RedFox

[reddarkfox222]

As I was going to home after completing my job i found a mysterious alley which has a occult shop. when i entered in curiosity, i found various objects from various cultures and time periods. As I was gazing the products, the shop owner recommended me "The Ring", which looks antique gold and perfectly fits in my finger. The special power of this ring is that it can swap the genetic characteristics of each person when needed and it can't be reversed. I want to try to best life with best characteristics to have a satisfying life.

You returned home after work, like every evening. The street was the same, the streetlights just flickering on, the asphalt still warm. And yet, that alley—you had never noticed it before. Narrow, dark, with a single crackling neon sign: Esoterica – Rare Objects.

Driven by a curiosity that didn’t entirely feel like yours, you stepped inside.

It smelled of old incense and dust from distant worlds. The owner, a man with slow gestures and eyes as clear as glass, watched you without hurry.

— Looking for something you don’t yet know you want? — he asked.

You didn’t answer. But your gaze fell on a velvet-lined case, deep red, and inside it lay a ring. It looked like ancient gold, thick and heavy. The old man handed it to you without asking.

— It’s the Ring of Substances. It takes what you are and trades it for what you see. Every exchange is irreversible. Be careful who you look at.

You put it on. It fit perfectly, warm like living flesh.

That evening, at home, you scrolled aimlessly on your phone. An old classmate had posted a group photo. And there, in the middle, was him: your high school bully. You hadn’t seen him in years. Time had been kind to him.

In the picture, he was at a pool party, standing near the edge. He wore only a pair of red boxer briefs, tight and low on his hips. His body had changed: broad shoulders, a right arm covered entirely in tattoos of dragons and flames, sculpted abs, full chest. His dark mullet fell to the nape of his neck, his expression confident, almost arrogant. He smiled like the world owed him something.

You stopped to look at him. Not out of envy. Out of anger. Old humiliation. That secret desire to have his body, his presence, his boldness.

The ring tightened slightly.

A warm shock started from your ring finger, climbed your wrist, spread like mercury beneath your skin. Not pain. Just a deep pressure, fibers shifting, tendons realigning. You felt your shoulders broaden on their own. Your arms grow heavier. Your hands larger. Your jaw changing shape.

You ran to the bathroom.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and held your breath.

You weren’t you anymore.

You were him. The dark mullet brushed your neck. Your left arm was covered in the same dragon-and-flame tattoos. Your chest was hard, defined, your nipples small and dark. Your abs stood out, one by one. And the red boxer briefs—something you had never owned—now clung to you like a second skin.

Ti sei girata di lato. Hai visto la curva dei tuoi glutei, sodi e rotondi, stretti dal tessuto rosso aderente. Hai flesso un braccio: il bicipite si è gonfiato, i tatuaggi si sono estesi sulla pelle.

You touched your new face. The square chin. The high cheekbone. The smooth forehead.

— This is the body of the one who made me suffer — you whispered.

But the voice was different. Deeper. Fuller.

You ran a hand through the longer hair at the back of your neck. The sensation was strange: silky, heavy. Then you looked at that hand—tattooed, veined, strong.

And you smiled. For the first time in years.

You left the house that night. You walked differently. Every step pulsed through your calves. The red boxers under your jeans were a promise. People glanced at you sideways. You pretended not to notice.

But inside, a small voice whispered: You took his body. Now who’s the bully?

L'anello brillava.

---

Il giorno dopo, un parco che non avevi mai visitato. Una panchina di legno sotto un platano. E lì, seduto con un braccio appoggiato allo, un uomo sulla trentina. Non aveva la stazza del tuo bullo, ma era scolpito: addominali perfetti, petto pieno e, su tutto, una folta chioma di capelli scuri e morbidi, quasi selvaggi. Sembrava riposare, ma ogni respiro faceva ondeggiare i capelli come erba al vento.

You sat on another bench, at a distance. The ring didn’t need proximity. Just looking at him with desire was enough.

The second shock was less violent, but deeper.

You felt the muscles in your chest merge and reshape, your nipples darken, grow larger. Then an itch everywhere: abdomen, sternum, shoulders, even your lower back. A layer of hair was growing beneath your shirt, smooth and warm.

Ti sei alzato, hai camminato fino a una fontana e ti sei chinato per guardare il tuo riflesso nell'acqua immobile. Il taglio di capelli a triglia era ancora lì. Anche i tatuaggi. Ma ora il tuo torso era una fitta macchia di seta scura. Hai infilato una mano sotto la camicia e l'hai tirata fuori: le tue dita portavano l'odore di muschio, di un corpo maschile vivo.

You stroked your stomach. The hair bent under your fingers, rough but yielding. Beneath it, your abs were stone hard. Your left pectoral twitched on its own.

Sulla panchina, lo sconosciuto si grattò distrattamente il petto. E tu ti rendesti conto che quella sensazione – i peli contro il palmo della mano, il calore che si accumulava sotto nell'aria fresca – ora era tua.

---

But it still wasn’t complete.

You decided you wanted more. Not a young man’s body, not a thirty-year-old’s. You wanted presence. You wanted dominance. You wanted something that would stop people in their tracks without needing tattoos or poses.

So you went to a gym.

Not the usual one, filled with kids in crossfit gloves. You chose an old one, on the outskirts, where the air smelled of rubber and sweat and steel. Where real men trained.

You sat on a bench press, pretending interest in a barbell. And then you saw him.

He was in the cable corner, alone. A very muscular man, older. Around fifty, but the kind shaped by a lifetime in his body. Shoulders like a wardrobe, arms thick as thighs, forearms lined with bulging veins. Hair everywhere: chest, shoulders, back, even his hands. A full beard, gray at the chin, still dark at the sides. But his head—barely any hair, shaved close, what remained gray and coarse like wire.

He was pulling low cables with animal focus. Every movement slow, controlled, unintentionally threatening.

He didn’t speak to anyone. But the air around him was different: heavier, slower. The others—even the big ones—gave him space.

You stared at him. The ring vibrated like a running engine.

And then came the third shock. The strongest.

You felt your bones creak, widen. Your shoulders compress upward. Your ribcage expand. Your neck thicken, shorten, your jaw harden. Something in your scalp: the mullet hair fell away in seconds. Not baldness. A natural shave. What remained was short, gray, dense stubble, like an old soldier’s or a woodsman’s.

The body hair exploded: from your chest it spread over your shoulders, down your back, curling along your forearms. You felt it sprout between your toes, across your ribcage, even around your nipples, now large as coins.

The bully’s tattoos? Faded, warped, almost gone. Your thicker, darker skin had swallowed them.

Hai visto il tuo riflesso nella porta di vetro scuro della palestra. Niente taglio di capelli a coda di rondine. Niente tatuaggi vistosi. Niente boxer rossi.

There was a man. Hairy. Massive. With short gray hair and a gaze that would make anyone look away.

You moved an arm. Heavy. Solid. A controlled tremor in the muscles, like steel cables under flesh and fur. Then you inhaled: your chest rose, and the hair rubbed softly against itself.

The man in the corner had finished his set. He wiped his nearly bald head with a towel and walked out without looking at you. He didn’t need to anymore.

You were the original now.

You went home without hurry. The stairs felt narrower. The door smaller. You entered, sat on the bed. The mattress felt like a feather. You weighed twice as much.

You stood, went to the bathroom, and stared at yourself for a long time.

The bully was gone. The hairy man from the park was inside you, fused into this final body. Now you were yourself: broad shoulders, short gray hair, full beard, hair everywhere, a gaze heavy as lead.

You ran a hand over your shaved head. The sensation was rough, warm, masculine. Then over your chest: your fingers sank into the thick fur and you shivered.

You were alone. But your solitude now weighed like a throne.

The ring was still on your finger. Warm. Quiet. There was no need to seek other bodies anymore.

You sat in the chair by the window, crossed your hairy arms over your chest, and looked down at the street. People passed by. Someone below glanced up and met your eyes—then quickly looked away.

You smiled. Slowly.

And thought: This is good.

[reddarkfox222]

I’m a 21 years old student. Always first of my class I wanted to investigate a cure for pancreas cancer, but everyone knows scientific foundation is not cheap. While searching for money I found this ad for making an only fans account that said “don’t worry! easy money but no one will recognise you!”. So I decided to join. I always have been a shy gay nerd, but I needed to make this investigation. Two days later a box arrived to my house and said “for your videos”. What should I do?

You open the package with your hands sweating, and inside you find only a pair of red boxer briefs. You pick them up and immediately feel that something is off: they don’t smell new, they carry a warm, humid, human scent, as if someone had already worn them for hours. You drop them onto the bed, say “I’ll never wear these,” but then you think about the money, the reagents, the cancer—and you put them on.

At first, nothing. Just the fabric, loose, too loose, and a warmth rising from your waist like a fever. Then the tingling begins. Inside your muscles. You look down and see the boxers filling out: your thighs are swelling, your quadriceps pushing against the red fabric like they’re carved from marble. You stand up and walk to the mirror. Your arms—your biceps grow as you watch, the curve rising, rounding out, becoming hard as stone, veins surfacing thick and dark like ropes. You touch them—they’re warm, pulsing. Your shoulders widen, you feel your bones crack, and your chest—God, your chest: two round, heavy, solid masses pressing your shirt until it tears at the shoulders. You stand there in front of the mirror, fabric hanging in shreds, staring at a body you’ve never seen before: wide shoulders, massive chest, eight carved abs, a damp lock of hair falling over your forehead. You’re big. You’re built.

Then you feel something under the red boxers: pressure, lengthening, heat rising from deep inside. Your penis is growing, stretching longer, thicker, heavier. You look down and the red fabric tightens, bulges, lifts like a tent. The erection comes hard, unstoppable, the tip dampening the cloth.

You grab your phone. You don’t speak. You open the camera. Framing your body in the mirror, you slide a hand over your hard chest, fingers pressing into the flesh, reaching a nipple, rubbing it, pinching it. A shock shoots from your chest straight down. The other nipple, the same. Your hands move to your biceps, you flex them in front of the camera—they swell, huge, as big as your head, veins throbbing as you squeeze and feel their hardness. Then down to your stomach, your fingers tracing each of your abs, one by one, down to the waistband of the red boxers. You pull it, release it. Finally your hand presses over your penis through the fabric, feeling the hardness, the shape, the damp heat, your fingers moving slowly up and down. Your breathing grows heavy, ragged. A low sound escapes you. You stop. You post. The money starts coming in.

Then the itching. Under your skin. You look at your forearm: dark hairs pushing through, one after another, growing in real time—short at first, then longer, coarse, thick. Your chest: hair sprouts around your nipples, then a dark line trailing down to your navel. Your stomach: those perfect abs now covered by a dense layer of dark hair. Your legs: thick, dark hair spreading over your thighs. Your back: a carpet rising from your lower back to your shoulders. Your armpits: dense, damp, already carrying a musky scent. Your beard: spreading across your jaw, your chin, thick and rough, fully grown.

And your muscles keep growing, slowly, deeply. Your biceps swell further, your pecs expand, stretching the hairy skin, your shoulders broaden even more, your neck thickens. You are huge. A wall of muscle and hair. And beneath the red boxers, your size has grown again—still hard, still damp.

You go live. You don’t speak. You frame your hairy chest, running a hand through the dark hair, stroking it, tugging lightly. A low sound. Your hand moves to your beard, fingers sinking into the thick hair of your face. Then lower: you grip the red fabric, pull it slightly down—just enough to reveal the start of your dark, thick body hair—then let it snap back. Your hand presses over the tight fabric again, feeling the pulse beneath, moving slowly up and down. The damp lock of hair on your forehead, the dark beard, your large, hairy body trembling slightly. Messages flood in, money rises.

You don’t think about the cancer anymore. You don’t think about anything.

You’re big. You’re hairy. You’re hard.

And you don’t want to stop.

[reddarkfox222]

tf requests are OPEN ✨

there’s no base prompt this time — you can send me anything you want: ideas, scenarios, characters, transformations… go wild 👀

you can also message me privately so we can discuss things better and decide your fate together.

[reddarkfox222]

30 something gay adjunct literature instructor at a community college.

5'10", pretty average build with a little softness from long hours sitting and grading essays, dark slightly messy hair, a smooth face because I can’t really grow a beard no matter how long I try, and big size-13 feet in worn sneakers.

Honestly, I pressed Spin because I was avoiding work. I’d been staring at the same unfinished lesson plan for an hour, my brain completely fried, and the flashing free token felt like the perfect tiny distraction. One quick spin seemed easier than going back to grading another stack of papers.

The desk is full of papers. Essays, essays, lesson plans. A thirty-year-old adjunct professor of literature at a community college, he spends hours sitting and grading papers. He's five feet seven inches, medium build, a bit soft from long hours sitting. Dark hair is slightly unkempt. His face is smooth. He can't grow a beard, no matter how hard he tries. Big feet, size 11, in worn-out sneakers.

He's been staring at the same lesson plan for an hour. Brain melted. Then he sees the free token flash on the machine someone left. Perfect distraction. A quick spin is easier than grading another pile of papers.

He presses "Spin."

🧔 📿 🐻

The next moment, the lesson plan is gone.

The first thing he feels is his face. It itches. It burns. Where nothing has grown for years, now something is exploding. His beard. Thick, full, dark. It covers his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his neck. Like a man. Like a bear. Like something he could never be.

Then his hair. The dark, slightly unkempt hair remains, but thicker, fuller. A few gray strands, barely visible.

Time. The years pass him by. Thirty, thirty-five, forty. Ten years in a matter of seconds. But it's not aging, it's maturing. Becoming.

The body. The softness transforms. The muscles emerge, swell, and become covered. The chest broadens, the pectorals becoming two full, powerful masses, covered in hair. Dense, dark fuzz, covering every inch. The hair on the pectorals is thick, thick, warm.

The belly. The soft, sedentary teacher belly hardens. It becomes a muscular, full belly, covered in hair. Like a bear.

The shoulders broaden. The deltoids round out, full, covered in hair. The arms swell. The biceps explode into masses of hard, hairy muscle. The forearms are bundles of tendons and hair.

The back. The lats expand, the trapezius muscles rise. It becomes that powerful, hairy V.

The height. 1.78 meters remains, but now he's broader, more imposing, more present.

The feet. Big, size 11, they remain. But now they're bear feet. Heavy, strong.

And then the clothes. The ones he was wearing disappear. In their place, something new.

Naked torso. Completely naked. The hairy chest in plain sight, the hairy belly, the broad shoulders covered in fur. And then the straps. Leather. Dark brown, shiny. They wrap around his shoulders, slide down his chest, wrap around his torso. They don't cover, they accentuate. The leather straps on the hairy skin, on the hairy chest, are erotic, primitive.

Another strap, thinner, encircles his neck. A necklace. Resting on his hairy chest, which moves with every breath.

And then the suspenders. Leather, too. Starting from his shoulders, going down, crossing over his chest, and fastening to his pants. Simple black pants, tight on his powerful, hairy legs.

He looks at himself in the mirror. The man he sees is no longer the thirty-year-old professor with the smooth face and soft belly. He's a bear. Forty years old, with a full beard, a hairy chest covered in hair, a muscular belly, and thick arms. The leather straps encircle his torso, the necklace rests on his chest, the suspenders hug his shoulders.

He touches his beard. Thick, soft, real. Finally. It reaches down, touches his chest. His hands sink into the thick hair, the hard pectorals beneath. The leather straps creak slightly with every movement.

It moves further down, touching his belly, hairy, muscular. Then further down, where the pants are tight. And there, inside, something has changed. Grown. Fuller. The pants form a clear, heavy shape, pressing against the fabric.

The leather straps tighten, envelop him, enhance him. The necklace thumps against his chest with every breath. The hair, everywhere, warm, alive.

The sweat. It begins to bead his forehead, wet his beard, run down his neck, his hairy chest. The hairs dampen, become shiny, slippery. The leather straps creak.

The smell. Strong. Musky. Warm. A smell of bear, of man, of skin, of fur. A smell that fills the space, that attracts.

He runs his hands over his chest, through the hair, under the straps. He feels the warm skin, the hard muscles, the necklace moving. He looks at himself in the mirror. The bear. The bear. Finally.

He smiles under his beard. A slow, confident, erotic smile.

Thinks about essays to correct, lesson plans, hours spent in a chair. They no longer exist. There's only him. His new body. His straps. His beard. His body hair.

He adjusts his suspenders, an instinctive gesture. His hairy chest rises even further. The necklace swings. His pants are tight.

The arcade is gone. There's only him. The bear. Ready to be looked at, touched, desired.

Outside, the world awaits him. But for now, he stays here. Enjoying every second. Touching himself. Feeling himself. Finally himself.

[reddarkfox222]

I glanced at the roulette wheel as I wandered around the arcade. It was tempting to try it since I still had plenty of time before heading home, so I pressed the button.

24 years old, 5'7", 220.5lb, somewhat hairy with a light stubble, short-medium dark brown hair

The arcade is crowded, but he has time. Twenty-four years old, five feet seven, two hundred and ninety-nine pounds. A little hairy, a slight stubble, short-medium dark brown hair. Nothing special. Or maybe it is. Maybe today is the right day to find out.

The roulette calls to him. Or maybe it's just curiosity. He has time, lots of time. He presses the button.

🧑‍🚒 💪 🔥

The next moment, the world lights up.

The first thing he feels is the heat. Not the arcade heat. A different heat. Deeper. More burning. The fire. Or maybe it's his body igniting.

Then his skin. It darkens, warms, turns a warm olive brown. Latino skin, for sunbathing, for work. Like a man facing flames.

His height. He grows. From five feet seven to five feet eight, maybe more. The arcade feels smaller.

The body. The two hundred and ninety-nine pounds are transformed. The fat is sculpted, the muscles explode. The chest swells, becoming a slab of sculpted muscle, high, full, hard. The pectorals rise, with that deep central groove. The shoulders broaden, the deltoids round, full and powerful. The arms. The biceps explode into towering peaks, swollen, full. The forearms become bundles of muscle and veins.

The back. The lats expand, the trapezius muscles rise toward the neck. It becomes that powerful, imposing V.

The beard. The light, unkempt one disappears. In its place, a mustache. Thick, dark, well-groomed. Like a man. Like a fireman. Like a fiery Latin.

The hair. Dark brown, short-medium, remains but fuller, thicker.

The clothes. The ones he used to wear disappear. In their place, something new.

The bare chest. Completely naked. Muscles on display, tanned skin, a thick mustache. And then the suspenders. A firefighter's. Wrapping around his broad shoulders, sliding down his chest, hugging his torso. They don't cover, they accentuate. The red suspenders on his muscular chest, on his dark skin, are a call, a promise.

Work pants. Black, heavy, firefighter's. Tight on his powerful legs, on his large quadriceps. And from the front, those pants outline a clear shape. Full. Heavy. Impossible to ignore.

He looks at himself in the mirror. The man he sees is no longer the short, overweight twenty-four-year-old. He is a firefighter. Latino. Fiery. Muscular. Sexy.

The bare, sculpted chest. The red suspenders circling his shoulders. The thick mustache framing his upper lip. The tight pants that draw shapes. His new, imposing height.

He touches his chest. He feels the hard muscles under his fingers, the warm, smooth skin. He moves down, touching his abs, sculpted, hard. Then lower, where his pants are tight, and what's underneath presses, heavy, evident.

The sweat. It begins to bead on his forehead, run down his neck, wet his chest, moisten his tanned skin. It moves down, slips into his pants.

The smell. Warm. Masculine. Musky. The smell of a firefighter, of a man facing fire, of a man who knows what he wants.

He adjusts his suspenders. The gesture is instinctive, natural. It makes his pectorals stand out even more. He smiles under his mustache. A slow, confident, fiery smile.

He thinks about fire. About his new profession. Saving lives, facing flames. But he also thinks about other things. To the nights, to the hands that will seek that body, to the lips that will kiss that mustache, to the fingers that will slide under the suspenders, over the tight pants.

He looks at himself again. He's ready. Ready for the fire. Ready for everything.

The arcade around him no longer exists. There's only him. The fireman. The Latino. The fiery one.

He heads for the exit. His steps heavy, determined. The suspenders that hug his bare chest. The mustache that sticks out. The pants that hide nothing.

Outside, the world awaits him. And he's ready to save it. Or burn in it.

[reddarkfox222]

I am currently working in an routine life with same day to day job. I saw this machine which is new in my wayto home and out of experiencing new things i pressed the button

The shift is over. The routine is always the same: work, home, work, home. Thirty-five years old, average build, pale skin, nothing special. Today, on the way home, he sees a new car. He'd never noticed it before. Dim lights, no sign. To try new things, to break the routine, he inserts a coin. He presses the button.

🥥 ⛱️ 🩳

The next moment, he's no longer on the street.

The first thing he feels is the heat. The sun, hot, real, on his skin. Not the city sun, but a tropical sun, intense, warming every inch.

His skin. It burns, but not with pain. His skin begins to change, to warm, to turn a warm, yet golden brown. A perfect tan, like that of the beach, of the sun, of a Latino.

Then his body. It transforms. The muscles emerge, become defined, full but not overdone. A toned physique, but that of a mature man. A daddy's. Full chest, broad shoulders, defined arms, a hint of abs beneath a light down.

The beard. Light, well-groomed, framing a stronger jaw.

The clothes. The ones he was wearing disappear. In their place, a swimsuit. Brown. Tight, revealing tanned legs, defined quads. And in front, that brown swimsuit outlines a clear, full, manly shape.

In his hands, two objects appear out of nowhere. In his right hand, a coconut. Fresh, with a hole in it, ready for a drink. In his left, a coffee cup. Yellow. Vibrant. Contrasting with the brown of his swimsuit, with the tan of his skin.

He looks at himself. He's on a beach. White sand, turquoise sea, umbrellas. The sun is high. He's alone, but he feels observed. By himself.

He touches his chest, his warm, smooth, tanned skin. He reaches down, touching his abs, light but present. Then further down, where the brown swimsuit is tight, and what's underneath is clearly pressing.

The sweat. Light, from the sun, it beads his forehead, his chest, his shoulders. His skin shines.

The smell. Of sun, of sea, of sunscreen, but underneath, that warm, masculine, Latin smell.

He brings the coconut to his lips. He drinks. The sweet, cool water flows down his throat. Then the coffee. He sips from the yellow cup. Hot, bitter, a perfect contrast.

He smiles. A slow, satisfied smile, of a man who has found his place.

The routine is over. His new life, as a tanned Latino, in a brown swimsuit, with a coconut and yellow coffee, has just begun.

He lies down on the sun lounger, his body on display, his swimsuit leaving little to the imagination. The sun warms his skin, the wind stirs his body hair.

He waits. Savoring every second.

[reddarkfox222]

I see you transform other people but I have never seen you transform yourself. I wanna know how you would transform yourself...feel free to add me in their too if you want a tf partner.

The arcade is loud, full of lights and sounds. We are here as friends, like always. Me, twenty-one years old, slim, short dark hair. Him, a few years older, slim too, with slightly curly red hair. We laugh, joke, nothing special.

Then he pushes me. As a joke. For fun. I stumble, my hand hits the machine. The button lights up.

🇲🇽 🔥 💪

The instant after, the world stops.

The first thing I feel is my skin. It burns. My pale complexion darkens, warms. It becomes a rich, deep olive-brown. Mexican, Latino skin, made of sun and passion.

I look at him. The same thing is happening. His light skin, with those hidden freckles, transforms into the same warm brown. His eyes widen.

Then the hair. Mine, dark and short, stays dark but becomes thicker. A lock falls over my forehead, damp, rebellious. His red, curly hair darkens slightly, becoming a deeper copper tone, and a lock falls over his forehead too.

The body. It explodes.

My slim chest swells. My pecs become two slabs of sculpted muscle, high, full, defined. Below, my abs carve into my stomach in a perfect grid. My shoulders widen, my deltoids round out. My arms swell, my biceps rise into high peaks.

He’s the same. His muscles define themselves, sculpt themselves, become perfect. His chest, his shoulders, his arms. We are two jocks, two gym-built guys, two Latinos.

The tattoos. On my right shoulder, black lines begin to appear. A tribal tattoo, intricate, covering my deltoid and running down my bicep. On him too, tattoos form, a symbol, something personal.

The clothes. What we were wearing, the shirts, the pants, disappear. We remain bare-chested. We both wear sexy Calvin Klein underwear, I have black shorts while he has red ones. Muscles on display, tattoos visible, the locks on our foreheads already damp with warm sweat.

He looks at himself, then at me. I do the same. Our eyes move over our new bodies, over the sculpted muscles, the dark skin, the tattoos.

“Holy…” he murmurs, his voice deeper now.

I touch my chest. Firm, warm. I move down, touch my abs. Perfect. He does the same, exploring himself, discovering.

Sweat begins to form. On our foreheads, on our chests, between our muscles. A new scent, warm, spicy, fills the space around us.

We look at each other. A slow, sexy smile crosses our faces.

We are two Mexican jocks. Two gym-built men. Two machines of muscle and sensuality.

But he doesn’t stop. He looks at me, then at the machine. A spark in his eyes.

“Again,” he says. “I want more.”

Before I can say anything, he presses the button again.

⌛ 🧔 🩳

The instant after, time flows over us.

Twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five. The years pass, but we don’t age. We mature. We become men.

The beard. On my face it begins to grow, thick, dark, groomed. It covers the jaw, the chin, the cheeks. From jock to man. On his face, the same. His copper beard, mixed with slightly darker tones, frames his face.

The hair. The locks remain, but now they belong to men. Fuller, thicker, still damp on our foreheads.

The body. The muscles don’t disappear, they round out, becoming fuller, more mature. The pecs remain huge, but fuller. The shoulders still wide. The arms still swollen. But there is something more, something solid, something lived-in.

The clothes. What we didn’t have disappears. In their place, two swimsuits. Short, tight, leaving little to the imagination.

Mine is white. His is orange. And inside, something has changed. Grown. Become more evident.

The swimsuits outline shapes. Mine bulges outward, big, long, heavy. His too, maybe even more. It presses against the fabric, visible, imaginable. Obvious.

We look at each other again. Now we are two mature men. Thirty-five years old. Thick beards, sculpted but full bodies, swimsuits that hide nothing.

He touches his beard. I touch my chest, now even hairier, with those tattoos showing between the hairs.

The sweat. Still there, warm, dampening the locks, the beards, the chests. The scent deeper, more mature, more intense.

“Now yes,” he says, his voice even rougher.

I step closer. Our bodies brush. Chest against chest, hair against hair, swimsuits against swimsuits. What’s underneath presses, searches, finds.

The arcade around us no longer exists. There is only us. Two friends turned lovers. Two jocks turned men. Two Latinos with damp locks, thick beards, sculpted bodies, tight swimsuits.

Our hands begin to move. Over beards, chests, shoulders, lower. The swimsuits tightening, pressing, asking to be removed.

But it’s not necessary. What’s underneath can already be felt. Seen. Desired.

We stay there, holding each other, discovering our new bodies, enjoying every sensation. Warm skin, hair intertwining, muscles trembling, swimsuits that are not enough.

Outside, the world goes on. But here, in this forgotten arcade, there is only us. Two men. Two friends. Two lovers.

[reddarkfox222]

I am 28, and im a mechanical engineer, I used the machine out of curiosity

The arcade is full of young guys, lights, noise. He is there by chance, after his shift at the workshop. Twenty-eight years old, a mechanical engineer, an analytical mind, a normal body. Nothing special, nothing memorable.

He sees the machine in the corner. Curiosity. Just curiosity. He inserts a coin and presses the button.

🫄 🫄 🩲

The instant after, his body is no longer normal.

The first thing he feels is his belly. It doesn’t simply grow, it expands. It inflates like a balloon, but slowly, softly, becoming round, full, perfectly curved. A big belly, swollen and heavy, pushing forward, filling the space.

His pecs. Before they were flat, or maybe barely noticeable. Now they drop. They become two soft, hanging masses that rest on the top of his belly. Not muscle, but warm, soft flesh.

His arms swell, becoming big and thick. Not muscular, but wide and soft, hanging slightly when they rest at his sides.

Hair appears. A very light fuzz, almost invisible, covers his entire body. On his chest, his arms, his legs, his belly. Light and thin, like a soft veil.

His face. No beard. Only a mustache. Thin, neat, covering his upper lip. Like a man, but a different kind of man.

His clothes disappear. Everything. Only one thing remains.

A pair of white underwear. Simple cotton briefs that wrap around his hips beneath that enormous belly. And inside them, something has changed.

It is obvious. Big. It presses against the white cotton, pushing outward, clearly visible. The fabric stretches and deforms, outlining an unmistakable shape. Long, thick, heavy. The bulge stands out, impossible to ignore.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The man he sees is no longer the slim engineer. He is someone else. Round, with a swollen belly, drooping pecs, thick arms, light body hair, a thin mustache. And those white briefs with that huge bulge.

He touches himself. He cannot help it. His hands immediately go to his belly. He feels it, round, full, warm. He squeezes it, presses it, moves it. It is soft, but solid. He likes it.

Then his hands move lower. They reach the briefs. The bulge. He touches it, feeling it through the cotton. It is big. Really big. He squeezes it, presses it, shifts it. A groan escapes him.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t analyze. He doesn’t calculate. He is too absorbed by the sensations. The belly in his hands, the bulge pressing outward, the smooth skin beneath the light fuzz.

He looks again at the reflection. The round belly. The obvious bulge. The drooping pecs. The mustache. The white briefs.

He smiles. A silly, empty, blissful smile.

“Nice belly,” he murmurs slowly. “Nice… thing.”

He keeps touching himself. Belly, bulge, belly, bulge. His hands do not stop. His fingertips follow the curves, pressing and stroking.

The belly is so round, so full. The bulge so big, so heavy. He wants nothing else. Just to touch. Just to feel.

The arcade around him continues to live, but he no longer sees it. He only sees himself. His belly. His bulge. His hands touching them.

He sits down on a nearby chair, because standing is tiring. His belly rests on his thighs. His hands keep moving. Belly. Bulge. Belly. Bulge.

A young guy walks past and looks at him. He doesn’t see him. He is too absorbed. Too lost in that new body, in those new sensations.

The young guy walks away, shaking his head. He doesn’t notice.

He keeps touching himself. Round belly. Drooping pecs. Thick arms. Thin mustache. Light body hair. White briefs. Huge bulge.

Stupid. Happy. Lost in himself.

[reddarkfox222]

I am a 5'10" 215 lb blond/buzzed headed gyy with a large red/sandy gray beard and a thick body with a decent belly and light body hair. I fantasize about being a massive big-bellied hairy bear, but I would just like a change, or at least to be able to look at myself and be satisfied wurh what I am. I would pull the slots lever out of pure curiosity.

The arcade is the last place someone like him would expect to find answers. One meter seventy-eight, ninety-seven kilos. Blond, shaved head, but with that thick red-gray sandy beard that makes him look more like a Viking than someone who spends time in arcades. A sturdy body, a decent belly, light hair scattered across his skin. Every morning he looks at himself in the mirror and fantasizes: being a huge hairy bear, with a big belly and real muscles. But it has always been just a fantasy.

Today, out of pure curiosity, he pulls the lever.

🏋️ 🦶 💆

The instant after, he is no longer in the arcade.

The first thing he feels is his body transforming. The ninety-seven kilos redefine themselves, compacting, becoming something else. The decent belly tightens, turning into a wall of muscle covered with hair. The light hairs darken, thicken, exploding into a dense layer across his whole body.

His chest swells. His pecs become two enormous slabs, full and high. Covered in thick, dark hair that looks like fur. When he moves them, they seem almost alive.

His shoulders widen. The deltoids round out, full and powerful, covered with hair. His arms swell. The biceps expand into masses of hard muscle, wrapped in that new coat of fur. His forearms are bundles of tendons and hair.

His head. Shaved, but now it doesn’t matter. It is perfect like that.

His height remains one meter seventy-eight, but now he is broader, more imposing, more present.

He looks at himself. He is huge. He is a bear. A real hairy bear. Muscular, powerful, covered in hair from head to toe.

Then something around him changes. The arcade is gone. He is somewhere new. A bed. Soft, comfortable. Dim lighting. The scent of essential oils.

He is lying down. His enormous, hairy chest rises and falls with his breathing. His high, proud pecs point toward the ceiling. The dark hair shines under the light.

Around him are people. He doesn’t know them, but they look at him as if he were the most beautiful thing they have ever seen. Eyes shining, mouths slightly open, hands trembling with the desire to touch.

A woman approaches his feet. She looks at them, admires them. Then she begins to massage them. Slowly, gently, with warm oil. He closes his eyes. His feet, once forgotten, are now the center of attention. Skilled fingers work on the muscles, on the skin. It feels heavenly.

A man on the other side approaches his chest. His hands rest on those enormous pecs, sinking into the thick hair, beginning to massage. The muscles under his fingers are hard, warm, alive. The man almost groans more than he does.

Another person arrives with a tray. Strawberries. Red, ripe, shining. They offer them to him one by one, directly to his mouth. He opens his lips, bites, the sweet juice sliding down his throat.

He is surrounded. Massaged. Fed. Admired.

His eyes wander across his own body. The hairy chest, high and proud, rising and falling. The powerful arms, covered with hair, stretched along his sides. The muscular belly, also hairy, tightening slightly with every breath. His feet, being massaged with devotion.

The sensations are overwhelming. The massage on his feet, the one on his chest, the sweet taste of strawberries. The hair being stroked, gently pulled, dampened with oil.

Sweat begins to bead on his chest, moistening the hair, making it shine. The scent coming from him is warm, musky, irresistible. Those around him breathe it in, closing their eyes, losing themselves in that smell.

He smiles. A slow, satisfied smile, like a man who has found his place.

“More,” he murmurs in a deep voice.

And they obey. The massages continue, more intense. The strawberries keep coming, one after another. Their gazes never leave him, that perfect body, that shining fur, those muscles that look carved from stone but are warm and alive.

He is obsessed with himself. He cannot help it. He looks at himself, admires himself, touches himself when he can. But he doesn’t need to, because the others do it for him. They touch him, massage him, feed him, admire him.

Lying on that bed, his chest high and proud, his hair shining with oil and sweat, his feet melting under skilled hands, strawberries sliding into his mouth, he realizes something.

This is life. Being looked at, desired, touched, admired. Being a bear, a real bear, muscular and hairy, and enjoying every second of it.

He closes his eyes and lets himself go. The hands keep working over his body, the strawberries keep coming. He is at the center. Exactly where he was always meant to be.

[reddarkfox222]

I am 49 year old 325 bearish man

I am 5'11 325 mod hairy full whit beard I have muscle but too much fat and not enough hair to be considered a real muscle bear. I have gone grey but still dont feel like a real Dad. I pressed the button cause Why not try something differemt

The arcade is full of kids, but he doesn’t care. Forty-nine years old, almost fifty. One meter eighty, one hundred and seven kilos. Hairy, yes, but not enough. Thick hair, but with too much fat hiding the muscles. Gray, but not yet a real dad. A half-bear, a man who still doesn’t feel like what he should be.

Why not try something different?

He presses the button.

🐻 🐻 🐻

The instant after, the arcade doesn’t matter anymore.

The first thing he feels is his weight redefining itself. Not kilos disappearing, but kilos transforming. The fat tightens, compacts, becomes something else. Underneath, the muscles emerge. Not gym muscles, defined and sculpted. Bear muscles. Big, full, covered.

The chest. The pecs, once hidden, now swell and widen. They become two full masses, slightly hanging, like a true mature bear. Not sagging, but full, heavy, masculine. Covered in hair.

The hair. It explodes. On his chest, a dense, thick layer, mixed dark and gray. It covers the pecs, fills the central line, and moves downward toward the belly. On the arms, the same. Hair covers the forearms, the biceps, the shoulders. On the legs, the same again.

The belly. What was once just fat now tightens. It becomes a muscular belly, full and solid. Covered with dark and gray hair. Not flat, not defined. Full. Like a bear. Like a dad.

The arms. They swell. The biceps become full masses, covered with hair. When he flexes, the muscle rises, hidden beneath the fur. Veins appear between the hairs.

The beard. The gray beard he already had thickens and expands, becoming a full, dense beard, mixed with dark and gray. It covers the jaw, the chin, the cheeks, the neck. Like a real bear. Like a real daddy.

The hair on his head. Still gray, but thicker, fuller.

The height. One meter eighty remains, but now he looks more imposing, wider, more present.

The weight. One hundred and seven kilos become one hundred fifteen, one hundred twenty. All mass, all muscle, all bear.

The clothes. The ones he was wearing disappear. They are not needed.

He remains naked. Only his new body. Then something appears, not to cover him, but to emphasize him.

A pair of gray sweatpants. Only those. Low on his hips, revealing the beginning of his hairy belly, shaping the powerful legs covered in hair. And in the front, the sweatpants do very little to hide what is underneath. Heavy. Full. Obvious.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The man he sees is no longer the half-bear, the almost-daddy. He is a real bear daddy. Muscular, hairy, imposing.

The chest with full pecs, slightly hanging, covered in dark and gray hair. The big hairy arms. The muscular, full belly covered with hair. The thick gray beard. The gray sweatpants that cling and reveal shapes.

He touches himself. His hands sink into the hairy chest, feeling the muscles beneath, the warm skin. They move down, touching the belly, hard, full, covered with hair. Then lower, where the gray sweatpants tighten and what is underneath presses forward, heavy and obvious.

Sweat begins to bead on his forehead, dampening his beard, running down his chest, moistening the hair and making it shine. It runs lower, slipping into the sweatpants, soaking what is underneath.

The smell. Strong. Musky. Warm. The smell of a mature bear, of a daddy. Of skin, hair, muscles, experience. A scent that fills the space, that attracts, that says “come here.”

He looks again at the reflection. Fifty years old, finally. The gray hair, the full beard, the full pecs, the muscular belly, the big arms. The gray sweatpants outlining everything.

He smiles. A slow, confident smile. A dad’s smile. A bear’s smile. A man who knows what he wants.

He is no longer halfway. He is complete. He is a real bear daddy.

The arcade around him continues to live, but he is somewhere else. In his new body, in his new skin, in his new hair.

He adjusts the waistband of the gray sweatpants, but it doesn’t matter. What is obvious remains obvious.

Outside, the world is waiting for him. And he is ready to be the dad he always wanted to be.

[reddarkfox222]

22 and handsome but dumb minded and friends with the wrong people I think. 6’3”, got a size 13 feet, smooth, muscular body got it from my genetics, jock, my jock friends shoved me to the machine and I clicked it on accident and my friends ran away when I had no clue what was gonna happen.

The arcade is full of noise, but they are louder than the arcade itself. Four athletes, all around twenty years old, muscular, tall, handsome. He is the tallest, one meter ninety, size 48, smooth skin and a body sculpted by genetics, a true athlete. Twenty-two years old, handsome, but stupid. Or maybe just surrounded by the wrong people.

His friends push him, laugh, provoke him. He stumbles, and his hand slams against the machine. It turns on by accident.

His friends look at the screen, then at him, then they run. Gone. Disappeared.

He stays there, alone, with no idea what is about to happen.

🩲 🔞 👯

The instant after, the world flips.

The first thing he feels is his body transforming. The muscles, those big, full athlete muscles, begin to soften, to redefine themselves, to become more… light. They do not disappear, they reshape. They become twink muscles. Defined, sculpted, lean. High, defined pecs, abs carved like blades, wide but slim shoulders, arms defined but not bulky.

His skin stays smooth, without hair. Like a boy’s.

His hair. A lock falls over his forehead. Soft, rebellious, perfect.

His height stays the same, one meter ninety, but now his body is lighter, more agile, more defined.

His clothes disappear. Nothing. Then something appears.

Underwear. White. Emporio Armani. Elegant lettering, soft fabric wrapping around his hips. And inside, something has changed. It is big. Obvious. It presses against the white fabric, drawing an unmistakable shape. Long, thick, heavy.

He looks at himself, touches himself, confused. Then he hears noises behind him.

He turns.

The three friends. The ones who ran away. They are back. But they are no longer the same.

They are like him. Transformed. Each one with the same twink body. Defined, lean, sculpted. Each with a lock of hair on the forehead. Each wearing underwear. Different underwear, but all in underwear.

Calvin Klein boxers for one, black briefs for another, colorful underwear for the third. And all of them, like him, have a large bulge pushing forward, obvious, impossible to ignore.

They look at each other. Silence. Then someone laughs. Then they all laugh.

“We are…” says one.

“Twinks,” says another.

“Stupid and sexy,” finishes the third.

He, in Armani underwear, nods. He feels stupid. He feels sexy. He doesn’t know why, but it’s true.

Then someone notices something in the corner. A mat. A game. Twister.

They look at each other. Same idea, same thought.

Why not?

Minutes later, they are all on the mat. Hands and feet tangled, bodies touching, defined muscles shining under the arcade lights. The colorful, white, and black underwear stretches with every movement. The large bulges press, shift, bump into each other.

“Left hand yellow!”

“Right foot red!”

Laughter, groans, bodies brushing together. He, in Armani underwear, has one friend’s foot on his back and another’s hand on his chest. He feels the defined muscles, the smooth skin, the warmth.

Sweat begins to bead on his forehead, wetting the lock of hair, sliding down his neck and across his sculpted chest.

The smell. Mixed, warm, young, attractive.

They keep playing, laughing, touching. The large bulges pressing, shifting, impossible not to notice.

They are stupid. They are sexy. And for the first time, that’s perfectly fine.

[reddarkfox222]

What's life without a bit of risk, i think i'd be more dissapointed in my life if i didnt try to go for something better. Spin me up at the roulette I'm a 28 years old 5'10 eastern european guy. I'm on the chubbyer sides with wide shoulders, hair to my mid-back and a somewhat hairy body and no facial hair whatsoever even through i've tried growing more for years. I work as a pharmacist and life is just fucking boring, barely any fun....so, my fate is in your hands

The pharmacy closes at eight. The arcade stays open late. Twenty-eight years old, from Eastern Europe, one meter seventy-eight. Chubby, broad shoulders, hair on his back reaching halfway down, a somewhat hairy body. On his face, nothing. He tried to grow a beard for years, but nothing ever came. A boring, monotonous life, hardly fun at all.

What is life without a little risk? Better to try than to stay disappointed.

He sees the machine in the corner. He pulls the lever.

🧔 🎽 🩲

The instant after, boredom no longer exists.

The first thing he feels is his face. It itches. It burns. Where nothing had grown for years, something now explodes. The mustache. Thick, dense, dark. It covers his upper lip and extends down toward the corners of his mouth. From a man. From someone fascinating. From the kind that make people dream in magazines.

But no beard appears. His cheeks, jaw, and chin remain clean and smooth, leaving his face defined only by those thick, powerful mustaches that frame his mouth and give his face a bold, masculine character.

The hair on his body. What he already had intensifies, thickens, explodes. On his chest, a dense, dark layer covers every centimeter. The pecs, which before were hidden under fat, now define themselves, emerging beneath that new coat of hair.

On his back. What was already hairy becomes a forest. Dense, warm, covering every centimeter down to the shoulders, down toward the glutes.

On his arms. The hair thickens, covering the forearms, the biceps, the shoulders.

On his legs. Oh, the legs. From chubby and soft, they transform. The muscles emerge, define themselves, becoming big, powerful. And over them, a dense layer of dark hair covers everything. Hairy thighs, hairy calves, all covered by that warm, masculine coat.

The body. The fat transforms, redefining itself. Underneath, muscles emerge that he did not know he had. The chest swells, the pecs become two slabs of muscle covered with hair. The shoulders widen, the deltoids round out. The belly, once chubby, tightens into a solid wall covered with hair.

And then the clothes. The ones he was wearing disappear. In their place, something new.

A white tank top. Simple, classic, tight. It wraps around his torso but hides nothing. Chest hair spills out from the collar and the straps, covering the fabric. The pecs press against the cloth, the biceps stretch the sides.

The underwear. White. Classic men’s briefs. Tight, leaving little to the imagination. And there, inside, something has changed. Radically.

It is obvious. Big. Long. Pressing against the white cotton, creating an unmistakable shape. The fabric stretches, deforms, unable to fully contain what is underneath. It pushes forward, visible, imaginable. Enormous.

The socks. White. Up to mid-calf. On those hairy, muscular legs they create a strange contrast, almost innocent. But nothing is innocent about that body.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The man he sees is no longer the chubby, boring pharmacist. He is someone else. Extremely hairy, extremely fascinating.

The thick mustache, the hair everywhere. The white tank top showing glimpses of the hairy chest, the hairy arms emerging from the sides. The white briefs that hide nothing, actually emphasizing everything. The hairy, muscular legs with those white socks.

He touches his mustache, thick and firm above his lip. He runs a hand over his chest under the tank top, sinking his fingers into the hair, feeling the hard muscles beneath. He moves down, touching the belly covered in hair, solid and firm. Then lower, where the white briefs tighten and what is underneath presses, heavy, long, thick.

His own hands touch it, feel it. Enormous. Truly enormous. A groan escapes him, from surprise, from pleasure.

The sweat. Under the tank top, on the hairy chest, it begins to form. Warm, dampening the hair, making it cling and shine. It runs downward, slipping into the briefs, wetting what is underneath.

The smell. New. Strong. Musky, warm, animal-like. A smell of skin, hair, muscles, of a man. A smell that fills the room, that clings to clothes, that lingers.

He looks again at the reflection. The thick mustache, the hair everywhere, the white tank top, the stretched white briefs, the hairy legs, the white socks. It is a powerful, erotic, irresistible image.

He smiles under the mustache. A slow, confident smile, like a man who knows his worth.

The boring, monotonous life of a pharmacist is over. The new one—hairy, muscular, fascinating—has just begun.

He adjusts the tank top, but it is useless. Hair sticks out everywhere. He looks down at the briefs, at what is inside, and another smile crosses his mustached face.

Outside, the world is waiting for him. And he is finally ready to live it.

[reddarkfox222]

29 yo super ADHD teaching assistant 5’ 10” fairly overweight (around 256 lbs) a fair amount of body and facial hair as well as thick curly hair… saw the “spin” button and felt a curious pull and urge to press it

The arcade is a strange place for a teaching assistant with ADHD. Too many stimuli, too many lights, too much noise. But that’s exactly why he sometimes comes here. Twenty-nine years old, one meter seventy-eight, one hundred thirteen kilos of extra weight he has carried his whole life. Hair on his body, hair on his face, thick curly hair on his head. Those, no one takes away from him.

He wanders among the machines, aimlessly, as always when his head spins too much. Then he sees the button. “Spin.” A simple word, a curious push. An impulse. Why not?

He presses it.

🐺 🧒 📽️

The instant after, the arcade no longer exists. Or maybe it does, but he is somewhere else. In a movie. In a body he has seen on the screen.

The first thing he feels is the weight slipping away. One hundred thirteen kilos melting, transforming, redefining themselves. It’s not losing weight, it’s becoming something else.

His face. The features sharpen, refine, become younger, more defined. Eighteen years old. The jaw squares, the chin becomes more decisive, the cheekbones higher. The eyes remain the same, but they become more intense, more magnetic.

His hair. Those thick curls stretch out, smooth themselves, becoming a rebellious lock falling over his forehead. Straight, dark, perfect. Like a young star.

The beard. The facial hair he had withdraws, disappears. The skin becomes smooth, clean, young. No more beard. No more hair. Just smooth, perfect skin.

The body hair. The moderate amount he had vanishes. Smooth arms, smooth chest, smooth legs. Perfect skin, like a young model.

Then the body.

The extra kilos are gone. Underneath, something appears that had never been there before. The muscles define themselves, sculpt themselves, become perfect. The chest expands and lifts, becoming a slab of sculpted muscle, with high, defined pecs. Underneath, the abs carve the stomach into a perfect grid. Six, eight, it doesn’t matter. They are there, hard, sculpted, visible.

The shoulders widen, the deltoids round out, full and defined. The arms swell, the biceps shape themselves perfectly, the forearms become elegant bundles of muscle.

The back. The lats expand, creating that perfect V, like on a magazine cover.

The height. One meter seventy-eight remains, but now it is proportioned, perfect. The legs define themselves, the calves sculpted.

And then the clothes. The ones he was wearing, loose and shapeless, disappear. In their place, nothing covers his torso.

He is bare-chested.

His chest is completely exposed, the sculpted pecs rising and falling with his breath, the perfectly defined abs visible down his stomach. Smooth skin stretched over new muscles that look like they came straight out of a movie scene.

Dark jeans appear instead, fitted, shaping his legs and leaving little to the imagination.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The man he sees is no longer the overweight twenty-nine-year-old teaching assistant. He is someone else. Someone he has seen in the cinema.

Jacob Black. The one from Twilight. The wolf boy. Eighteen years old, muscular, attractive, with that lock of hair on his forehead, that sculpted jaw, that perfect body.

He touches his face. Smooth. Young. Perfect. Then he runs a hand over his bare chest, feeling the hard muscles under the smooth skin. His hand moves down, touching the abs one by one, all there, perfect, sculpted.

He looks at his arms. Smooth, defined, perfect. He flexes them, watching the biceps swell under the skin.

The sweat. Light, barely noticeable, beads on his forehead and wets the lock of hair. It runs down his neck, sliding over his bare chest and across the new muscles.

The smell. New. Clean. Young. A fresh, attractive, magnetic scent.

He looks again at the reflection. That face, that body, that presence. He knows it is exactly like in the movie. Exactly like those scenes that made people dream.

The lock of hair falls over his eyes. He pushes it aside with a natural, instinctive gesture. He smiles. A young, confident smile that knows its effect.

He thinks about the movies he loves, the ones he has watched a thousand times. Now he is the one on the screen. The one everyone looks at. The one everyone desires.

He turns, looking at himself from every angle. The muscles, the face, the lock of hair, the bare chest, the jeans. Perfect.

The arcade around him keeps flashing and making noise. But he is in another dimension. In a movie. In the body of a dream.

He touches his chest once more, feeling the muscles, feeling his heart beating stronger. Then he walks toward the exit with that confident step, like a star.

Outside, the world is waiting for him. And he is ready to be looked at, desired, loved. Just like in the movie.

[reddarkfox222]

Hi!

I was spending the evening in this arcade, even though it's not the kind of place I usually go to. I prefer outdoor spaces or quiet cafes. I enjoy good books, good movies, and, when the weather permits, sports. Not today, though; it's gray and raining. I came here more out of necessity than a real desire to play these childish machines.

I'm 34, but I look younger, rather slim but not skinny thanks to the sports I do regularly. I have all my hair (which I like to keep very short) and no beard.

I was just looking to pass the time. I shot balls into the basketball hoops, played pinball, and this machine intrigued me, so I slipped in a coin and pulled the lever...

The arcade is full of childish noises, flashing lights, kids shouting. It’s not his place. Thirty-four years old, but he looks younger, slender but not thin thanks to sports, very short hair, no beard. He prefers quiet cafés, books, films, the outdoors. But outside it’s raining, gray, and so here he is, passing the time.

Balls in hoops, pinball machines, nothing special. Then he sees the machine. Strange, different, in a corner. Curiosity. One coin. He pulls the lever.

🪚 🧔 🔥

The instant after, he is no longer in an arcade.

The first thing he feels is the weight. Not extra kilos, but a mass that distributes itself, that settles, that becomes part of him. Thirty-four years old, finally looking it. Actually, a little more. Thirty-six, thirty-eight. The right age for a man.

The beard. Where before there was smooth skin, now a groomed, full, thick beard appears. Not wild, but precise. Framing a jaw that has become stronger, more square. From a mature man. From a lumberjack.

The hair. The very short hair he loved stays short, but fuller, thicker. From a man, not a boy.

Then the body.

The slender, athletic build transforms. The muscles explode. Not gym muscles, clean and defined. Work muscles. Lumberjack muscles. Big, full, hard. Muscles that speak of effort, of axes, of lifted logs.

The chest swells, widens. The pecs become two slabs of thick, powerful muscle, with that deep central groove. Underneath, the abs are full, thick, a solid wall.

The shoulders widen. The deltoids round out, full and powerful. The arms. The biceps explode into masses of hard muscle, enormous, full. When he flexes, the peak rises like a mountain. The forearms are bundles of tendons and muscles, strong, marked by work.

The back. The lats expand, the traps rise toward the neck. It becomes that powerful V-shape, from a worker.

The hair. On the chest, a thick, dark layer explodes. It covers the pecs, slips into the central groove, runs down toward the belly. A dense forest, warm, masculine. On the arms, the same. Hair covers the forearms, the biceps, the shoulders.

And then the clothes. The normal ones, the t-shirt, the jeans, disappear. In their place, something new.

A red and black checkered flannel shirt. The typical lumberjack one. Sleeveless, leaving the hairy and strong forearms visible. The first button is open, the second as well, letting the beginning of that chest covered in dark hair show.

The pants. Work jeans, sturdy, fitting tight over the powerful legs. And nothing else.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The man he sees is no longer the thirty-four-year-old who looked younger, who read books in cafés. He is a lumberjack. Groomed beard, short hair, checkered flannel, muscles pressing under the shirt, hair showing from the open collar.

He touches his beard, thick, soft. He runs a hand over his chest, under the open shirt, feeling the hair, the hard muscles. He looks at his arms, enormous, hairy, with the sleeves rolled up.

The sweat. Even in the arcade, his new body produces heat. A light sweat beads on his forehead, wets his beard, dampens his chest under the flannel.

The smell. Strong. Musky. Warm. A smell of wood, of forest, of a man. A smell that fills the space around him.

He looks around. The arcade is still there, with its lights and childish noises. But he is different. A lumberjack among kids playing.

A basketball bounces near him, badly thrown by a child. He bends to pick it up, and the flannel stretches over his wide shoulders, over the biceps that swell. The child looks at him with his mouth open.

“Here you go,” he says with a new voice, deeper.

The child takes the ball, still staring at him. Then he runs back to his friends, whispering something.

He smiles. A slow smile under the groomed beard.

He adjusts the flannel, opens another button. The hairy chest is more visible now. Then he walks toward the exit. The rain outside has stopped, but he doesn’t notice.

The street is waiting for him. And for the first time, he can’t wait to be looked at. With that checkered flannel, those muscles, that hair, that beard. Like a lumberjack. Like a man.

[reddarkfox222]

I'll hit the body roulette. I'm 28 years old. I'm a personal trainer. I have a pretty good sense of physicality and I'm ACE and ISSA certified. I've competed in bodybuilding, Classic Physique. Not professional, but it's a hobby.

I'd hit the roulette because I've pushed my body far and it's always good to see what my clients feel. I'm 5'11", 215lbs, brown hair. .

The arcade is the last place where a personal trainer would think of spending time. Twenty-eight years old, ACE and ISSA certifications, bodybuilding competitions in the Classic Physique category. One meter eighty, ninety-seven kilos of sculpted muscles, brown hair. He has pushed his body beyond every limit. Now he is curious to try what his clients feel when they rely on him.

He approaches the machine. A new challenge. A different experience.

He presses the button.

🐻 🧓 🚬

The instant after, time runs over him like an avalanche.

Twenty-eight, thirty-five, forty, fifty. The years pass in a few seconds, but it isn’t normal aging. It is a maturation. A becoming something more.

The first thing he feels is the beard. The groomed one, the athlete’s beard, begins to grow, to thicken. It becomes a full, dense beard, mixed with brown and gray. It covers the jaw, the chin, the cheeks. From a mature man. From a bear.

The hair. The brown hair lightens, mixing with gray and white. Still thick, still full, but marked by time.

Then the body.

The muscles do not disappear, they transform. They become fuller, more massive, more… soft. Underneath, the structure is still that of a bodybuilder, but covered, softened. The chest widens, the pecs remain enormous, but now a layer of gray and white hair covers them. Thick, dense, warm.

The belly. A belly begins to form. Not flabby, not loose. Solid, full, a bear belly. Covered with gray hair that comes down from the chest, that wraps around it, that makes it warm and inviting.

The shoulders remain wide, the deltoids full. The arms remain big, the biceps still evident, but covered with gray hair, softened by time. The veins still show, but among the hair.

The weight. Ninety-seven kilos become one hundred ten, one hundred fifteen. All mass, all presence, all bear.

The shirt he is wearing, a simple work shirt, begins to tighten. The buttons stretch over the hairy chest. One after another, they give way. They pop. The shirt opens wide, revealing what is underneath.

The enormous chest, covered with gray and white hair. The soft but solid belly, also hairy. The muscles that can be glimpsed beneath the fur. A bear torso, warm, inviting, powerfully masculine.

And then, between his lips, something appears. A cigar. Unlit, but present. Balanced between the lips, among the hairs of the gray beard. From a man who has lived. From an experienced man. From someone who has seen many things.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The man he sees is no longer the twenty-eight-year-old personal trainer, sculpted and defined. He is someone else. A man of fifty, maybe more. A bear. Gray beard, salt-and-pepper hair, hairy chest coming out of the open shirt, soft warm belly, cigar in his mouth.

He touches himself. The hands, still strong, still those of someone who has lifted weights for years, now sink into the hairy chest. They feel the gray hair, thick, soft. They feel the muscles underneath, still present, still hard, but covered, softened. They move down, touching the belly, full, warm, covered with hair.

The cigar. He moves it from one side of his mouth to the other with an instinctive gesture, from habit. He feels the taste of dry tobacco, the smell that already begins to soak into his beard.

The sweat. Under the open shirt, on the hairy chest, a light sweat begins to form. Warm, dampening the hair, making it cling, making it shine. It runs down toward the belly, slipping among the hairs.

The smell. New. Deep. Musky, warm, with a note of tobacco and experience. A smell of a man who has lived, of a bear, of someone who knows what he wants and how to take it.

He looks at his hands. More wrinkled, more marked, but still strong. Hands that have guided, that have lifted, that have touched. Hands that know what to do.

He adjusts the open shirt, but it is useless to close it. The buttons are gone, the chest is there, exposed. The gray hair, the belly, everything on display.

He thinks about his clients. The ones he trained, the ones he pushed beyond their limits. Now he would look at them differently. With more experience. With more calm. With more desire to touch, to feel, to guide.

The cigar. He removes it from his mouth, looks at it. Then he puts it back.

He smiles. A slow, confident smile, like a bear. Like a man who knows how to wait. Like a man who knows how to take.

The arcade around him is silent. He stands there, the open shirt over his hairy chest, the cigar in his mouth, the eyes that have seen thirty more years.

Outside, the world is waiting for him. And he is ready to live it, calmly, with experience, with all the warm presence of a bear.

[reddarkfox222]

I'm a 28 yo guy, blond, moustache, mid length hair and on the smaller side. I was at the arcade with a couple of friends. They've been pretty occupied playing each other at street fighter so I found this weird machine while wandering. I probably shoudn't...but why the hell not

The arcade is a chaos of lights and sounds, but his friends are too absorbed in Street Fighter to notice him. Twenty-eight years old, blond, mustache, medium-length hair, a bit short. He wanders aimlessly, as always when he gets bored.

Then he sees the machine. Strange, different, in a dark corner. Dim lights, no writing.

He probably shouldn’t. But why the hell not?

He inserts a coin. Presses the button.

🦍 🩲 🐻

The instant after, the why the hell not becomes perfectly clear.

The first thing he feels is his skin itching. Not a normal itch. A deep, warm itch that starts from his back and spreads everywhere. The hair. It explodes.

On his shoulders, on his chest, on his back, on his arms, on his legs. A dense, dark, incredibly thick layer. Not normal hair. Fur. Like a gorilla. Like a bear. Thick, warm, alive. It covers every inch of his body.

The beard. The mustache he had merges into a thick, wild beard that covers his entire jaw, chin, and cheeks. Dark, dense, animal-like.

The hair. Those blond, medium-length hairs darken, becoming a thick, messy dark mane.

Then the muscles. They explode.

The chest swells as if someone is pumping air into it. The pecs become two mountains of muscle covered in hair, enormous, disproportionate. Underneath, the abs disappear beneath the fur, but they can be felt, hard, sculpted, covered.

The shoulders widen. The deltoids round into balls of pure muscle, covered with hair. The arms swell. The biceps explode into huge peaks, covered in that dark fur. The forearms are bundles of muscle and hair.

The back. The lats expand into wings, covered with fur. It becomes that absurd V-shape, animal-like, beastly.

His height. It grows. From being short, he becomes enormous. Imposing. One meter ninety, maybe more. The arcade seems smaller.

The clothes. What he was wearing, the t-shirt, the pants, cannot hold. They tear apart, falling to the ground in shreds.

He remains in underwear. The underwear he had. Short. With yellow decorations, absurd, almost ridiculous on that beastly body. But they are there, the only things that remain.

And the socks. White. Like a boy’s. Sticking out under those enormous, hairy legs.

The itching. It continues. But it isn’t unpleasant. It’s pleasurable. Warm. Every hair that sprouts, every follicle activating, is a small wave of pleasure running across his skin.

He touches himself. He cannot help it. His hands sink into that new fur, thick, warm. He feels the muscles underneath, enormous, hard, alive. He scratches his chest, and the itch turns into pure pleasure. He closes his eyes, a groan escaping him.

Then he looks at his arms. Enormous. Hairy. He flexes them, watching the biceps swell even more beneath the fur. He smiles. A goofy, empty, blissful smile.

“Nice,” he murmurs with a new voice, deeper, more animal. “Nice muscles. Nice hair.”

He looks at his legs, huge, hairy, with those absurd white socks. He scratches one thigh, more pleasure. He touches his belly, covered with hair, hard underneath.

He thinks. Or rather, something inside him thinks. But the thoughts are slow, heavy, confused. Only one thing is clear.

Muscles. More muscles. Hair. More hair. Becoming bigger.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The image he sees is a beast. A gorilla. A bear. Covered in fur from head to toe, enormous muscles pressing under the coat, only a pair of yellow underwear and white socks reminding that he was once human.

He touches himself again. The chest. The belly. The arms. Every touch is pleasure. Every stroke of his own fur is a shiver.

“Bigger,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Want bigger.”

He turns toward the machine. He looks at it. He doesn’t really understand what it is, but he knows it made him like this. Maybe it can make him even bigger.

He presses the button. Nothing. He presses it again. Nothing.

He remains there, confused, his hands continuing to touch himself, to scratch, to search for that pleasure. The enormous muscles, the thick fur, the yellow underwear, the white socks.

His friends, on the other side of the arcade, are still playing Street Fighter. They haven’t noticed anything. They don’t see the beast he has become.

He doesn’t think about them. He doesn’t think about anything. He only thinks about his muscles. His hair. How to become bigger.

He scratches his belly. Smiles. He is happy.

[reddarkfox222]

32 y/o, men's clothing store retail employee and very much enjoying the job. 6ft, size 12 feet, long dark hair, glasses, slim build. Can absolutely see my partner pushing me to give the machine a spin for the hell of it haha.

The arcade is a strange place for a date, but they like it that way. Thirty-two years old, a clerk in a men’s clothing store, he loves his job. One meter eighty, size 46, slender build, long dark hair, glasses. The classic type who recommends the right clothes, never the one who wears them.

His partner, beside him, looks at him with that smile he knows well. The one that says, “Do something stupid, please.”

“Come on, spin it. Just to see.”

He laughs, shrugs. Why not? Something silly, a laugh, and that’s it.

He slips in a coin. Presses the button.

🏃 💪 🍆

The next instant, the laughter dies in his throat.

The first thing he feels is his clothes tightening. The shirt, the one he had chosen carefully, begins to stretch across his chest. But there was no chest a moment ago. Now there is. And it grows.

His pecs explode outward. Two masses of muscle swelling, rising, becoming mountains. He hears the buttons of the shirt beginning to pop. One. Two. Three. The fabric stretches, distorts, no longer enough.

His shoulders widen. His deltoids round out, full, powerful, pushing against the sleeves. The seams creak, give way.

His arms. His biceps explode into towering peaks, swelling the sleeves, making them roll up on themselves. His forearms thicken, veins rising like ropes.

His back. His lats expand, his traps climb. He feels his whole torso widening, becoming enormous.

Then the sound. The shirt can’t take it anymore. It opens across his chest, tears along the back, falls to the floor.

But it’s not over.

The pants. Those elegant clerk’s pants are now stretched tight. His thighs thicken, his quads become trunks, his glutes swell. The fabric stretches, the buttons pop, the zipper gives way. The pants fall.

He’s left in boxers. Or maybe shorts? Black. It’s hard to tell what they are, tight, clinging. But that’s not the point.

The body. His whole body has changed. It’s a mass of muscles. Not runner’s muscles, lean and narrow. Big muscles, full, swollen. Enormous pecs, wide shoulders, thick arms, sculpted abs but covered by that mass, powerful legs.

And yet, something doesn’t quite match. He has the face of an athlete. The kind of face a runner has, endurance, distance. But the body is that of a bodybuilder. A weightlifter. Something different. Strange. Fascinating.

The black boxers. Or shorts. Tight. And there, in the middle, something has changed. Radically.

A long, thick bulge pushes out, obvious. You can’t quite tell if it’s boxers or shorts, but what’s underneath is visible. Suggested. Imagined. Long. Thick. Heavy. Pressing against the black fabric, stretching it, distorting it. Drawing a shape that leaves no doubt.

His partner in front of him has his mouth open. Eyes running over the new body, stopping where they cannot help but stop.

He looks at himself. He touches his chest, huge, hard. His hands move across the pecs, slide down over the sculpted but full abs. Then lower, where the black fabric is tight, and what’s underneath is much more than before. Much more than he had ever imagined.

The sweat. It begins to bead on his forehead, run down through his long dark hair, wet his neck, his chest, his abs. His skin shines, muscles polished by sweat looking even bigger, fuller, more alive.

The smell. New. Strong. Masculine. The scent of muscles working, skin sweating, a man.

He removes his glasses. They’re no longer needed. His eyes are younger, more alive, more intense. He runs a hand through his long hair, pushing it back from his damp forehead.

Then he looks at his partner. The smile his partner had before, the one that said “do something stupid,” is now something else. It’s astonishment. It’s desire. It’s hunger.

He steps closer, slowly. Muscles moving under the skin, the body swollen with power, that bulge in the black boxers swaying, obvious.

“Do you like it?” he asks in a new voice, deeper.

His partner nods, speechless.

He smiles. Runs a hand over his chest again. Then over his abdomen. Then lower, where the black fabric is tight.

The night has just begun. And the men’s clothing clerk, the slender one with long hair, no longer exists.