang over him like a fabric tent. He tugged at the shirt, feeling self-conscious. Was Eddie looking at him? Was he judging him for not being as muscular as Eddie was? For not being able to bag as many babes?

Thomas started cracking jokes to ease his own tension, and Eddie howled with laughter every time he said something crass or bro-y. Which was every time he opened his mouth. It just came so naturally.

Eddie strutted into the kitchen and came back with another beer. As he sat down, he left a full cushion’s worth of space between him and Thomas.

He swigged his beer and laughed at one of Tommy’s jokes about how fugly one of the nerdy girls onscreen was.

Eddie laughed and muttered, “she’s hotter than Regina, dude,” while taking a swig from his fresh beer.

“Fuck you, Eddie,” Tommy said, taking a drag and flipping Eddie off for dissing his crush. But he was suppressing a smile.

God, Tommy loved bro time. They both did. A moment of peace from the demands of his job at the vape shop. From Eddie’s endless parade of conquests, who were constantly begging him for more attention. They fell into silence once more, letting the masterpiece of a movie wash over them.

Before, it had felt like something was missing from this sequel. It didn’t feel that way anymore.

[switchinspirals]

Protocol Zero: Episode 1 Test Subject 201

Before the Oasis Resort opened there gilded doors to hundreds of gay men, VOID Tech had already swapped hundreds of bodies developing the Protocol Machine.

[maningup]

Where'd My Drink Go?

“Um, this isn’t…?” Marino set the glass on the table, furry tits out. Where was his shirt? He had just taken a sip of what the waiter brought out and the taste was repugnant. He smacked his lips. No, it was actually kind of good. He looked at his date Esteban; he was wearing a shirt.

“This is going to sound ridiculous, but do you know where I put my shirt?”

Esteban blinked, staring at him. “I think it…ripped off your body?” his voice was unsure.

“What?”

“Yeah, around the time your chest came out, and all that dark hair started growing over it.” Esteban scratched his head, as if he were not quite sure himself.

Marino chuckled, “I hate to tell you this, but I’ve had this chest most of my life. When I started working out at the gym BOOM these tits were the first thing that really came in.” He held his biceps up, “The arms came later.”

“And the facial hair?”

“I don’t have….,” Marino stopped speaking as his hands met dark curls. His fingers traced over his lips then down to his chin. “¿Que es eso?”

“Your beard… or goatee, I guess.” Esteban shrugged with an amused look. “So, you smoke?”

“Never, my dad would kill me.”

“But behind your ear,” Esteban pointed and Marino grazed the cigarette stick there.

“Oh, I guess every now and then. When the mood takes me.”

“I hear you though, I’m not sure if smoking is a habit I’d want my son to pick up.”

Marino’s ear perked up. “Oh, you have a kid?”

“No... I don’t think so,” Esteban answered.

“You don’t think so?” Marino asked.

“My head's been kind of fuzzy since you did that shirt disappearing trick.” Esteban shared.

“My head's been kind of fuzzy too. Guess these drinks are stronger than we thought.” He tipped his glass towards Esteban.

A few tables ahead of them someone spit out their drink, onto the ground and shouted to the staff, “Why the fuck did you bring me apple juice, where the fuck’s my beer?!!”

[occamstfs]

Dad's Den

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:

“What’s a- hooonck - Whuzzah shoe’s favorite candy?”

“Hshnk- Men-toes… hehehuhh…”

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.

ANOMALOUS ARTIFACT-646: CONTAINED

[abstractvanity32]

Random TF Time Travel Blurb

She was examining an ancient relic when a flash of light transported her back in time to ancient Greece the transformation starting with her feet as she stepped onto the soil. Her toes lengthened and spread while the skin toughened into callused soles wrapped in leather straps that formed sturdy sandals climbing up her ankles.

Her calves and thighs followed thickening with dense muscle as dark hair sprouted along the skin turning her legs into powerful pillars suited for battle.

The change swept upward next her midsection hardening into chiseled abs while her chest broadened and filled with thick dark hair across the new pecs. Her arms bulked with strength and bronze armbands materialized on her wrists as her face shifted features sharpening into a strong jaw and beard while her hair darkened and curled.

The last of her old form vanished between her legs reshaping into male anatomy beneath the leather skirt that appeared with a red cape draping over her shoulders. All traces of her former life dissolved as her mind filled with the thoughts and instincts of a Spartan warrior ready to fight for his city state.

He stood tall leaning against the stone wall in his armor a determined look in his eyes as he spoke in Greek “Είμαι Σπαρτιάτης πολεμιστής.”

[transform4u]

THE FILTER

You shouldn’t have clicked it.

You know that now.

You were bored. That’s all. Bored and horny and scrolling through Instagram reels, half-laughing at the absurdity of those bro-y filters that turned skinny white guys into jacked douchebags. You'd already tried a few on your friends as a joke — gave Liam a spray tan, slapped a fake beard on Max, turned Noah into some stupid looking Persian muscle twink in a fake Versace shirt. You’d even added fake captions like “Bro need my prayer mat and my protein shake lmao 💪💦💯.”

You’re not like that. You're the opposite. Soft, pale, nerdy. Gay as hell. You’re a clean-shaven, twink-leaning little Tumblr-flavored weirdo who watches Marvel fan edits and reads gay erotica where boys cry and fall in love during fencing practice. You do your skincare. You don’t smell. You’re a nice boy.

So when you got the DM from that weird, faceless account — @FilterRealityX — you thought it was a bot. Just a dumb link.

But you clicked it.

The filter opened your front camera. You looked like yourself — maybe tired, maybe bored. Bleached hair a little greasy. Wide glasses, pale skin, long lashes. You posed stupidly. Tilted your head. Bit your lip. You weren’t trying to be hot.

And then you saw the options.

✨ Twink 🧠 Nerd 💪 Chad 🧔🏽‍♂️ Alpha Arab 🔥 Douchebag Supreme

You snorted. Rolled your eyes.

You tapped “Alpha Arab.” Just to see what it would do.

The app glitched. Froze. Crashed.

And then… it began.

You didn’t notice it right away. It started in your arms.

That faint, itchy buzzing. Pins and needles, like when your circulation gets cut off and blood starts flowing back in. It made you shift in your chair, rub at your skin. You looked down, frowning.

And that’s when you noticed the smell.

It’s faint at first. A sour warmth that clings to the air, settles under your nose like a curse. Not your usual smell. It’s sharp. Fermented. Like gym socks soaked in cheap cologne and testosterone. Like a guy who hasn’t washed his sheets in a month and thinks a spritz of body spray is enough.

You sniff your armpits.

You just showered.

You shave. Every morning. It’s a ritual.

So why is there… hair?

You push up your sleeve. Slowly.

Your breath catches.

Dark curls. Not just a few. A mat of them. Damp with sweat, thick and greasy, growing from a pit that should be bare and smooth.

You blink. Your throat goes dry. You press your fingers into the hair to make sure it's real. It is. Warm. Wet. Yours.

You’re still staring when you catch something else out of the corner of your eye.

The room.

Your room’s… wrong.

The poster over your bed — where your framed Doctor Who print should be — is a glossy shot of some airbrushed, plastic-looking woman with cartoon boobs spilling out of a neon bikini. There's Arabic writing scrawled across it in Sharpie, but you can read it. Somehow. You know it says something crude, but your brain doesn’t translate it — it feels it.

Your chest tightens.

You tell yourself to focus. You open the camera. Flip it. You want to see you again. You want to laugh this off.

But your reflection… isn’t you.

Your skin tone is wrong. Darker. Tanned, but not sun-kissed — greasy. Uneven. A sheen of sweat is coating your forehead. Your cheekbones look swollen, meatier. Your nose — no. It’s wider. Rounder. Your eyes are the same shape, but your eyebrows are darker, bushier, thicker — like a cartoon of some TikTok gym bro from Dubai.

Your lips twitch.

You feel a smile creep up.

Not your smile.

Too lazy. Too smug. Too dumb.

And then you hear it. Inside your head.

“Wallah bro, I’d fuck that bitch till she walk sideways.”

The voice isn’t yours.

It’s heavy. Thick-accented. Drenched in arrogance and heat. The tone is low, nasal, like a guy who spends more time recording gym selfies than forming full sentences.

You recoil. You try to think something else. Anything else.

But nothing comes.

Just:

“Shitttt... them titties real? Fuck I wanna bust.”

You slam the phone down.

Your hands feel… weird. Thick. Clumsy. The fingers are calloused. Your nails stained faintly yellow, like you've been holding a vape pen between your lips all day and never bother to wash your hands. Your cuticles are ragged. You’d never let them get like this. You clip them every Sunday.

You push yourself off the bed, dizzy, sweating.

Even standing feels off. Like your weight’s shifted. Your thighs feel heavier. Denser. You glance down and see your calves bulging beneath the knockoff Adidas shorts that definitely weren’t on your body five minutes ago.

You didn’t own anything Adidas.

You reach for your phone again — shaking — and that’s when you feel your dick. You’re hard.

But it’s not the kind of hard you’re used to.

This isn’t that sweet ache you feel after reading a slow-burn fanfic. This is… animal. Aggressive. It throbs. Heavy. Meaty. And it smells. You can smell your crotch now — thick, musky, rank, like unwashed balls stuffed into too-tight shorts. Your nose wrinkles but your dick twitches again, proudly.

“Tight lil’ hijabi bitch suckin me off in da mosque bathroom, wallah.”

“Breed her. Fill her up. Be a fuckin man, bro.”

You’re not thinking these things. You don’t want to be thinking these things.

But your brain — your body — is.

You stumble to the mirror. You have to see how bad it is.

And you wish you hadn’t.

The face that stares back is… hot, in the way that makes your skin crawl. A beefy, bearded, smirking piece of shit. The kind of guy who reeks of tobacco, sweat, and Axe body spray. The kind of guy who talks over women, hates gay people, says “bro” every five seconds, and dry humps girls in clubs with no rhythm. You hate guys like this. You parody guys like this.

But he’s real. And he’s you.

A gold tooth glints in your mouth. A tattoo in Arabic script is forming over your collarbone. You don’t know what it means, but you do. Something about strength. Or dominance. Or submission. You can't focus.

You reach toward the mirror. Your fingers press against the glass.

Your mouth opens to say your name.

And all that comes out is:

“Yousef, bro. That’s me, fam. What you sayin’?”

You freeze.

You can’t remember your old name.

You blink. Sweat drips into your eyes. The stink of your own pits makes your nose flare, but your cock only gets harder.

You’re slipping.

You feel your old self screaming inside your skull — but it’s fading.

Being crushed beneath the weight of muscles, sweat, cock, beer, and bro-logic.

You hear your own voice again, this time from your mouth:

“Mashallah. I look so fkn alpha right now.”

And deep inside, what little’s left of you curls up, whimpering.

You tell yourself it’s a nightmare.

Some kind of fever dream. A filter gone wrong. A panic attack.

But then you scratch your beard. And you feel it. It’s real. Thick and wiry, your fingernails running across coarse hair that wasn't there an hour ago. Your skin feels oily beneath it, the pads of your fingers greased with your own musk.

You can still remember who you were. You cling to that. You were smart. You were clean. You were gay, proudly, comfortably. Your sexuality wasn’t a costume. It was you. You loved softness. Vulnerability. Men.

But now your cock is hard again — stiff in your sweaty shorts — and you’re not thinking about men.

You’re thinking about tits.

Huge ones.

Slippery, tanned, fake and perfect. A hijabi pulling back her scarf to reveal them just for you. Your hand clenches involuntarily at the thought. Your hips shift. You grunt.

“Fuck, bro… she’s bad as hell. Bet her pussy smell like jasmine an’ shawarma.”

Stop. Stop it. That’s not me. I don’t think like that. I’d never—

But the thought cuts you off. A new voice — your voice — grins inside your skull:

“Why not, bro? She wants it. You the prize, fam. Alpha dick. Arab power. Mashallah.”

You can feel it happening again. That internal slippage. Like your thoughts are being chiseled away. Words replaced with grunts. Cravings reprogrammed. The smell of your own sweat — sour, oniony, thick — used to repulse you. Now? It’s familiar. Comforting. Masculine. You lift your arm again. Just to check. Just to prove it’s gross.

Instead, you bury your nose in your pit.

Deep.

And inhale.

“Wallahi… I’m so fucking sexy, bro…”

You don’t mean to say it out loud.

But your lips are doing things you don’t control anymore. The accent is deeper now. Heavy, slow, warped. Like a parody of some scummy TikTok bro from Dubai mixed with a club promoter from hell.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down — the screen still cracked from when you dropped it.

A new notification.

Snap from: DAWOOD💦🔥🇸🇦 caption:

“You bringin that bimbo again or u tryna catch bodies solo tonite 💀😂”

You don’t know this person.

And yet, your thumb hovers over reply like it does. Like you know exactly who Dawood is. What he smells like. What he benches. What brand of knockoff cologne he sprays on his chest before Friday night prayers.

You shake your head. Fight it.

“This isn’t me. I’m not this. I’m—”

But what comes out of your mouth is:

“Shittt, I gotta shave my balls. Can’t pull like this, fam.”

Your own voice disgusts you.

And yet, your hand moves.

You pull your shirt off — the cheap tank clinging to your swollen chest. And there it is. Your torso. No longer soft, no longer clean. A wall of dense, greasy pec meat. Hair smeared across your chest like pubes glued to a sculpture. Your nipples are erect, sensitive, glistening with sweat. You run a thumb over one and moan. It’s deep. Guttural. Animal.

Your abs flex as you do. You didn’t have abs. But they’re there now — shiny, blocky, cut beneath a belly sheen of oil and tan.

You feel strong. You smell awful.

And your cock?

You glance down.

A fat, veiny, slab of cock meat tents your shorts — thick and low, framed by dark curls. You didn’t ask for this. You never wanted a cock like this. It's too big. Too ugly. Too… straight.

You try to back away from the mirror, but your body leans in.

Admiring itself.

“Wallah, I’d fuck me, bro.”

The thought echoes. Your brain protests — still screaming inside your skull. But it’s quieter now. Softer. Your real self is sinking, smothered beneath clouds of Axe, vape smoke, testosterone, and bad ideas.

“Please, I’m gay. I’m not this guy—”

“Shut the fuck up, bro. Ain’t no faggot shit here. You a man now. A fuckin alpha.”

You grab your crotch — can’t help it — and squeeze.

The musk hits you in waves.

You grunt. Deep. Filthy.

You should shower.

You don’t.

Instead, you scratch your nuts — one hand down the shorts, under the waistband, like some street-corner animal. You catch a whiff of yourself and smirk.

And then you do it.

You spit. Right on the floor.

A thick glob lands on the tile.

You chuckle.

“Fuckin’ whiteboys don’t know shit.”

Your accent is heavy now. Full-blown. Arabic slurring into every sentence. You sound like a club promoter who thinks he’s a sheikh. You flex in the mirror and kiss your bicep.

You used to hate guys like this. Now you are one. And the last piece of you — that scared, sweaty little gay boy — is begging for someone to save him.

But all that comes out of your mouth is:

“Mashallah, bro. I’m a fuckin king.”

You check your phone.

Another snap:

"Yo bring the condoms this time we tryna do halal positions lmaooo”

You reply:

“InshAllah bro. Imma fuck dat bitch sideways.”

And you mean it.

You flex one more time. Adjust your cock. Smirk at your reflection. And grin:

“Yousef in da fuckin house, bro. Alpha shit only.”

You wake up smelling like cum and cologne.

Wallah, you smell so good.

Sweat soaked into your sheets. Balls glued to your thigh. A half-dressed white girl with crusted lip gloss drooling onto your bicep. You don’t even look at her yet.

First thing’s first. You raise your arm and sniff your pit.

Deep. Slow.

“Mmmmmm… ya zalameh, that’s fuckin mashallah, bro.”

You say it out loud. Just to hear it.

You sound Arab now. Not fake Arab. Not accent-by-filter. Real. Thick. Lazy vowels. That Cairo swagger. That Lebanese club-boy sleaze. Your English is fucked now—broken, cocky, proud of it.

You stretch, cracking your back, your pecs bouncing like heavy meat on your chest. Your beard’s thicker than it was yesterday. Your teeth are still stained from shisha and whiskey. Your jaw itches where the hair’s growing down your neck.

The room stinks like man.

Your room.

Torn poster of that hijabi porn star above your mattress. Prayer rug somewhere under your fake Gucci slides. A full-size bottle of cheap oud body spray next to a bottle of lube, both half-empty. Used condoms in a plastic grocery bag.

“Astaghfirullah,” you grin.

You scratch your nuts through your tight shorts. They’re sweaty. Dense. Your dick still semi-hard from whatever you did last night. You glance over.

Blonde. Fake tits. Sunburned knees. Eyelash stuck to her cheek.

You smack her ass lightly.

“Yalla, baby… wake up, come suck me again, huh? I got prayer soon.”

You’re joking. Of course you won’t pray.

You say bismillah before fucking and then blast her throat. It’s just part of your brand now. Conservative when it’s hot. Religious when it turns you on. Everything you say is bullshit—but it works. They eat it up.

You don’t remember anything else.

You don’t remember him. The boy who liked books, or skincare, or soft gay things. The one who cried during fan edits. The one who didn’t stink.

He’s gone. No trace. No memory.

Just Yousef.

Yousef who gets pussy. Yousef who smells like oud and armpit. Yousef who flexes, fucks, and never thinks more than two words ahead.

You don’t even speak full English anymore.

You check your phone. 78 notifications.

“Aiwa habibi you comin to Babylon tonight or you still balls deep inside that sharmoota 😭😭😂” “Brooo bring condoms this time wallah you STUPID bro” “Inshallah we do double team ya khara 😈”

You respond:

“Brooo wallah I’m READY fam 💦💦 imma put her in a fkn coma inshalla 🔥🔥💪”

You record a voice note:

“Yooo Dawood, I just bust in this blonde puta, I swear bro, her lips was like fkn marshmallow. Like wallah, I was FEELING God mid-fuck.”

You laugh. You’re always laughing.

You're the fucking man now. You love yourself.

You hit the gym — tank top stretched over your chest, armpits soaked in man-stink. You don’t wipe the machine. You don't care. You want people to smell you. To know you’re alpha. You film yourself flexing, groaning, smacking your pecs.

“Aiwa habibi... that’s the Arab chest, yalla 😈”

At night, you hit the club. Babylon. Your spot. Your kingdom.

Lights flashing. Hookah smoke thick. Dudes dap you up. Girls eye you. You’re dripping in sweat and cologne and vape fog. You pull your shirt up and flash your abs. Your gold chain bounces as you dance.

And then she finds you again.

Same bimbo. Bottle-blonde. More filler than brain cells.

You grab her by the waist.

“What’s up, baby? Miss that Arab dick, yeah?”

She giggles. Moans. You pull her close. Bite her ear.

“You gonna say shukran, yeah? After I break your fkn back?”

She doesn't even get a word in before you drag her to the bathroom stall.

And in ten minutes you’re balls deep, pounding her from behind, shirtless, groaning like a beast.

“Yaaahhhh… take that Arab cock, ya khara... that's fkn HALAL pussy now!!”

You cum with your mouth wide open, sweat dripping down your nose, screaming:

“WALLAHHHHHHHHHH I’M A FKIN KINGGGGGG!!!”

You slap her ass again. Zip up. Flex in the cracked mirror.

You smile. So dumb. So cocky. So Yousef.

“Mashallah bro… I’m unstoppable.”

And you believe it.

Because now?

There’s nothing else left.

You don’t remember his name. You don’t remember softness. Or shame. Or boys. Or love.

Just tits. Cum. Prayer rug. Beard. Vape. Flex. Smell.

You’re Arab. You’re Alpha. You’re Haram as fuck.

And it feels so fucking good.

[need4change]

Boredom

You were just bored.

That’s all it was, really — a boring afternoon, scrolling through your phone, curled up in your pristine apartment where everything had its place. You had your scented candles lit, soft indie music playing in the background, a skincare mask tight across your cheeks. You were 22, white, gay, polite, clean, and sweet. You hated confrontation, loved romcoms, and dreamed of one day meeting someone who appreciated your thoughtful texts and lattes with oat milk.

And yet you’d always wondered — what went on inside the head of someone like your gym neighbor, Rigo?

Rigo, with his thick neck, oiled pecs, and nonstop parade of girls in and out of his bachelor pad. He barely spoke English, just growled things like “Mami, bend over,” and laughed like a caveman while pounding beers with his “boys.” You always judged him — his sweat, his smell, his gross alpha vibe — but you also couldn’t help but wonder. What did he think about? Was it all just sex, lifting, and ego? Did he have thoughts beyond pussy, muscles, and protein?

You laughed, sipping your tea, and said it out loud, just to yourself.

“God, I wish I could know what goes on in that meathead’s brain for just one day.”

And something heard you.

You wake with a start, heat suffocating you, body slick with sweat that clings to your now bronzed skin. Your pale cheeks are flushed dark, drenched with oil, and your breath comes in sharp, heavy pants. Something’s wrong. Your chest… it feels heavy, but not in an emotional way — physically swollen, tight, and sore, like you’ve been pumping iron for hours.

You sit up, and immediately gag. The air reeks. It’s musky, stale, sour like feet, gym shorts, and cum. Your room… is gone.

Instead of your minimalist décor, you’re surrounded by chaotic filth — dirty tank tops, used condoms, protein powder containers, and a pair of Nike slides with crusty socks stuffed inside. Where your bookshelf once stood, a cheap TV blasts reggaeton over the sound of a porn video, tits bouncing in slo-mo as some Latina chick moans in Spanish.

Your heart slams against your chest — but even that feels different, heavier, meatier. You scramble to your feet, or try to, but your thick thighs knock over an empty beer can, and you stumble forward. Your legs feel clumsy, weighted with bulk, your knees aching from hours of squats you don’t remember doing.

You glance down.

“Fuck…” you groan — except your voice sounds foreign, deeper, with a lazy Latin slur. Your feet are bare, wide, filthy, calloused — and huge. They reek, a pungent stench of sweat and grime, and the toenails are untrimmed, yellowed at the edges. You never go a day without showering. What the hell is going on?

You stagger into the bathroom, but even it’s disgusting — pube-covered sink, cheap cologne bottles, a stained towel draped over the mirror. But that’s not what makes you gasp.

It’s your face.

Or, what used to be your face.

Your jaw is wide, stubbled with dark hair, your lips plump, constantly curled in a smirk. Your nose is broader, your brows thicker, furrowed dumbly as if confused by your own reflection. Your bleached curls are gone, replaced by a messy buzzcut fade, sweaty and greasy, with a little razor design shaved into the side.

Your shoulders are enormous, your pecs like slabs of beef, twitching involuntarily as you try to breathe. And your sweaty, hairy armpits? You can smell them even now, and the scent is so strong it makes your cock throb inside your thin ethika boxers.

You reach down, panicking — but your hand is rough, your fingers thick and calloused, and your cock is… massive. Long, veiny, with low-hanging balls that slap against your thighs as you move. You clutch it, intending to get it soft, but you only grunt, hips thrusting into your palm.

“Pussy, bro… fuck, need some tight Latina pussy.”

The voice in your head… it’s yours. But dumber, hornier, Latino, and ravenous. It’s Rigo. Or someone worse.

“Titties, bro… bounce ‘em on my face. Wanna breed, fuck, bust. Where the hoes at?”

You want to scream, to cry — but all that comes out is a deep moan, and a single Spanish word slips free, thick with accent.

“Mierda…”

You double over, your abs flexing, rippling into thick slabs, your waist narrowing into a perfect V, veins pulsing across your arms and chest. You can smell yourself — BO, cum, cologne, sweat — and you love it. Your mind is erased, taken over by sex, muscle, and a burning need to fuck.

Your name isn’t Charles anymore.

“Call me Ricky, bro. Big dick Ricky.”

You spit into the sink, scratch your hairy balls, and flex in the mirror, cocky, dumb, ready to fuck.

You’ve got a gym session in an hour, but first you gotta bust a nut or two — maybe call up Isabela, the chick with the big ass, see if she wants to get wrecked.

You slap your muscle tits, laugh, and say in thick Spanglish:

“Damn, I’m fuckin’ huge. Let’s go, papi. Time to smash some pussy.”

The last thought Charles ever has is a faint whisper beneath the avalanche of toxic, straight alpha energy: Help… please…

But Ricky’s too busy grabbing a Monster energy drink, adjusting his swollen cock, and FaceTiming a bimbo with only one thing on his mind.

“Mami, get that ass ready. I’m comin’ over to fuck.”

[beausstuff]

Sup bro!! Hope you are doing great! I heard you are offering solution for unsolvable needs. Well here is my problem. You see, a couple of months ago I have participated in this trial to test the latest version of a VR headset and it looked amazing. character custumization, whole body simulation, anything you cand ream of. The problem is, I think they sent me a broken versino of it or it got delivered poorly. The thing is glitchy, it has sparks now and then and I really have struggle getting it off. and don't get me started on the AI glitching. It's just super weird. Problem is, I have to make a review or they won't pay me. And I need the money to pay my college tuition. Can you help me?

The headset clunked heavily as it slid back over his brow, still humming faintly, the lens flickering with static. Jace winced as a spark nipped the side of his temple, fingers twitching. “Shit…” he muttered, rubbing his head before grabbing his phone.

His dorm was cluttered, half-packed boxes from his recent move-in, textbooks unopened on the bed. He needed this stipend. As a beta tester of the headset, he was set to receive a good chunk of money for leaving a good detailed review video. He needed this review done to pay for next semester…

Dialing the tech support number he was given, he paced. Ring… ring…

A crisp, calm voice answered.

“Thank you for contacting Immersia Tech Support. This is Felix. How may I assist you today?”

“Hey, uh—yeah, the headset’s glitching like hell. It shoots Sparks, literally shocks me sometimes. And I can’t get the damn thing off without it trying to restart.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. For calibration errors, we recommend initiating the diagnostic protocol while the unit is on. May I walk you through it?”

Jace hesitated. “…Yeah, fine. Let’s do it.”

The Headset hummed to life, it would have been seamless if the unit hadn’t emitted a warning set of sparks.

The world blinked, and suddenly he stood in a dimly lit garage.

Fluorescent light buzzed above. The air smelled like oil and heated rubber. Tools hung neatly from a pegboard. And straight ahead was a massive mirror, gleaming.

Jace’s own reflection stared back at him. Same curly brown hair, average build, the oversized hoodie his girlfriend gave him last fall. He blinked. Everything looked normal.

“Welcome to the diagnostic interface,” Felix’s voice echoed, disembodied but clear. “This environment reflects your current configuration settings.”

“Uh-huh. Great. So what now?”

“Let’s begin your real-body calibration.”

A floating interface appeared over the mirror. Fancy graphics in a liquid like display. Like the menu screens he'd seen in the product trailers . Words scrolled:

USER PROFILE

• Name: Jace Weller

• Height: 6’1”

• Weight: 210 lbs

• Language: Portuguese

• Occupation: Auto Mechanic

• Muscular Index: 92.7%

Jace frowned. “Wait, what? I’m not six-one. I’m five-nine! And I sure as hell don’t speak Portuguese.”

“Hmm,” Felix said smoothly. “well that's inconsistent with our database. These were the details you listed in your initial application." Jace frowned. There was a laziness in Felix's voice, like he didn't actually care to listen.

"Initiating adjustment.”

“Oh good, Yeah if you could write down my actual info-”

A hot jolt surged down Jace’s spine as he felt a spark from the headset fly into his ear. His knees buckled. In the mirror. his reflection stretching, bones re-aligning. His shoulders widened. His face elongated slightly, cheekbones sharpening, posture straightening.

God DAMN for a VR system this felt so FUCKIN real

“Height calibration complete,” Felix announced. “Now you matchh the 6’1” profile. Apologies about that error sir. Is your avatar correct now?”

Jace panted, gripping the wall. “Holy shit… What the hell was that?!”

“Minor shock response during sync. Shall we proceed?”

“I - no, I think something’s really wrong with this! Stupid review ain’t worth this shi -“

“Noted. Next parameter, your application listed, 160 lbs of lean muscle… Current your avatar has 54. Adjusting, one moment please.”

“Wait, no—!”

The shock this time was deeper, like being hit by a defibrillator. His chest swelled violently, pecs bulging outward, nipples flattening across thick slabs of meat. His hoodie tightened, seams splitting at the shoulders. Arms pulsed with size. Biceps bloated, and triceps thickened. His waist tapered as abs carved themselves into place, one by one, in excruciating pain. Veins trailed down his arms like rivers.

He stared at himself in shock, breath ragged. “W-what the fuck?!”

Felix’s tone was annoyingly calm. “Progressing smoothly. Clothing isn’t right for your region either sir. Replacing.”

His hoodie dissolved into pixels, replaced with a stained white tank that clung to his slick, muscular chest. Heavy denim work pants appeared on his legs, sagging at the waist from sheer mass gain, the bulge at his crotch outlined now in stark, heavy relief.

“You’ve got the wrong file—this isn’t me!” Jace shouted.

“hmm... not according to our records sir,” Felix replied in a casual tone. “According to your trial submission, this is your preferred identity overlay.”

“No way! That’s Fucking SHIT! didn’t, I mean I wouldn’t put -“

Jace yelled, as he felt the bones in his face reshape. His cheek bones rose to prominence, while his shaggy hair retracted into his scalp, changing from a ruddy brown to jet black. His lips puffed forwards filling out into a prominent pout.

“Oh! It looks like your Language is mismatched as well! Interface reports your native language is Portuguese. Let’s fix that while we are here…”

A burst hit harder than the others. Jace yelped, the world spinning. His mind frayed as his vocabulary blurred at the edges, replaced by smoother syllables. His mind reeled as his thoughts jumbled in a broken mix.

“Calibração linguística completa,” Felix said. “Language fully mapped.”

“Eu… não entendo…” Jace murmured, confused. “I mean, I don’t understand…” "Of Course sir, Lastly, lets just reboot your identity/memory settings so for a more immersive experience. one moment..." "O quê? Espere! Senhor Please-"

Searing electricity

Nothing ... .. hel- ...

... Jace raised a meaty hand to his head, Scratching the nape of his neck. "Droga, this call is taking forevrrrr.."

"Sorry about that sir," came the agents smooth voice you were saying something?" "si!" Jace spoke confidently into the headset, "Olá? Já está consertado? uh - iz it fixed?"

“Almost there sir, let’s Finalize the environment.”

As if a back light had been flicked on, the darker garage faded into the sunlight, replaced by the open bay doors of a bustling garage. Men called out in Portuguese, whistles and shouts, laughter echoing in a midday heat.

Jace—no—João blinked slowly, sweat dotting his dark forehead. His hands were rough, calloused. His chest heaved, pecs bouncing as he adjusted his tank top. There was a wrench in his back pocket, a smear of oil on his jaw. His mind was so soft. Fuzzy. huh. Why had he called?

A beep echoed.

“Your setup is complete. Do you have any additional questions?” Felix’s voice crackled, distant now.

João blinked. “Uh... Você fala português?” he asked slowly.

“I’m sorry, I only speak English. But your headphones should be fully functional now. have a nice day!”

The line clicked. João scratched his head, confused for a moment. Then he smiled dumbly and adjusted his headset, no, his headphones. The ones his namorado, his hunky boyfriend, had gotten him last week. Fancy ones, good for blocking out noise while he worked.

“João!” someone shouted across the garage. “Vai ajudar com o motor, porra!”

“Sim, sim!” he shouted back. “Tô indo!”

João flexed his thick arms, rolling his shoulders, sweat gleaming on his golden skin as he strutted past the open bay, his thick thighs shifting under the low-slung denim, the outline of his heavy cock swinging freely beneath.

He wiped his hands on a rag as he passed Raphael—his silver-haired boss leaning against the wall, arms crossed, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed sharp, eyes tracing João’s glutes with hunger.

“Meu deus… olha esse rabo,” Raphael muttered, grabbing João by the waistband and pulling him flush against his hard chest.

João grinned dumbly, heart thudding.

“Rapha… os outros tão olhando…” he whispered, voice low and needy. Raphael didn’t give a shit. “Foda-se eles.”

Before João could speak, Raphael’s tongue was in his mouth, rough hands roaming under the tank top, gripping his sweaty pecs.

“Tão firme… meu gostoso…” he groaned. João whimpered, hips grinding against his boyfriend’s thick thigh, cock swelling.

“Me fode aqui mesmo,” he gasped in Portuguese, eyes glazed, “quero sentir você agora…”

Raphael growled, spun him around, and pressed him chest-first to the warm hood of the car.

“Abre essas pernas, mecânicozinho,” he murmured, undoing his belt. João moaned, obeying without thought, breath fogging the windshield.

....

End transcript call.

Thank you for using Immersia Tech. ....

Hey Everyone! I hoped you liked this story! Please submit your asks in my inbox (I'm Waiting for them haha!) and feel free to message me, would literally love to talk to some other weightlifters.

[exploratorytfs]

Turkish Barber

I needed a quick haircut but the usual place I go was closed. There was a Turkish barbers around the corner, but my friends always joked that they could only do one style of haircut and everyone gets the same cut. I think they were just being a bit xenophobic, and I didn’t have the time to find somewhere else, so I decided to go in anyway a take a chance. The barber put the gown over me and asked what I wanted. It was a hot day and I immediately started sweating under the gown as I told him I just wanted it to look neater, but not to take away any length.

As I feared, they went straight to shaving off the sides completely. I panicked, but didn’t want to say anything - it was already too late and I didn’t want to make it worse. Eventually the guy finished it off but it was not my usual style. To make up for it, he offered to shave my beard and do my eyebrows free of charge. I should have said no, knowing how disastrously the haircut went, but I can rarely say no to something free. He tilted me back in the chair and got to work. By the time he had finished and tilted me back up to look in the mirror, I looked TOTALLY different. He removed the gown and the blond hair trimmings fell onto the floor. Beneath the gown I saw my new tanned skin. Gone was the shirt I was wearing before, replaced with a black vest. What would I do now??? No wonder people only ever see Turkish guys in here…

[itstransformingtime]

My son was sometimes too cocky and arrogant for his own good. The amount of times I had caught him posing in the bathroom mirror, flexing his muscles like he was some kind of god. I just wished he would put even half that effort into his schoolwork. Maybe then I wouldn’t still have a 19-year-old living at home with no job and no future.

One evening I finally snapped. I yelled at him, telling him he needed to find a job and move out. He yelled right back, telling me I had no idea what it was like to be his age and that the gym was the only thing he was actually good at.

That was the last straw.

I don’t know what came over me, but I made a wish right there in the middle of the argument: “I wish I could understand what it’s like to be you.”

The air got thick and warm. My body started changing fast.

My shoulders exploded outward, packing on thick, rounded muscle. My chest ballooned into two heavy, striated pecs that bounced with every breath. My arms swelled hard and fast — biceps peaking, veins popping, forearms thickening like I’d been lifting heavy for years. My abs carved themselves deep while my legs turned into powerful pillars, quads and calves stretching my old sweatpants until the seams ripped.

My face got younger, sharper. The grey disappeared from my hair, replaced by a stylish, messy cut. A cocky smirk spread across my lips as new memories flooded in — endless gym sessions, protein shakes, flexing for the camera, chasing that next PR.

When the changes stopped I was 21, shredded, and standing next to my son looking like his identical twin brother.

He hadn’t aged a day. He was still 21, still my son… except the reality around us had shifted. In the new world, I was no longer his dad. I was his cocky gym-bro twin brother who lived at home. And the man who had replaced me as the father of the house? A famous pro bodybuilder in his mid-40s — the one everyone saw on magazine covers and Instagram — who now paid the bills and kept the family in line.

My son blinked, then grinned as the new memories settled in for both of us.

“Yo, bro,” I said, my voice deep and full of that same arrogant energy he used to have. I flexed my right bicep hard, watching it peak perfectly. “You filming this or what? Gotta get the pump on camera.”

He laughed and grabbed his phone, holding it up to record us in the gym mirror.

We stood side by side — two young, shredded twins. I threw up a double bicep while he flexed his chest and abs beside me.

“Fuck yeah, bro,” my twin brother (my former son) said, pouting his lips for the selfie while I smirked at the camera. “We’re looking massive today.”

I don’t miss my old life at all.

No more yelling about jobs or school. Now I spend every day in the gym with my twin, getting bigger, posting flex pics, and living the exact lifestyle I used to complain about.

And every time we take a mirror selfie like this, I remember exactly who I used to be… and how much better it feels to be the cocky gym bro instead.

Our famous bodybuilder dad just shakes his head when he sees the posts.

But deep down, I think he’s proud of his two boys.

[dangercocktail]

[putradisguiser]

“No way, man! I’m not doing it! You’re outta your damn mind!” Putra snapped, throwing Shuji a sharp look

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! And how the hell would this even work? It’s impossible!”

“Come on, dude!” Shuji leaned in. “Just this once! I know it works. I sprayed it on a rat, and now it’s a freaking cat! Trust me!”

“No! I’m not turning into him! Why don’t you do it instead?!”

“Cause…” Shuji’s voice dipped and a little desperate

“You’re perfect for this, okay? And besides, wasn’t it you who said it’s your fantasy to become someone else? You literally told me when you were drunk. This is your chance to live it! I’m just trying to help you!”

Putra froze. The memory crept back slowly, Shuji with a beer, and his drunken confession slipping out like spilled liquor. Dammit. Sure, the thought of becoming someone else is literally had always been a strange thrill for him. But this…

“Look, I just want you to be Neff. That’s it. I need revenge, and you’re my only hope! Please, I’m beggin’ you…”

Putra sighed, his resolve softening

Neff was Shuji’s new roommate, the typical jock bro of the campus. Sexy, charming, masculine, a football player, and sometimes an asshole. Rumor had it that he had slept with half the campus, guys and girls. Shuji had been roommates with him for six months now, and the kind of revenge he had plotted against Neff remained a mystery…

“What if I screw up?? What if the plan goes wrong?! Have you even thought this through, Sooj?” Putra asked

“No, you won’t. Trust me.” Shuji replied

“Then how can I be him? You got a polyjuice potion with his hair or sumthin?”

Shuji smirked as he pulled out a can of spray from behind his back and held it up like it was a fantasy sword

“This will do~”

Putra stared at it, deadpan. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind…”

“Ugh, come on! Take your clothes off.”

“What?! Are you serious now?”

“Yes! All of it.”

Putra groaned, pulling off his Resident Evil T-shirt and tossing it onto the couch. “This is fucking insane…” He yanked his pants down, leaving him in nothing but a pair of green briefs.

“There…”

Shuji nodded but then, “Uh… those too.” His face was turning redder by the second

Putra glared at him. “Jesus Christ, Sooj...”

“Just do it!” Shuji shouted, trying to mask the crack in his voice. His hand clutched the spray can tight. Grumbling, Putra stripped completely, his tanned skin catching the light

“Alright. Now what? Is this gonna hurt?”

“I’ll spray you, and then… well, you’ll see.” Shuji’s grin turned wicked as he started coating Putra’s body. The liquid mist clung to his skin like a second layer, shiny and sticky..

“Ugh, this feels disgustin…” Putra muttered. “What is in this stuff?”

Shuji smirked and dashed back to the bedroom, returning with Neff’s favorite shorts, the Land Rover shorts he always wore when working out or hanging with his “bros.”

They were fresh from his latest workout, still warm, slightly sweaty, and smelling musky

“Hehehe~ ohh, I can’t believe I’m doing this!” Shuji smiled, holding Neff’s shorts and shoving them to his face, inhaling deeply

“Ahhh~”

Putra cringed at the sight. “Are you sure this is gonna work…?”

“How many times do I have to say yes to you, Pat?” Shuji replied annoyed

“I’m just askin’, alright..Jesus, you pervert, crazy bitch!” Putra shot back

“Now wear this.” Shuji commanded, handing Putra the shorts

Putra pulled them up reluctantly, but the moment the fabric touched his skin, a shock of pleasure bolted through him. “Ohhh…” He yanked them off and threw them across the room, his body trembling.

“What the hell was that?!”

“What the fuck, Pat?! Why did you do that!”

“It feels weird… my skin reacts in a weird way…” Putra explained, his voice shaky

“Then it’s working!” Shuji exclaimed. “Come on, just wear it!”

“No way I’m putting those back on!”

“Yes, you are! Stop being a baby.” Shuji handed them back, and this time, Putra gritted his teeth as he slid the shorts on. A moan escaped his lips

“Ohh… my god…mmph…” he gasped, his breath ragged

Shuji watched, his excitement growing

“Can’t believe his shorts fit you..”

“What happened nex— AUGH”

Putra’s body felt unbearably hot. His skin began to shift and lighten, his natural Indonesian tan transforming to a pale tone. His smooth legs prickled before sprouting thick, dark hair, the change spreading like wildfire

Then came the cracking of his bones, sharp, and jarring. His body stretched, lengthening until he reached a towering 6’2”

His limbs quivered as muscle swelled beneath his skin, arms and legs bulking up until they were thick and powerful. His round belly flattened, abs replacing it

Dark brown hair spread across his chest and stomach, adding to the newfound ruggedness. His shoulders broadened. His chest ballooned outward, pecs becoming full and rounded, bouncing with each breath

His nipples hardened, the sensation strange and intense, their color shifting to a sensitive brown

A sudden jolt of pleasure hit him from within, radiating from his prostate. Putra let out an involuntary moan as his body trembled

His arms, now rippling with strength, flexed instinctively. “Ohh mmph…” he murmured

The transformation continued downward. His small cock twitched violently, growing longer, thicker, until it stood proudly, almost alien in its size and girth. His balls swelled, becoming heavy, full, and filled with potent sperm, like they were ready to burst... His pubes grew out into a thick, untamed bush, and an earthy, musky scent filled his nostrils

Another crack echoed as his face began to reshape. His boyish roundness gave way to a strong, angular jaw. His flat nose sharpened and became more pronounced. His thick lips thinned and stretched into a charming, almost cocky smirk

His thickening eyebrows framed his eyes, which sparkled with a newfound intensity. His bald head grew a set of stylish brown hair, styled exactly like Neff’s, and a puff of steam hissed from it, releasing Neff’s distinct, natural scent

“Nghh…” Putra moaned softly, his lips parting as he caught a whiff of his own hair musk

His body wasn’t done yet. He lifted his arms, revealing smooth pits that suddenly erupted with a bush of dark hair. Another hiss of steam escaped, and the potent musk of Neff filled the room

Shuji, frozen, he could only stare in disbelief. “Putra…?” he whispered, his voice trembling

Putra blinked slowly, swaying as if caught in a dream. “Mmph…” he groaned, steadying himself as the transformation reached its peak

“Pu… Putra? Are you okay??” Shuji asked, stepping closer

“N-Neff…?” He asked again

Putra’s body jolted, his transformed cock twitching in response. His eyes fluttered open, still dazed. His muscular pecs twitched as if it were waking up on its own

“S-Sooj…? What… what just happened?” His new voice was deep and unfamiliar, even to him

Shuji stammered, his mouth opened in shock. His childhood best friend was now a replica of his roommate crush

“It worked….”

“S-Sooj… whoa, my voice!” Putra exclaimed, shocked to hear his voice

“What worked?!” then Putra snapped

He grabbed Shuji’s shirt in a grip, so strong it made the fabric strained

“What the hell did you do to me! Yo, change me back!!”

“I-I can’t…” Shuji responded, his voice barely a whisper

“I… I didn’t mean for this to happen!” he stammered

“What do you mean you can’t?! What the hell did you do to me, Sooj? Change me back—Erghhh!!”

Putra’s body suddenly jerked. “Argh!!” he screamed, clutching his head. His face twisted in agony

“Fuck!! My head!!”

“Putra! No!!” Shuji cried, grabbing him as his legs buckled. “Please! I’m so sorry!”

Putra fell limp in his arms, his muscular body still and unresponsive

Shuji panicked. “No, no, no, no…” He lowered him to the floor, slapping his face gently. “Putra, wake up! Don’t do this to me!”

‘Is he dead??’ Shuji thought in panic

After trying to wake him, Shuji decided to give him CPR. It felt wrong at first, like he was kissing both Neff and Putra at the same time, but he had to do it. Otherwise, Putra would die looking like Neff…

As Shuji’s lips met Putra’s, suddenly Putra’s eyes opened. He looked at Shuji with a smirk

“Putra! Bro, you’re awake!” Shuji sighed deeply in relief. “Hah… I thought you’re dead for real…”

Putra stood up from the floor, his eyes fixed on Shuji, still smirking

“Damn you pervert bitch, you just wanna kiss me, ain’t you?” He said, his voice and mannerisms exactly like Neff’s

Shuji’s eyes widened in surprise. “Putra… you just act like him…”

Putra just smiled, standing up and adjusting his pants and dusted off the dirt. “Mmm, don’t wanna screw up my favorite pants…”

Shuji’s eyes widened, his stomach sinking. At the same time, his cock began to harden and erect

“Putra…?” Shuji questioned, his voice trembling.

Putra, now Neff, didn’t react. He just smiled and gave Shuji a questioning look, as if saying, “Who the hell is Putra?”

“N-Neff…?”

Putra’s cock twitched under the shorts, and his eyes blinked as he grinned, nodding

"Fuck… what the fuck have I done…" Shuji thought, panic gripping him

He hadn’t just altered Putra, he’d replaced him entirely, body and soul, with Neff. The horrifying truth settled in like a weight in his stomach. Now he wasn’t just stuck with the guilt of erasing his best friend

He had to figure out how to explain this to the real Neff, and worse, how to deal with the nightmare of having two Neffs walking around the campus

“Putra, seriously! Cut it out man, stop playing!”

Putra laughed. “Okay, alright… it’s still me. A bit, I guess?” He said, scratching his hair

“What do you mean??”

“I dunno… I guess my memories blend with Neff’s…” Putra explained, rolling his shoulders and patting his hairy chest. “But…”

“But you feel more like Neff?” Shuji questioned

Putra, now Neff, nodded happily and grinned

“You even act like him…”

“Yo, check this out!” Putra now Neff exclaimed, flexing his shoulder with a proud smug

Shuji thought for a moment. He wanted to make sure of something… if it was true that Putra said his memories and identities blended together, that meant Neff was much nicer and better than the old one and knew more about him than the old Neff. So that meant… he could ask him to be his boyfriend!

Shuji cleared his throat. “Dude, I love your Land Rover shorts!”

Neff smiled, squishing his hairy abs and manspreading like a true jock bro. “Uhh, thanks bro, they’re my uhh… work out shorts. I like them, they’re so comfortable.” he winked at him

Shuji’s stomach dropped, but not with dread. It was more like the flutter of butterflies, a nervous excitement he couldn’t quite explain. ‘Damn…’ Sooj thought. Putra persona is totally rewritten now...

Then suddenly, Neff rose from the sofa and walked closer to Shuji, adjusting the waistband of his shorts. “Now… I know exactly why you did this to me, Sooj…” he said, leaning closer to Shuji with a smirk”

“Neff?” Shuji asked again his voice cracked

“You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Shuji’s heart pounded, his knees weak as he stared into those dreamy eyes. Well this going to be really interesting….

[vugcehkvcfbk]

The Focus Group

Andrew had just had a bad breakup. Like really bad. Like she had changed the locks on the apartment bad. Like she had thrown his stuff in the street bad. Like his car had a TV shaped dent on the roof bad.

And then at the end of it, sweet as sugar, she’d tossed down an envelope and said “Oh hey, here’s a little gift for you tho. I bought it for your birthday but you may as well use it.”

What would you have done? Andrew opened it. Inside was a gift certificate for some place called “Focus”. Probably a spa or something. Whatever.

After he got the TV off his car roof and his underwear in the trunk, he drove to his buddy Paul’s. Paul put him up, and told him that they’d go out that night. Find something fun to do…some new chick for him to hook up with. For now, Paul had to go to work, but they’d totally go out and get Andrew some ass later.

Andrew looked at his pile of stuff. And he looked at the second hand slowly counting off Paul’s workday. Yeah…he needed a distraction.

Like maybe that spa card.

Yeah, it would almost be like revenge. Relaxing on her dollar.

About half an hour later, Andrew was sitting in a nicely appointed office. It didn’t look too much like a spa, but whatever, lots of places looked generic. And he’d never really actually been to a spa before, so who knows what one was supposed to look like.

The receptionist ushered him into a room and told Andrew to have a seat. It was a conference room type deal, with about a half dozen chairs and a big mirror on one wall. Weird. Andrew wondered when he was going to get to change into a fluffy robe and get a massage or whatever.

A door opened at the far end of the room. Enough people filed in to fill all the chairs. Most of them were just regular looking men, of all ages and demografics. If they had anything in common…well, truth be told they looked a little faggy. But like…weren’t the guys who worked at a spa supposed to look like that?

One guy, sitting right next to Andrew, he had a clipboard and was wearing a lab coat.

“Hi Andrew,” Dr Labcoat said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions to help the room understand you, ok?”

“Sure thing…” Andrew said. Man this was a full service deal.

“What do you do for work Andrew?”

“Just retail stuff. I work at a kiosk in the mall selling cell phones.”

“And what do u do for fun?”

“Uh…” said Andrew. “Mostly I just hang out with my buddies. We watch a lot of sports and sometimes we hit the gym and get a good pump. I dunno…I used to like to hang with my girl, but she just dumped my ass….”

“Why did she do that Andrew?”

“I dunno! She said I was lazy and I never pitched in an i never cared about nothin’ or whatever…but I think it was really cuz I’m always lookin at other girls and she knows it…”

“Alright Andrew, I think that’s enough. Please sit quietly for a moment.” Said Dr. Labcoat. He turned to the rest of the table. “As you can see, we’ve got a fairly basic bro here. He’s undiferentiated. We’d like your advice on how to bring him up to spec. The gift certicficate he’s using asks only that he stops ogling women all the time. So of course we brought in this group.”

“This is a weird spa…” Andrew said.

“It’s not a spa, Andrew” said Dr Labcoat. “It’s a focus group. These men are going to help create a new you!”

“What?”

“Sit quietly Andrew.”

Andrew sat quietly. He didn’t want to…but there was something about the guy in the Labcoat. Something about the whole room that was bending his reality just a little bit…

“Let’s start with you,” Dr Labcoat pointed at guy somewhere in his mid-forties. Or maybe fifties. The guy was pretty built, and it was making it hard to guess his age.

“I think he needs more discipline in the gym,” said the guy who clearly had plenty himself. “He said he goes to the gym, but Andy doesn’t look like he lifts anything except a six pack of beers.”

“Alright,” Dr Labcoat said. “Let’s say that Andrew goes to the gym…three times a week? And that he lifts heavy and with good form well he’s there?”

“Make it five times” said the gym goer. “And he’ll have to pair that with discipline in the kitchen to get a really great body.”

“Okay, that’s done,” said Dr. Labcoat, marking it down on his clipboard. Andrew didn’t feel any different, but a moment later he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and…holy fuck. He had to have forty pounds of muscle on his frame that weren’t there when he walked in the door.

“Holy Fuck” Andrew said. “Okay…I’m cool with this. Keep it up guys…”

“By all means, lets keep it up” said Labcoat. “What do you suggest?” He asked pointing to a well dressed man in his thirties.

“Well, too be honest, he looks like he shops at the dollar store. I’d improve Andew by making him give a damn about fashion. Not suits and ties…hes too young for that, but he should care about looking good.”

So Andrew did. And when he glanced down the table at the mirror, he was almost shocked to see that his body wasn’t in a hoodie and jeans anymore, but in a perfectly fitted deep v-neck t. A glance down showed him trim slacks that cupped his ass nicely. And a pair of freshly shined brown shoes. Combined with his thick muscles, he looked ready to get laid. Andrew grinned at the changes

“And you,” said the doctor, pointing to a grizzled old biker. “What do you suggest?”

“You kno me boy,” said the biker. “I think he should have some tats. Nothin u can cover up with a shirt either.”

“Okay,” said Dr Labcoat, noting it down. Andrew stood up and moved toward the mirror, watching a colorful tat spread down up the right side of his neck and out his left sleeve. At first glance it looked like a Celtic design.

“How can you do all this?” Andrew asked?

“Oh, starting to ask questions,” said the next guy in line. He looked bookish…maybe like a college prof? “I suggest that Andrew has never really been dumb - he just acts like an oaf because society allows him to. I say that Andrew should really be dumb, used to not quite understanding the world around him.”

“Noted,” said the Labcoat guy. Andrew wasn’t sure what he was writin’ down, but who cared. He had a sweet bod, awesome tats, and he looks hot. Why worry about shit?“

Next Dr. Labcoat turned to this shy looking guy, maybe 22. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“I think he should have green eyes…”

The whole table burst out laughing.

“What?!” Said the shy dude. “I mean like get-lost-in-them green. Like unnerving green eyes. It’s a thing for me ok?”

“Okay, got it,” said Dr Labcoat. Andrew started to notice that when he made eye contact with someone across the table, they had a hard time looking away from him.

“Do you know what goes great with green eyes?” Said the next guy when Andrew made eye contact with him. “Being Spanish. When I was backpacking thru Spain, it was always the green eyed guys who caught my attention.”

Dr. Labcoat made a note on his pad. Andrew walked toward the mirror again.

“No. But…you can’t just…” he looked at his mediterranean skin. His hair that was so dark brown it was almost black.

“Andrew, are you okay?” Asked Dr Labcoat.

“Andrés”, the Spanish hunk corrected absentmindedly.

“This just isn’t possible,” he said in a thick Spanish accent.

“We’ll continue then,” said the Doctor. “One more go around the table”

He pointed back at the gym afectionadio. “What do you suggest?”

“He’s starting to look pretty good to me. But he needs fuller lips. Real big DSLs.”

Andrés lips grew more pronounced. “What is dsl’s?” he asked.

“Stop thinking so much boy” said the college professor.

“Let’s stick to our turns” said Dr Labcoat. He turned to the well dressed man. “What do you suggest?”

“I like this Spanish thing, but I’d like it more if his hair grew out. He’d look like a fashion model with longer hair.”

The Doctor noted it down and Andrés hair grew down to his shoulders. Right now it was loose, but it looked long enough to tie up into a bun when he worked out.

“And you,” Dr. Labcoat turned to the biker. “What do you suggest?”

“Well…he’s hot as anything, he’s dumb as a rock, an he’s got tats…I have to say, I think this man needs to be gay as fuck”

Andrés looked closely on the mirror. He didn’t look any…gayer. But then he looked back at the gym rat and he felt his average cock start to inflate.

“Now, it’s actually your turn this time. What do you suggest,” Doctor Labcoat asked the college prof.

“I suggest that I can see him getting hard over all us at the table, but his bulge isn’t big enough. I think he should have a big cock, but just small enough that it’s not painful.”

Andrés long cock now pushed uncomfortably in his slacks. He was thick enough, and more than long enough to hit all the best places in any man he wanted. And tender, he knew instinctively, that he could gently open up a man for the first time.

“Done,” said Dr Labcoat. He turned to the shy guy and asked his question. “What do you suggest?”

“Well…he’s got the eyes that I could fall into forever… so could he have like a hypnotic voice. The kinda voice where when he talks you just can’t help but listen and maybe start to agree…”

The Doctor smiled and noted down the change. “Alright,” he said. “Andrés, how do you feel about that?”

“I think that maybe you want to kiss me, yes?” Said Andrés, looking at the shy young man with those clear green eyes.

“Y…yes, I do” said the young man.

“Not just yet,” said Doctor Labcoat. “We have one final piece of feedback.”

He turned to the backpacker. “What do you suggest?”

“Mmmmm…I feel like ‘Andrés’ should be a manipulative man. He should love using that body and that incredible voice to make other men his puppets…yeah, that’d be so hot to watch…”

The Doctor noted it down on his pad. “Ok… that’s everything” he said.

“Excuse me doctor” said Andrés softly, “I have just one small request. With all of your improvements, well, I think that maybe it is only fair that I get to make a suggestion too…”

“I’m sorry, that’s really not the procedure…”

“But is only fair doctor. I think you are a fair man, yes? A good man? Just one suggestion.”

The doctor seemed to struggle with the idea for a moment before coming around.

“And Andrés, the last call goes to you, what one thing would you want to improve about yourself?” asked the man in the lab coat.

Andrés looked around the room, noticing all the hard bulges and tented pants from the focus group. If you were into dudes, and he was VERY into dudes, it was easy to imagine any of them licking his thick cock, bending over to get pounded, or just worshipping his cut body…

“I think I need a harem” said Andrés

And so he got one.

[salmonskinrolltf]

An artsy, pretentious hipster whose Instagram is all black-and-white photography (he hates the shallowness of social media, but it's the only way for his art to reach the people) opens it to post yet another masterpiece...

...Only to find that his profile has been replaced by a wall of thirst traps from exactly the kind of guy he most looks down on: some totally basic gym gay, with plenty of muscles but nothing behind the eyes, flexing and showing off his armpits. Huh?

[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts!]

My name is Devlin, and I’m a photographer. My ex-boyfriend, who is also my best friend and my business partner for a coffee pop-up we’re trying to get off the ground, says I should share more of my photography online. He says it will help me build a “following.” I don’t know why I’m expected to bend over backwards to cater to the lowest-common-denominator tastes of social media, but he’s right.

I’ve been posting my black-and-white photography on Instagram for a few months now, and I’ve already gotten a few pieces in galleries because of it.

So I heave a sigh at the necessary evil as I open Instagram to upload my newest piece, a self-portrait titled “A Quandary of Nature.”

I’m just about to hit the button to upload a new image when I notice that my profile picture in the corner looks different. I click on it and my whole profile pops up. I see my name and username, so I’m clearly still logged in, but I must have been hacked or something. All the photos I posted are gone, replaced by a series of inane selfies from some muscled-up influencer-looking guy who looks dumb as a bag of bricks. He looks like probably calls these images “content.” It makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit.

In the most recent image, he’s showing off his armpits.

He’s also showing them off in the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that… And so on. I scroll and scroll until I hit the bottom, where there’s an image of a visibly younger version of the hunk… showing off his armpits.

What is it with striking the same pose over and over again? I get that he’s probably figured out armpits are good for engagement or something, but I fear that he simply doesn’t have the vision to come up with more creative shots. Watching this page is like seeing art and culture stagnate before my eyes.

Clearly I’ve been hacked. I’m not very familiar with the Instagram interface, but I’m sure there must be a way to report hacking. I click around to try and find it, and I accidentally open the camera, revealing an image of myself and the wall behind me.

And something is… changing. My bleached hair is slowly losing its color, fading back to my natural brown as it rearranges into a shorter, trendier cut that falls in choppy waves over my forehead. My glasses disappear. My cheekbones rise, my jaw straightens, and my eyes dull, both in color and in vibrance.

I assume this is one of those weird in-app things that Instagram people insist are called “filters,” because why make up a new word when you can steal one from the photography lexicon that already means something?

But when I reach up to touch my forehead, I can feel the hair rustling against it. The arm I’ve raised also looks swollen, like it's been stung by a whole hive of bees. I look away from my phone and down at my arm, which is growing meatier by the second, swelling to what must be four times its original size.

A quick glance to my left shows that the same thing is happening with my other arm. And a glance down shows… nothing. My pecs have already swelled to such a mountainous size that I can’t see anything past them. But I pat my stomach, which is now tight and muscular. My thighs are, too.

Fuck. Somehow, I’ve instantly transformed into a gym-honed tool, who - to be honest - looks exactly like the guy from those Instagram photos. The one difference is that I still have my mustache. I know I should be freaking out, but something is dulling my reactions and all I can think about is how glad I am to still have my mustache. It feels like a connection to the real me. Proof that I am still myself, at my core, even if I look totally different.

I am still an artistic, intelligent guy with great taste who… Wait, what am I doing?

My elbow is sticking straight up in the air, as if I’m trying to show off my armpit, even though I’m wearing a shirt.

I snap a photo. I don’t know why. I just do. I’m a photographer. It’s only natural, I guess.

But fuck, I just took a thirst trap selfie that looks exactly like every other photo in the goddamn library that got hacked onto my account!

But also… I look fucking hot. With my finger, I trace the unimaginably huge bulge of my biceps, my strong, stubbled jaw… I accidentally hit post.

In shock, I close out of Instagram and throw my phone across the room. I look at myself in the mirror and strike a double-armpit pose. Fuck! What’s wrong with me?

When I do it, my brain goes fuzzy for an instant, giving me a strangely pleasurable feeling. My dick chubs up in my pants.

I raise my left arm. The fuzzy feeling comes back, and my dick rises to full mast. I raise my right to join it, and my brain tingles like I’m getting a blow job while eating an ice cream cone. I feel… fucking good, man.

Wait, no. This isn’t me. I snap out of it and grab my phone. I open my photography app, make sure to use the black-and-white option (the only option, in my opinion), and try to take a selfie at a fun, unique angle that proves how artful and smart I am. I hold the camera low, and…

This is how it turns out.

At least my armpits aren’t out.

After I hit “post,” I raise both arms again, out of habit, and feel my brain instantly obliterated by fuzziness. I feel so good I cum in my pants, even. By the time I lower my arms, I’ve forgotten what I was so worried about.

All I can think about is how goddamn good I look, and how I need the world to share in the joy that is my beautiful body.

I change and take a another picture, to bank some content for later.

[misctf]

Be-PrEP-ared

"How much longer is this gonna take?" Ethan shifted, pretending to look interested. He had an exam coming up and a hundred places he’d rather be, but the man across from him only grew more animated by the second.

"So we came up with our slogan, 'Be PrEPared.'" The man practically beamed. "The boys in marketing really outdid themselves, don't you think?"

"Yeah..." Ethan caught his mind wandering and forced a smile. "I'm happy to be involved. I think population health is undervalued."

"Preach, babe." The man snapped his fingers.

Ethan grinned internally. The guy was eating out of his hand, and Ethan knew it wasn't just his answers. From the tone to blatantly checking him out, this guy fit every gay stereotype Ethan knew. What could he say? The gays loved him.

"But enough about me," the man laughed, leaning forward. "Tell me about you, hun. Why join our campaign?"

Ethan’s smile widened. He could tell the truth: he didn't give a shit about population health. He wanted a cushy specialty, and residency directors liked well-rounded resumes.

"Well, I think this is a great opportunity to support..." Ethan trailed off as the man raised a skeptical eyebrow. "...support marginalized groups. Happy to help de-stigmatize this stuff."

The man stared, then broke into a grin. "Oh my God, you're adorable."

Ethan let out an awkward chuckle. "That's a first." When the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory, he leaned in. "Look, I'd be good at this. Promise you won't regret bringing me on board."

The man tapped a finger against his chin. "Hmmm..." Really? Had this guy even looked at his résumé? This wasn't exactly a difficult decision, "Who would you prescribe PrEP to?" He finally asked.

"Uh…" Ethan wasn't expecting that. "Guys who sleep around, I guess." He paused, catching himself. "You know what I mean. Gay guys. Men who have sex with men."

"And would you use PrEP?"

"Uh, no." The answer shot out too quickly. The man’s eyebrow climbed, "I mean, I'm not the target demographic," Ethan corrected with a nervous laugh. "Nothing against it, but I'm not looking for sex with other men."

The man studied him for a beat, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, Ethan, I think we're gonna get along just fine."

"So that's a yes?"

"Oh, babe. That's absolutely a yes."

The tension left Ethan's shoulders. Perfect. One more line for the application. "Awesome. I appreciate the opportunity."

"We're excited to have you." The man reached beneath his desk and pulled out a small BePRePared tote bag. "Take this, hun."

"What's in it?"

"Everything you'll need for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

The man's grin somehow widened. "Don't you worry. We'll be in touch."

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

"That took longer than I thought." Ethan returned to his apartment, tossed the BePRePared tote bag onto the couch, and sat at his desk to study, "Fuck, I'm behind."

He stared at his digital flashcards, trying to prepare his best for his upcoming exam. But the text blurred. He blinked and stared at the card.

"What the hell?" He knew the answer to this, or at least he did yesterday. A suffocating brain fog rolled over him, as a dull ache started behind his eyes. His mind went completely blank, "Am I getting sick?"

Shoving himself away from the desk, he ran his hands through his hair. His neat trim felt dense, curling thickly between his fingers. He paused and ran his hand through his hair again, slower this time.

"How...?" Suddenly, the room tilted and sweat broke out across Ethan’s forehead, his joints throbbed, "Shit..." He couldn't afford to get sick, not when he had his first gig with BePrEPared tomorrow. The thought made him stop, "What am I thinking? Must be the fever... fucking with my head... Need water..."

He stumbled toward the kitchen and reached for a glass, barely noticing the fabric of his sleeve straining against his growing bicep. He quickly chugged his water, and froze when he wiped his chin. There was thick, rough stubble there. As if he hadn't shaved in a week.

"Fevers can... cause... hallucinations." He reasoned, although his thoughts were coming slower now, "Need... sleep..."

The room spun and his temperature spiked as he stumbled over towards the couch. He weakly pulled his scrub top off and threw it aside, his palms brushing through the thick, dark mat of body hair sprouting across his chest. But he barely recognized any of this, as his vision blurred and body grew weaker. He grabbed the tote bag on the couch and dropped it to the ground, the contents spilling out.

"What the fuck is this?" Ethan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, settling deeper. He felt a surge of irritation. This was a joke. They couldn't be serious. He was a medical student, for God's sake, not a...

Yet, as he stared at the blue speedo, his mind drifted to thinking about the happy, muscular campaign ambassadors he remembered seeing on the website. No exams. No residency stress. Just having fun and being noticed.

"Must be nice..." He fell onto the couch, and wiped sweat away from his forehead, "Fuck..." He smiled weakly, "I bet I’d look good in that Speedo." he thought.

He blinked, horrified by his own thought. Where had that come from? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the movement only triggered a vicious wave of nausea.

"This isn't… a normal virus," he muttered. The words felt clumsy on his tongue, "Something's... wrong... with me..."

Ethan's hands drifted across his torso, tangling in the growing, dense dark body hair that was spreading now across his stomach. Beneath the coarse mat, his pectorals had swollen into heavy, solid shelves of muscle, hard and burning to the touch. He squeezed his own chest, a delirious, breathless laugh escaping him as his thumb traced over a newly sensitive, hyper-reactive nipple. He pinched it, and a sharp, slutty jolt of pure pleasure shot straight to his groin.

"Fuck," Ethan groaned, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..."

The room was spinning now and he was starting to see things that he knew shouldn't be there. He saw Joshua, sitting and smirking in the corner of the room.

"You're... not here." He slurred, "Leave me... alone..."

He closed his eyes tightly, and the hallucination of Joshua blurred and shifted. He was suddenly surrounded by nameless men crowding over the couch. He could feel them. Their heavy, rugged palms gripping his broadened shoulders, rough fingers digging greedily into his newly full, heavy ass, squeezing his thickening muscles. With a grunt, he flipped onto his stomach, and arched his ass.

"Ah... fuck..." Ethan groaned, drool leaking from his mouth. He whimpered as he felt something press against his exposed hole, "Pl...Please..."

His hand slithered past the tight elastic of his boxers, wrapping around a cock that was longer, thicker, and harder than it had ever been. He began to pump it in a frantic, heavy rhythm, his muscular thighs flexing with every stroke. He didn't care about the exam. He didn't care about residency. He just wanted to be a dumb, hot object. He wanted to be used.

“Would you use PrEP, babe?” Joshua’s voice echoed in his head.

"Wh-why... would... I?" Ethan moaned, "I'm... not... Oh... fuck..." He gagged suddenly as he felt the heavy pressure of a thick cock pushing deep into his throat, stretching his jaw and cutting off his breath, while another massive, rigid shaft slammed brutally up his ass, "Th... this isn't... real..." He thought, even as his jaw ached.

Every thrust of the thick, veiny shaft plugging his throat made his eyes water as he gagged. Simultaneously, he felt his ass being stretched wider as the skin-on-skin pounding drove his lower body forward, burying his face deeper into the cushions with each wet, heavy slap.

“What’s the doctor word for... not breathing?” he tried to ask himself, “Can't... think of it. Mind... fuzzy. So heavy.”

The ambient hum of his laptop fan and the quiet of the night vanished, completely replaced by a deep, thumping electronic base that vibrated directly through the cushions beneath his chest. His brain couldn't quite process the switch. Even the clinical definitions of auditory hallucinations felt too distant, too complicated to grasp.

“Music?” Ethan thought, his cognitive processing slowing to a crawl. “Music... nice... feels good...”

Even the scent of the room was suddenly different. A thick, heavy cloud of cologne, raw male sweat, and latex filled his lungs with every desperate, choking gasp.

“Smells... good,” the simple thought drifted lazily through his mind, “Warm. Thick. Smells like... men. Sex."

He let out a choked gasp as the cock went deeper down his throat. Panicking with what little logical faculty he had left, Ethan whipped his hands upward, fully intending to push away whatever hallucination was blocking his airway and clamping his jaw open.

“Get it out... need to study... am a doctor...”

But instead of empty air, his palms connected firmly with hot, sweaty flesh. The solid, moving hips of a man rhythmically thrusting down his throat.

“No... Wha...? Not a dream? Real. Big. So big. In my mouth. Up my ass.”

He reached out desperately, trying to find leverage, but instead his thicker palms and fingers clamped directly around two pulsing, rigid cocks. His broadened shoulders flexed automatically as his palms wrapped tight, his fingers squeezing the thick shafts as he began to stroke them in a frantic, heavy rhythm. His body knew exactly what to do, even if his brain could no longer define it.

“Stroke them... make them feel good,” his dumbed-down thoughts hummed, completely content to abandon his studies. “Good boy. Do what they want. Just a hot object.”

The thumping music grew louder, accompanied by the rapid, rhythmic click-whir of a professional camera shutter and deep, masculine groans of approval close to his ears.

"Look at him take it," a deep, gravelly voice chuckled right above him. "The new guy's an absolute natural."

Flash. Flash.

An intense, blinding glare of white-hot light penetrated right through his closed eyelids. The searing heat radiating against his skin wasn't a fever spike anymore; it was the burning warmth of professional studio lighting hanging directly overhead.

Ethan’s eyes snapped open.

He wasn't in his apartment. No, he was pinned face-down on a leather sofa in the center of a roaring photography studio. He could see his reflection in a mirror. Bulkier, hairier... sexier... sporting a toy stethoscope over his hair-covered chest and a tiny blue Speedo that was completely soaked through.

"Oh my gawd..." He thought, eyes watering.

A tall, rugged model stood over him, holding Ethan's face up by a tight fist in his thick, curly hair as he slid deep into Ethan’s throat. Behind him, a massive, tatted model was burying himself ruthlessly into Ethan’s expanded, aching glutes, slamming his hips forward with a heavy, wet slap. To his left and right, two more models leaned over the couch, grinning down at him as Ethan’s large, rough hands rapidly pumped them.

"Fuck... where'd you find this guy?"

Ethan's eyes were wide now, but the panic he expected to feel never came. His mind was too beautifully empty, too saturated with testosterone and pleasure. Board scores, residency applications, the endless stress of his old life...

“I’m the PrEP boy,” his thoughts drifted, “Dumb... hot... please... use me.”

"Keep going, hun, you're doing amazing," Joshua called out over the music, gesturing to the lens. "So, let's hear it for the campaign! Would you use PrEP?"

The thick cock down his throat pulled out with a wet pop, a line of drool running down his heavy, stubbled chin. He looked straight into the camera lens, his mind completely wiped of medical terminology. None of that mattered anymore. He was a BePRePared model. He was beautiful, he was being used, and he loved it.

"Y-Yes..." Ethan gasped out, his voice a deep, thoroughly broken baritone. His hips gave a desperate, simple twitch against the man behind him. "Yes... God, yes..."

The photographer grinned, clicking the shutter rapidly. "Perfect! That's the money shot!"

With a final, shattering surge of friction, the man behind him buried himself to the hilt, releasing deep inside him. Simultaneously, the model in front of him painted Ethan's face and thick, hairy chest, while the two men in his hands blew their loads over his fingers. And Ethan's own massive, leaking cock throbbed and fired a heavy stream into his tight, blue speedo.

"So good..." He moaned, falling back onto the couch and looking up at the other models with a dumb, happy grin, "More…?" he slurred, a thick bead of drool tracking down his chin and mixing with the man's seed. "More… please… use me more…"

"Don't you worry." Joshua patted him on the shoulder, while the other models chuckled, "You're our star now, Ethan. We've got plenty of work lined up for you." He nodded over at the photographer.

"Next shoot is in twenty minutes, boys," the photographer called out, adjusting his lens with a grin. "Clean him up just enough to do it all over again."