Horny Gay Fucko

just need a place to be horny, my friends

[love-for-boys]

[rawfotos]

[rawfotos]

[rawfotos]

[verus-veritas]

The Mogui's Curse: Mask of Marcus

(AI Generated - For my good friend @malebodysuittf)

The apartment complex I called home was a towering structure of concrete and glass, its seven stories casting long shadows over the courtyard below. My fifth-floor apartment was a cozy one-bedroom, cluttered with books and plants, a sanctuary from the world outside.

Above me, on the sixth floor, lived Marcus, a 24-year-old mechanical engineering student at the local community college. We were the same age, and over the three years I’d lived here, I’d nurtured a deep, unspoken crush on him.

Marcus was magnetic, his presence commanding attention without effort. His body was a masterpiece of strength and artistry: broad shoulders, a lean, athletic frame, and well-defined arms covered in intricate tattoos. The ink stretched from his shoulders to his forearms, spilling across his neck and chest, a tapestry of swirling floral patterns, bold script, and mythical creatures that seemed to dance on his fair, smooth skin. His dark brown hair was styled with a side part, swept back to reveal sharp, handsome features, and his gray eyes held a quiet intensity that made my heart race. A thin stubble dusted his upper lip, the faint outline of a mustache adding to his rugged allure.

Marcus was straight, a fact that stung deeply, especially after his breakup with his girlfriend five months ago. Despite that, we’d built a warm friendship. We’d exchange smiles and small talk in the hallways, and I often babysat his calico cat, Molly, when he traveled. Molly was a beautiful creature, her coat a patchwork of orange, black, and white, her green eyes sharp with intelligence. Marcus adored her like family, and I cherished those moments of connection with him, even if they were platonic.

But everything changed four months ago, on a night that would unravel the fabric of our lives.

It was a Tuesday evening in January, the air crisp and cold. I was sprawled on my couch, a mug of chamomile tea warming my hands, scrolling through my phone when a series of loud thuds echoed from above. The sounds were jarring, like furniture being toppled or a violent struggle unfolding. My heart pounded as the noises intensified, heavy footsteps stomping across Marcus’s floor, followed by a sharp, guttural scream that I recognized as his voice. The scream was cut short, replaced by an eerie silence that sent a chill down my spine. I sat frozen for a moment, my mind racing. Was he hurt? Fighting with someone?

I couldn’t just sit there. I grabbed my keys, my hands trembling, and bolted upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

I knocked on Marcus’s door, my voice shaky as I called out, “Marcus, are you okay? I heard something.” 

My ear pressed against the door, straining to hear any sign of life. There was a faint scurrying sound, like something heavy being dragged across the floor, and then Marcus’s voice answered, faint and muffled, as if something was lodged in his throat. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about.” 

The words were distorted, his tone unnatural, and a cold dread settled in my chest. I wanted to push the door open, to see for myself, but I hesitated. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice small. 

“Yeah, go away,” he replied, sharper this time, the muffled quality of his voice even more pronounced. I lingered for a moment, then reluctantly returned to my apartment, my unease gnawing at me.

From that night on, Marcus was a stranger. The warm, friendly guy I’d known was gone, replaced by a cold, arrogant version of himself. He stopped greeting me in the hallways, his gray eyes now dark and brooding, avoiding mine with a sneer that didn’t fit his handsome face. I once caught him flexing in the elevator mirror, his sleeveless shirt clinging to his tattooed chest, his gaze locking onto mine with a predatory intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

He started wearing his motorbike gear constantly, the black leather jacket and pants hugging his muscular frame, the scent of gasoline and sweat clinging to him as he went clubbing almost every night. He’d return in the early hours, drunk and loud, the sounds of him hooking up with women echoing through my ceiling. Their ruthless fucking kept me awake, the headboard slamming against the wall, their moans a cruel reminder of my unrequited feelings.

I complained a few times, knocking on his door with a pounding heart, but he’d just smirk, his crooked smile unnerving, and say, “Deal with it,” before slamming the door in my face.

His behavior grew increasingly erratic. He seemed to forget basic things, like the landlord’s name or the code to the underground garage where he parked his motorbike. Marcus had always loved working on his bike in the courtyard, his tattooed hands smeared with grease, a content smile on his face as he tinkered with the engine. Now, he treated it like a mere tool, riding it without care, the once-cherished machine gathering dust.

The most disturbing change was with Molly. She’d always been his shadow, purring in his lap, but now she despised him. She’d hiss and scratch his arms, her claws leaving red marks on his smooth skin, and bolt away whenever he tried to hold her. A few days after that strange night, Marcus showed up at my door, Molly in his arms, her body tense. 

“Can you take care of her for a while?” he asked, his voice flat, his gray eyes avoiding mine. “Family’s coming over, and they’re allergic to cats.” I agreed, and Molly leapt into my arms, her claws digging into my shirt as if desperate to escape him. I watched him walk away, his broad shoulders stiff, and noticed the faint scratches on his forearms, the skin red and irritated.

But months passed, and no family ever arrived. When I asked about it, he’d mutter, “They’ll be here soon,” his tone dismissive, his eyes darting away. Marcus had always treated Molly like family, so her sudden rejection of him was baffling. She seemed perfectly content with me, curling up on my couch, her purring a comforting sound in the quiet of my apartment. I couldn’t understand what had happened between them, but the change in Marcus weighed heavily on me.

The complex grew tense after a gruesome incident in the courtyard. A neighbor’s dog, a small terrier named Max, was found butchered one morning, its body torn apart as if by a wild animal. The sight was horrific, the dog’s limbs scattered, its blood staining the grass. 

An older Chinese lady, Mrs. Chen, who lived on the second floor, screamed in her native language, her voice shrill with terror. “The mogui is here! It’s stolen one of our faces!” Her family dragged her away, dismissing her as hysterical, but her words echoed in my mind.

A few days later, I saw her walking the halls with a Taoist monk, his robes rustling as he hung protective charms on the stairways, muttering prayers under his breath. The charms were small, red and gold, inscribed with intricate symbols, and they swayed gently in the breeze.

Marcus’s behavior suddenly shifted again after that. He became jittery, avoiding the stairways, his smooth face slick with cold sweat at all times. At night, I’d hear faint groans from upstairs, as if he were in agony, the sounds sending chills down my spine.

—

One evening, I came home from work exhausted, my body aching from a long shift at the coffee shop. I was too tired to take the stairs, so I stepped into the elevator, the fluorescent lights harsh against my tired eyes. Marcus was already inside, his sleeveless shirt clinging to his tattooed chest, his motorbike helmet tucked under his arm. The air was thick with the scent of his sweat, a mix of musk and leather that made my stomach flutter despite my unease.

I tried to make conversation, my voice soft and hesitant. “Hey, Marcus, you okay? You’ve seemed off lately.”

He ignored me, his gray eyes fixed on the floor, his body tense. He was sweating profusely, beads of perspiration rolling down his tattooed neck, and he scratched at his arms and chest, his nails leaving red marks on his smooth skin. The elevator jolted to a stop, the lights flickering out in a sudden power outage. Marcus swore under his breath, his voice distorting, breaking into a guttural snarl that didn’t sound human. 

“Fuck! Fuck this shit! I’m gonna kill that bitch,” he muttered, scratching harder, his nails digging into his flesh.

I didn't realize what he meant then, but a cold dread settled in my chest. The power returned after a tense minute, the elevator lurching back to life, and Marcus bolted out, coughing violently. I caught a glimpse of blood on his lips as he rushed to his apartment, leaving the door ajar in his haste.

My worry overpowered my fear, and I quietly followed him, slipping into his apartment with cautious steps. The living room was dim, the air heavy with a metallic scent that made my stomach churn. Marcus was on his hands and knees, his body trembling as if about to vomit.

His head suddenly snapped up, his gray eyes rolling back to reveal white sclera, and he began thrashing on the floor, his movements wild and unnatural. He tore off his shirt, revealing his tattooed chest glistening with sweat, the ink shimmering under the dim light. He kicked off his sweatpants, leaving himself completely naked, his smooth skin stretched taut over his muscular frame. His hands clawed at his flesh, nails raking across his arms, thighs, and chest, leaving angry red trails in their wake.

I stepped forward, my heart pounding, thinking he was having a seizure and needed help. But before I could reach him, he grabbed his own mouth with both hands and pulled. His jaw stretched impossibly wide, the skin of his face stretching like latex, and he yanked it over his head like a hood. 

My breath caught in my throat as a monstrous creature emerged, its head grotesque with hollow black eyes, a maw of jagged teeth, and a lipless mouth dripping with a viscous, black ooze. It continued to peel Marcus’s skin off, its clawed hands moving with deliberate slowness, savoring the act.

The tattoos rippled as the flesh came free, the skin peeling away in a single, glistening sheet, the sound wet and sickening, like tearing fabric soaked in oil. The creature pulled the skin down Marcus’s broad shoulders, the tattoos stretching and distorting, then down his muscular arms, the ink shimmering as it separated from the body beneath. It tugged the skin off his chest, revealing a grayish, bony torso beneath, the creature’s ribs protruding like the bars of a cage. The skin came free from his legs last, the fuzzy hair on Marcus's bubble butt catching the light as it crumpled to the floor in a heap, the tattoos vibrant even in its discarded state.

The creature stood, its bony, clawed limbs stretching to nearly seven feet tall, its grayish skin oozing with a sickly sheen. How it had fit inside Marcus’s body defied logic, its massive frame a grotesque mockery of the man I’d once admired.

I froze, my breath shallow, when a hiss sounded at my feet. Molly had followed me in, her calico fur bristling as she glared at the creature, her green eyes blazing with hatred. The creature turned, its hollow eyes locking onto me, and advanced with heavy, thudding steps, the same sound I’d heard that night months ago. Molly darted away, her small body disappearing into the shadows, but I was paralyzed, my legs refusing to move.

The creature grabbed my throat with a clawed hand, its grip like iron, and lifted me off the ground, my feet dangling. Its rancid breath, a mix of decay and sulfur, washed over my face, and I gagged, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“You’ll do,” it growled, its voice a deep, distorted rumble that vibrated in my chest.

Before I could scream, it shoved its clawed hand down my throat, its bony fingers wrapping around my tongue. I gagged, my throat burning, my lungs screaming for air as its claws scraped against the inside of my mouth. Tears blurred my vision, my body convulsing as I struggled against its grip. A sickening tug pulled at my core, a searing pain radiating from my throat to my gut, and with a violent yank, the creature drew my entire flesh out through my mouth, peeling me like a fruit. The sensation was indescribable, a ripping, tearing agony as my skin separated from my body, my nerves screaming in protest.

My skin came free in a single, intact piece, the sound a wet, sucking pop, and the creature threw me to the floor, my exposed flesh hitting the carpet with a sickening thud. Blood splattered everywhere, pooling beneath me, my body a quivering mass of raw muscle and sinew, every nerve exposed and burning in the cool air.

I was still conscious, the pain unbearable, my vision swimming as I watched the creature hold up my skin, inspecting it with a predatory gaze. It pulled the mouth of my skin open, its movements slow and deliberate, and stepped inside with a clawed leg, stretching the flesh with a grotesque intimacy. 

The sight was obscene, the creature’s massive form shrinking as it climbed into my skin, pulling it on like a wetsuit. It tugged the skin up its bony legs, the flesh stretching impossibly, then over its narrow hips, my own skin molding to its grotesque frame. It pulled the skin over its torso, my arms slipping over its clawed hands, the fingers fitting like a glove. Finally, it tugged my face over its own, the skin snapping into place with a wet smack, and took a deep breath, cracking my shoulders. My own eyes opened, my face grinning with that crooked smile I’d seen on Marcus’s face for months, a smile that didn’t fit.

“Thank you for the fresh skin,” it said, its voice a distorted mimicry of mine, the tone slightly off, like a warped recording. “The old one grew weak from those charms.” It nodded at Marcus’s skin across the room, the tattoos shimmering in the dim light. “Now I’m strong enough to resist them. I’ll devour the old lady, then come back for you.”

It ran off, my stolen body disappearing down the hall, leaving me to die on the floor.

I lay there, a quivering mass of exposed flesh, the pain a white-hot inferno that consumed every thought. Every movement was torture, the cool air searing my raw nerves, my blood pooling beneath me in a sticky, warm puddle. I was fading, my vision darkening, when I noticed Marcus’s crumpled skin across the room, the tattoos vibrant even in its discarded state.

A primal instinct to survive surged within me, a desperate, animalistic drive that overpowered the pain. I dragged myself across the floor, my exposed flesh scraping against the carpet, leaving a thick trail of blood in my wake. Each movement was agony, my muscles screaming, my vision swimming with black spots, but I reached the pile of Marcus’s skin, collapsing beside it with a shuddering gasp.

I was too weak to pull his mouth open, my trembling hands fumbling with the slick, warm flesh. I turned the skin over, my eyes landing on his bubble butt, perfectly rounded and lightly dusted with fine, fuzzy hair. The cheeks were soft and pliant under my raw fingers, the sensation a sharp contrast to the burning pain of my exposed flesh.

I parted them, revealing his fuzzy entrance, the hole warm and tight as I slipped a finger inside, the creature's magic lingering in the skin somehow allowing it to stretch impossibly.

“Oh God, Marcus, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I whispered, my voice a raw, rasping croak.

I inserted another finger, then my whole hand, then my arm, the hole yielding impossibly as I pulled it wider, the flesh stretching with a wet, elastic sound. I leaned forward, squeezing my head inside, the sensation overwhelming as my raw face pressed against the slick, warm interior.

The inside of Marcus’s skin was a surreal, fleshy cavern, its walls slick and pulsating with residual warmth. The heat was suffocating, Marcus’s musk overwhelming, a heady mix of sweat, leather, and raw masculinity that drowned my senses. I’d always dreamed of being close to him, smelling his scent on his shirts, but this was beyond imagination, an intimate, perverse invasion of his very essence.

“Marcus, your smell… it’s everywhere,” I gasped, my voice muffled inside the skin, the words echoing in the fleshy chamber.

I pushed deeper, my raw flesh scraping against the inner lining, the pain mingling with a perverse thrill as I felt the warmth of his skin envelop me. My arms and legs found their places, slipping into his limbs with a wet squelch, the tattoos rippling as my raw muscles filled them. I pushed my head up through the narrow neck, the passage tight and constricting, until my face popped into place with a soft pop, the skin molding to my features like a second skin.

The skin felt heavy at first, like a wet, oversized towel draped over me, but then it tightened around me, the limbs twisting into alignment with a series of sickening cracks, the face molding to mine with a wet, sucking sound.

Suddenly, I could feel the soft carpet beneath me, the cool air on my face, and the sticky sweat on Marcus’s tattooed chest. I was no longer looking through narrow eye sockets but seeing naturally through his eyes, the world sharp and vivid.

I stood, my center of gravity unfamiliar, Marcus’s muscular frame heavier than my own, my longer limbs awkward as I stumbled to the hallway mirror. My breath caught in my throat at the sight.

Marcus stared back, his dark brown hair swept back, expressions intense and piercing. My own dark eyes shifted before my very gaze, becoming his gray, the color rippling like liquid silver. My teeth whitened and straightened, my tongue thickening in my mouth, tasting of his essence, a faint musk that made my head spin. I spoke, my voice a distorted mix at first, a jarring blend of my own and Marcus’s tones.

“Holy shit… Marcus?” I rasped, the sound echoing in my ears. I coughed, clearing my throat, and my voice settled into his deep, smooth timbre, a perfect replica.

“Oh my God, I sound like you… I-I am you,” I whispered, my hands trembling as I touched my face, my chest, my arms. The skin was warm and smooth under my fingers, the tattoos vibrant against his fair complexion, the ink shimmering as if alive.

“Marcus, your skin… it’s so smooth, so warm. I can’t believe I’m wearing you,” I murmured, my voice thick with awe and a perverse thrill.

My hands roamed lower, finding Marcus’s cock, long, curved, and uncircumcised, throbbing painfully with new sensations. Its skin had slotted perfectly over my own, the magic merging us seamlessly, the length and girth unfamiliar but exhilarating.

“Fuck, Marcus, your cock… it’s so big, so perfect,” I gasped, my fingers brushing against it, the sensation sending a jolt through me.

I squeezed his bubble butt, the fuzzy entrance I’d used still slick with my blood, and wiped it clean with a nearby towel, the act intimate and surreal. “I came in through here… your ass, it was so tight,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of shock and desire.

I lifted his tattooed arms, burying my nose in his armpit, the musk intoxicating, a heady mix of sweat and Marcus’s natural scent that made my new cock throb harder.

“Your smell… God, Marcus, it’s driving me insane. I’m radiating your scent now,” I moaned, my voice muffled against his skin, the hair tickling my nose. The thought that this scent came from the skin I now wore, that I was enveloped in Marcus’s very essence, sent a wave of heat through me, my arousal mingling with the shock of my new reality. 

I might have indulged right then, but a shriek from the courtyard snapped me out of it, the sound piercing the haze of my transformation.

I pulled on Marcus’s discarded shirt and sweatpants, the fabric fitting perfectly, sending a pleasurable thrill through me as I felt the clothes hug my new body. The shirt clung to his tattooed chest, the sweatpants molding to his muscular thighs, and I shivered at the sensation of wearing his clothes, of wearing him.

“These are yours, Marcus… and now they fit me just perfect,” I murmured, my voice still laced with disbelief as I ran my hands over the fabric. Yet I hurried downstairs, my longer limbs awkward but exhilarating, each step a reminder of the body I now inhabited.

In the courtyard, a horrific scene unfolded. The monk lay dead, his neck torn open, blood pooling beneath him in a crimson stain. Across the lawn, Mrs. Chen was surrounded by family and a security guard, a deep gash across her face and eye, her screams echoing through the night. 

Beside her lay my stolen body, a wooden stake from the garden piercing its mouth, the creature inside unable to escape, its stolen flesh succumbing to the injury. Molly emerged from the shadows, her calico fur bristling as she clawed viciously at the creature’s face, her spite palpable, her green eyes blazing with fury. Sirens wailed in the distance as the chaos settled, the courtyard a tableau of violence and retribution.

I later learned from library books that the creature was called a Mogui, a Chinese skin-stealing ghoul that devoured humans and wore their skins to blend in. They were rare in the modern world, a relic of ancient folklore, and I’d narrowly survived its deception, though not completely unscathed…

—

That evening, I returned to Marcus’s apartment, my new body aching but alive, the weight of my transformation settling into my bones. I drew a long, hot bath, the steam rising in thick clouds as I stripped off his clothes, my eyes lingering on his tattooed skin in the bathroom mirror. The tattoos snaked across his chest and arms, the ink vibrant against his fair skin, a testament to the man I was wearing. I sank into the water, the heat soothing my raw nerves, the water lapping at Marcus’s smooth, fair skin, the sensation heightened by the warmth.

I ran my hands over his chest, the tattoos glistening under the water, the skin soft and warm under my touch.

“Marcus, your skin… it’s so perfect, so smooth,” I murmured, my voice echoing in the tiled bathroom, the sound of his deep timbre still startling me.

I kept calling it Marcus’s skin, even though I wore it as my own, the thought sending a shiver through me, a perverse intimacy that made my cock throb. My hands found his cock, long and thick, the foreskin sliding back as I gripped it with both hands, the sensation electric. 

“Fuck, Marcus, your cock feels so good… I can’t believe I’m touching it, feeling it…” I gasped, my voice thick with lust as I thrust slowly at first, the foamy water splashing with each movement.

I slipped a finger into his fuzzy ass, the warmth and tightness driving me wild, the thought of Marcus’s sizzling flesh wrapped impossibly tight around me overwhelming. 

“I’m inside you, Marcus… your ass, your skin, I’m wearing you like a fucking suit,” I moaned, my voice trembling with a mix of shock and ecstasy, the sensation of his body enveloping me and pushing me closer to the edge. His sweat and musk seemed to ooze from the pores of his skin, mingling with the steam, and I thrust harder, my back arching, the water sloshing over the tub’s edge.

“God, Marcus, I can smell you… I’m sweating your sweat, oozing your musk… this is insane,” I groaned, my voice rising as the pleasure built, my tattooed chest heaving with each breath.

I exploded, a massive load shooting across the bath, splattering his tattooed chest, some strings hitting my new face, the sensation of his cum erupting from his cock a perverse thrill. 

“Fuuuck, Marcus, I’m shooting your cum… your skin feels so fucking good around me!” I almost screamed, my voice echoing off the walls, my orgasm shuddering through me, wave after wave of pleasure mingling with the shock of my new reality. I licked my lips, tasting the cum, its flavor unfamiliar, musky, and raw, a stark contrast to my own. 

“Is this what you taste like, Marcus? Did the mogui make me you inside and out?” I whispered, my voice trembling as I wondered if the creature’s magic had transformed my insides into a perfect copy of his, or if my flesh had merged completely with his skin, erasing any distinction between us.

I washed off, the water swirling with soap and cum, and stepped out of the tub, drying myself with a towel, the fabric gliding over Marcus’s smooth skin. In the mirror, I gave myself an awkward smile with his face, flexing his bulging biceps, the tattoos rippling with the movement. 

“Oh, Marcus… your perfect skin is mine now, and I honestly don’t know if I ever want to give it back,” I murmured, my voice still laced with disbelief as I took one more whiff of his armpit, the musk still there despite the bath, a testament to his raw masculinity.

I wondered what had happened to the real Marcus, if he’d been devoured, and if I’d be stuck in his skin forever, a thought that filled me with both dread and a strange, perverse excitement.

A few days later, Molly’s meowing drew me to a loose floorboard in Marcus’s closet, a foul smell emanating from it, a mix of decay and something sickly sweet. I pried it open with trembling hands, expecting the worst, and found the small, decayed flesh of an animal, possibly a cat. Realization hit me like a freight train, a cold dread settling in my chest. I turned to Molly, my voice trembling with disbelief. 

“Marcus? Is that you in there?” I whispered, my gray eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

She looked at me with sad, forlorn eyes, then rubbed her calico fur against my leg, purring softly, her touch a confirmation of the horrific truth. It didn’t make sense, but somehow, the mogui had ripped Marcus from his skin and forced his flesh into Molly’s female cat body, perhaps to store him for later consumption, a cruel and twisted fate.

I scooped her up, my tattooed arms wrapping around her small body, scratching her neck as she purred against me. 

“Oh, Marcus… how did this happen to you? Trapped in your own cat… I’m so sorry,” I murmured, my voice cracking with emotion as I held her close. 

I stared into the hallway mirror, Marcus and Molly gazing back, the tattooed hunk and his intelligent calico cat, both of us displaced in our new skins. To the outside world, we were just as we’d always been, but beneath the surface, our lives had been irrevocably altered by the mogui’s cruel flesh magic.

I pressed my forehead to Molly’s, my gray eyes meeting her green ones, and whispered, “We’ll figure this out, Marcus. Together.” 

The mirror reflected our new reality, a strange, intimate bond forged in the aftermath of horror, our fates intertwined in ways I could never have imagined.

The End of The Mogui's Curse...?

[wakeup01]

PINK!

Warning, the following story contains repeated use of the F slur, even tho it is often not used in a derogatory context. Read at your own discretion. This is an older story that failed to publish here before now. Enjoy!

It sounded too good to be true, a free haircut? When is anything really ‘free’? But that’s what it said on the voucher. It arrived in the post a few days ago, apparently adverting a new hairdresser opening in town, as if there weren’t already several dozen.

As a college student, I wasn’t one to pass up on free stuff, and well, my hair had grown pretty long. So today I had decided to check the place out, maybe they would be good enough to replace my old barber. Upon arriving, the most obvious thing was the pink. A lot of pink. Pink signage, pink exterior, and the name - ‘The Pink One’. Creative.

Someone definitely had a favourite colour and it wasn’t blue. I didn’t necessarily have an issue with the colour, but it did seem a bit gay. I really hoped no one I knew would see me enter, I quickly checked my surroundings before rushing through the front door into the reception room. Wait, do barbers usually have receptions? Granted, I’d never really been into any highbrow salons but this place looked way above my pay grade. Lucky I’m not paying this time huh? Inside is, unsurprisingly, more pink.

There were several chairs in what looked like a waiting area and a main desk with a bored looking woman, idly swiping at a phone. The chairs were all empty, I guess business wasn’t exactly booming just yet; no wonder they’re giving out free cuts. I walk up to the desk and notice a little sign saying ‘we’re hiring, no qualifications required’ in pink bubble text. No qualifications? That makes me somewhat nervous, my hair isn’t gonna be cut by some intern, is it?

I stare at the receptionist as she does her best to pretend I don’t exist. She turns away and sighs at her phone.

“No, swipe left.” She groans, spinning her chair in place.

“Excuse me?” I attempt to interrupt.

“Ugh can’t you see I’m busy?” She says incredulously. Again turning away from me.

“Well… no. I have a voucher for a free haircut?” I say, unsure of myself.

Immediately she stops, freezing in place. She slowly turns back around to face me.

“Thank god, I mean… why didn’t you say? That doesn’t matter now! Where was I… yes. If you would just like to take a seat and wait your turn.” She hurriedly yells, as if the building was on fire. Her whole demeanour changing at the flip of a coin.

“Um… there’s no one else here though.” I point out, turning to face the empty chairs.

“Hahaha. Aren’t you a smart one! I like you! SIT. DOWN.” She yells before immediately whispering, menacingly.

I quickly turn and take a seat, looking over my shoulder as she flashes a nervous smile in my direction. Damn - I’m not sure this is worth it for a haircut. What a screw loose. I wait several minutes before the receptionist calls across the room at me.

“Room two! Toni will see you now!”

Toni? At least the hairdresser will be a girl. With any luck, one a little less obnoxious. I stand and walk to a door on the left with a ‘2’ nailed to it. And yes, the door is pink.

Okay, so Toni is actually a guy. I do a bad job at hiding my disappointment when they welcome me.

“Oh…”

“Hey there, I’m Toni.” They offer their hand in greeting. I reluctantly shake it.

“I’m Jacob.” I state plainly, pulling my hand away to take a good look at the ‘man’.

Toni is, how do I put it? Slightly effeminate. They have peach pink hair in a undercut, one half is completely shaven with the other hanging over his face. He has a crop top that reveals a piercing in his belly button and his eyes are clearly accentuated by black eyeshadow. Right, so he’s probably gay. Don’t say anything stupid, I tell myself.

“Gay, right?” Shit.

“Yep.”

My curiosity is sated at least. Toni turns the chair towards me and I climb on without a word. He places a cloth over me before facing the chair towards a wall mirror. My hair is like a birds nest, I could definitely play a mad scientist in a shitty tv drama.

“Been saving up for me or something sweetie?” Toni teases, winking at me in the mirror. I try and hold back a wince.

“What are we doing with THIS.” He shakes my dark brown hair playfully, making it fall over my eyes.

“Ahem, I guess a tidy up all over. Not too drastic though.” I particularly emphasise that last part. I don’t want to have to explain some f@ggy cut to my friends.

“That goes without saying. Leave it to me. Sir.” I don’t like how he said ‘sir’ sarcastically like that.

I feel my hands shake, for whatever reason haircuts always make me anxious. Something about giving someone else control over my body freaks me out. Toni rummages across the counter in front of me and picks up a spray can. He turns, and without warning sprays the can all over my head, it smells like sweet strawberries. A puff goes straight into my face and eyes. I flinch them shut, the stinging causing them to start watering.

“Fuck man!” I yell in pain.

“Whoops, should of told you to close your eyes. They’re closed now at least!” Toni chuckles. I’m not exactly amused.

He wastes no time and takes a trimmer to my overgrown hair. I squint through bleary eyes, my head dizzy. All of a sudden I feel groggy, all my thoughts seem to dissipate. All except one thing.

PINK

I have no idea why, but my brain seemed fixed on that one word. That one concept. That one way of life…. Huh. My mind is shaken back awake as Toni roughly pushes my head down.

“Huh?”

“I said head down. You were spacing out like a ditz.” Toni answers, his hand placed firmly on his hip.

My cheeks blush a bright shade of PINK, embarrassed by the fact I lost my train of thought. I manage to open my eyes clearly now, noting how my hair already looks a lot shorter. Toni starts up the trimmer again, the pleasant hum buzzing next to my ear as hair falls from my head in clumps.

“So, are you a bottom or top?” He asks, nonchalantly.

“What? Uh, I’m not gay thanks.” I reply bluntly.

“Really? Then why did you ask if I was?” Toni pauses, looking confused.

“It’s kinda obvious you’re a gay bottom dude.” My eyes are sore and pink from the spray, but it doesn’t stop me from rolling them as I watch myself in the mirror.

“Who says I’m a bottom?” Toni sharply pulls my head to the side.

“You’re a top?! I hate to see what the bottom looks like.”

Toni pushes the trimmer behind my ears. The buzzing intensifies, a steady thrum making me relax back into the seat. Its sound seems to become ingrained in my head. I hear Toni saying something to me in the background but I feel myself zoning out; the world around me fades, until there is nothing but the room, me and Toni.

He takes the spray can to my head again, the wonderful scent of strawberries wafts into my nose.

I see myself staring dimly into the mirror, my hair becoming shorter and shorter, the sides now being buzzed into a fade. I can’t seem to muster the energy to care right now, even though a voice in the back of my mind is telling me to say something. A bigger part of me is wondering how my hair would look if it was

PINK

A little groan escapes my lips. My dick chubs up in my jeans, a drop of pre forming against my underwear. I absentmindedly grope at my crotch, a sense of bliss overcoming me.

“We’re getting there! What do you think about a french crop?” Toni smiles and places a firm hand upon my shoulder.

My mouth opens to respond but I’m finding it hard to find the right words. I do know I need to object somehow.

“Too f@ggy.” I slur.

“And? Don’t worry hun, it’ll look great on you. You trust me, don’t you Jacob?” His smile is captivating.

“Trust you.” It’s easier to just go along with it. He is a professional after all. So what if he’s a bit ‘fruity’.

“Good boy.” He whispers.

The praise sends a shiver down my spine. My hand automatically begins rubbing at my tented groin. I should feel so embarrassed, feeling myself up in a public situation like this. But I can’t seem to stop, it just feels right. Toni continues to style my hair, combing the front forward and trimming it to just above my eyes. Maybe it was just the lighting, but my hair colour looked a shade lighter.

I hear the familiar sound of the spray, the room gains a thick PINK haze from the particles swirling around me.

“You know what this product is called?” Toni absently asks.

“PINK.” We both say in unison.

I take a deep sniff of the air, the smell acting like an aphrodisiac. My thoughts become fuzzy again. There’s a strange sensation coming from my rear, I squirm in the seat as I feel my butt clench. My body is lifted up higher as my butt cheeks push out behind me.

“Mhmmm.” My voice whines, seemingly several octaves higher.

I furiously pull at my crotch, my tented dick feels less pronounced. It’s no longer giving me the same level of satisfaction, instead a dull itch pulses from my asshole.

“The fuck’s happening…to…me.” I say between breathy pants.

“Oh that, you’re just becoming a bottom sweetie.” Toni states matter-of-factly, tilting my head while he fades the back of my head.

My brain is operating in slow motion, his words reach my ears but I’m instead fixated by my hair, or what’s left of it. The sides have an extreme skin fade and the strands on front hang seductively over my eyebrows. But the most worrying sight is the colour, now a dusty light brown. I’m starting to look like a…

“Not a f@g”. I blurt out, my mind racing to catch up.

“No? You certainly sound like a bitch in heat. And that’s just the start hunny, just let it work it’s magic. Soon enough you’re be drooling at the thought of being a ‘f@g’.”

“No…” I unconvincingly protest. My voice cracking.

Toni smiles that dreamy smile again, and pulls in dangerously close to whisper in my ear.

“In fact, once we’re done, I’m gonna push you over this counter, and impale you with my juicy pole as you watch the spark of intelligence fade from your eyes in the mirror. At which point you’ll be begging to taste my cum like a cheap slut. Doesn’t that sound perfect, hmm?”

“Fu…frick.” My voice now decidedly effeminate.

None of that can be true, can it? That’s not me, I like girls. At the same time, the idea of letting him use me however he liked made my head soar to cloud 9. My mouth pulls into a sloppy grin.

“Tell me, what’s your favourite colour. Is it…?”

“PINK.” My mouth moves without thinking.

“Good boy. Just keep repeating that word in your head Jakie.”

Jakie? But wasn’t my name PINK. No…something was wrong with PINK. PINK. I couldn’t stop seeing PINK everywhere I looked. PINK walls, PINK tank top, PINK…hair.

My hair was pink. Bright strawberry pink. A quiet giggle slipped from my mouth.

“You look adorable, how do you like your new hair?”

I loved it.

Why wouldn’t I? PINK was my favourite colour. Besides, it wasn’t gay to like pink. And it definitely wasn’t gay to have a pretty hairstyle with your initials shaved into the side. It was totes cute.

“It’s um… nice.” I reply, sheepishly.

“It suits you. We just gotta make some finishing touches, on the house, then you’ll be ready. Eyes closed Jakie.” Toni holds the spray can up to my face.

I clinch my eyes shut. After a minute Toni instructs me to open them again. I blink several times, awestruck by my face in the mirror. It’s me, but at the same time it’s not. My nose had shrunk down to a cute button, my pasty skin now a expertly even tan. My eyes gleaming a bright unnatural blue, while my lips were deep PINK and awkwardly fuller, like I’d been stung by a bee. But most of all, there wasn’t a single blemish, my features perfectly symmetrical in every way.

“Heehee. I look soo good bestie.” My choice of words feeling slightly off in the moment, before I immediately shrug it off. So what If I giggle a bit, it doesn’t make me any less of a man.

Toni throws off the cloth covering my body and gestures for me to stand up. I get to my feet and wobble on the spot, my weight distribution felt wrong. I balance my footing and blush - my butt straining within the confines of my once loose jeans. I take a step forward and feel my bubbly cheeks jiggle behind me.

“G…go…gosh.” I stammer, looking behind my shoulder.

“Aww. You’ll get used to them.” he gives them a light slap and I hear them clap together.

Ugh. It’s time to go, I think. Before anything else happens. I feel…odd, like waking from a vivid dream. I’m thankful at least that I didn’t cum in my pants, it would of been hard to live that down - especially in the presence of a gay guy.

I turn to leave through the door but Toni stops me, pushing a PINK lollipop into my hand.

“Suck!” He instructs.

I ponder the object for a brief moment, before bringing the shiny ball to my mouth. I give it a little lick, and am rewarded by a sweet strawberry taste. I swivel my tongue around its length, savouring the flavour. Before long I’m slurping at the candy like my life depended upon it.

“You seem in your element there.” Toni beams at me, and I smile back.

For the first time I notice the prominent bulge in his tight shorts. I catch myself staring and immediately pull my eyes back up to his face. Now I really need to leave. I reach out to the door handle and…

“Aren’t you forgetting something cutie? I don’t get a tip? You’re such a clutz, Jakie.”

“Oh heck. Sorry.” I apologise, letting go of the door and letting my hand hang limply.

How could I have forgotten, sure the haircut was free but I still had to tip, especially after the brilliant job he did. The problem was, I didn’t bring any money, not even my wallet.

“Um, well…see. The thing is, I have nothing on me.” I stare down at my feet.

Toni places his soft hand under my chin and lifts it to face him. His other hand is resting at the hem of his shorts. He pulls at it slightly, revealing a bit more of his hips. The subtle outline of his tight abs catches my attention.

“That’s okay, I had something else in mind.”

He pulls his shorts further until they drop to his feet, behind them was a bright fluorescent PINK jockstrap. I don’t know why I’m not running at this point, in fact I can’t even tear my eyes away from his crotch. One of my biggest fears is coming true and I’m just standing here like an dummy.

Toni reaches his hand into his jock and pulls free a 7 inch cock. I instinctively gulp.

“How about it, my little dump truck?” He pulls at his foreskin and then looks me straight in the eye.

“I uh… I don’t know. Not really into guys.” My words barely audible as the lolly sticks out of my mouth.

“That doesn’t matter silly, you don’t have to be.”

Is that true? Isn’t it gay to let some dude frick you? I guess not if you don’t cum. It’s like helping out a friend, and he is my bestie. But more importantly, I owe him a big tip. I roll the tasty lollipop from left to right, my hands slightly shaky.

“‘Kay then. How do I…”

“Take those dull clothes off.”

Bleh, Toni can be pretty intimidating when he wants to be. But I do as he says anyway, removing my top and jeans, and then, finally my boxers. I look down, my dick a now meagre 3 inches hard; seeming rather poultry in light of his 7 incher. I seem to remember being bigger down here, but it’s hard to recall exactly.

“Cute nub. But let’s see what you’re packing back there Jakie boy.” Toni spins his hand in the air, indicating that he wants me to turn around.

I slowly face away from him, finding myself looking back into the mirror. My body is a girls dream, completely smooth with a tiny waist and wide hips. Where are my muscles? I look like a, like a…mhmm I get the sudden urge to feel my backside, and I reach my hands behind me. Ugh, my buttocks are ginormous, it’s like a half of my mass has moved back there. And I seem to be leaking, a moist viscous substance dripping from between my two basketball sized cheeks.

“Self lubricanting too, nice. You’re a keeper babe.” His remark felt more deriding than complimentary.

I pull my hand away, now sticky with the fluid from my ass. I give my fingers a whiff. Ah. Peaches. Sweet, PINK peaches. I’m lost in a daze. Toni’s hands begin to fondle my sensitive butt, every touch makes my nub ache. Satisfied, he pushes hard on my back. I bend forward, leaning against the counter in front of me - my legs move apart to balance my new rear heavy body.

“Mhmmm.”

He slaps his member against my back and grinds it down between my cheeks. I feel the tip of his cock push against my virgin hole. It dawns on me - it’s too late to back out now. In one swift motion Toni thrusts all the way into me.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Toni grunts over me.

“T…tight” I echo back. I see myself panting heavily in the reflection. I spit out the PINK lolly, a strand of drool falls from my mouth.

‘Not gay, not gay’ I repeatedly tell myself. My body rocking back and forth as Toni begins taking me in earnest. I just have to make sure I don’t cum, no matter what.

“I told you this would happen, you’re a natural born slut, mhm. You can’t deny what your body wants fuckmuffin.”

“Wha…” I’m so confused.

My insides are pulled along the length of his shaft and then back again. Then again, and again. I felt like a fleshlight. Before long I sense myself pushing back against him, so that his cock can reach deeper into my hole, stretching me out fully. I never imagined dick could feel so good. My face in the mirror is one of complete lust, the sight sends a sudden jolt of fear to my head. If this keeps up I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hold back.

“Hmf…You’re gonna make an adorable PINK boi mmf… a coworker with benefits.”

What is he talking about, coworkers? I just came for a haircut, didn’t I? I’m not planning to work here. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about cutting people’s hair. Those benefits do sound pretty temping though. My butt is just begging to be pounded on the daily, as long as I don’t cum, it’s fine.

“Jakie, you’ll look so cute in a lil’ PINK thong and crop top.”

Yas, I would be cute. Being a PINK boi does actually sound adorbs. We’d like, have matching outfits! Hehe. Maybe I could even get a heart tattoo on my lower back.

“That’d be like, sooo fun bestie!” The sound of my own voice makes me cringe.

I’m talking like a stereotypical gay twink and I’m definitely not, I have some dignity. I need to pull myself together and act like a man. That’d probably be much easier without a cock lodged up my ass. I feel Toni speed up, maybe just to spite me. His hefty ballsack slaping against me in quick succession. My rock hard nub bounces under the counter, my tight balls churn. Frick, I don’t think I can take much more.

“Ah…It’s about time you let get go of that pathetic masculinity. What are you, hon?

“I…I…” Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m thuch a f@g!” I enthusiastically admit.

My little nub spurts a wad of cum across the wall, and with it go my inhibitions, my shame and my modesty. A little voice in my head yells out about something boring before quickly being drowned out by the image of my big booty stuffed into a pair of PINK shorts. Heehee. I’ve been utterly emasculated and I love it. In the mirror I have a huge dopey grin. Toni was like, such a good top. Gawd.

“Fuck, that’s hot babe! You’re almost perfect for the job.” Toni starts to slow down.

His 7 inch cock leaves my boi pussy and an emptiness sets in. It doesn’t last long as he spins me around and pushes me down to the floor. His dick slaps across my face. It’s dripping heavily with my own juices and his cum. The smell alone has me salivating. I can’t wait anymore and attempt to lunge at it but he pulls away.

“You gonna swallow every drop?” Toni raises his eyebrow and looks down at me. Did he get taller?

“Yes sir.” I whine.

In a smooth motion his cock passes through my pouty lips and pushes all the way to the back of my throat. I momentarily chock on its girth, but after a few thrusts I start working it like a pro.

‘How’s your own pussy taste?”

It was incredible! Like peaches and cream, an elixir of his cum mixed with my wet hole. Yum. I couldn’t get enough. I try and answer him but the words are muffled by my face full of cock.

“Yeah, let’s get you nice and dumb.” He grips my hair tightly and shoves my head into his smooth crotch.

“Ot…umb.” I try and tell him.

“No? Oh sweetie, once you swallow my cum, you won’t just be dumb, you’ll be basic. Not just gay, but capital G ‘Gay’. Happily submitting to anyone with a real dick. And our customers will be happy to oblige, before they too join you in blissful ignorance.”

Huh! No. Being gay was great, but I still wanted to have my wits. Not be some empty-headed slut, shaking my butt at complete strangers.

“Just imagine. You’ve finished on a clients hair, the colour now identical to yours. Well, they need to tip you somehow?” He puts on an exaggerated voice, as if talking to a child.

“Mfhmm.”

“Exactly! So you giggle, drop you shorts and push your bubble butt into their face. Don’t forget your pretty PINK thong, framing your rear like a thick cake. Then what do you say?”

“Hnnff!” I want to stop but the taste in my mouth is nothing short of addicting. If he could at least cease his talking…

“Close! You’d say, in that cute lisp: ‘Daddy, please eat my ass’.”

I try and desperately think of a way to end this. But each time his tip reaches the back of my throat it pushes away all my thoughts, like his cock is taking up all the space inside my skull. I go crosseyed as he rams my mouth like a bull. He was literally fucking my brain to mush.

“And you’ll be eaten out again and again, each time they’ll deposit their creamy load into your waiting mouth. So…you finally ready airhead?”

Please…

Toni humps three more times in quick succession before a geyser of his cum erupts in my mouth. On autopilot I swallow great gulps as the thick, full flavoured liquid flows down my throat. I drink every drop as he continues to unload his heavy balls. My tummy begins to bloat from the sheer volume of his strawberry milkshake.

With the release from his cock, I feel a release of my own, except mine seemed to be coming from up top. An abnormal amount of drool was leaking from my mouth, coinciding with my intellect draining from my brain. I attempt to stop the thick drool from gathering, to no avail, as my smarts literally drip from my mouth and soak into the pink carpet on the floor. After a few seconds I’m sat there with a completely empty look.

“Ahh.” I moan.

Uh, Wasn’t something bad supposed to happen? I didn’t feel very different. Like sure, my head was totes empty. And? It felt like, soooo gud. I really wanted to tug at my nub.

“Mmm.”

Can you say ignoramus, honey?‘ Toni pulls his cock free from my face.

“Um Ig…iglo…iglo-mo-must?” I try and sound out the word. It hurts my head. Whatever.

“Good toy. You’re hired.” His cock bobs up and down in front of me.

That’s nice. But I’m more interested in something else as I stick my tongue out and lick his pole clean. I can’t let any of it go to waste. Working under Toni sounds like a lot of fun, and I won’t have to worry about thinking too much; It’s basically perfect for me. And all the PINK!

“Mm, you’re good at that Jakie. But let’s get you dressed into something more your style. And then you can report to the receptionist for your training. You’ll be ready to serve by tomorrow.” Toni ruffles my hair and pulls me to my feet.

“Serve…” I bite my lip.

I make sure to get a good look at myself in the mirror. Like OMG, I’m stunning. Looking like a posable Ken doll. My tiny nub is the cutest thing, I can’t wait to see it be barely noticeable in a tight PINK thong. Wearing a cage at this point would be purely decorative. My eyes maybe seem a little dull now, revealing how little is going on behind them, but guys love that! They want a brainless boy toy, and that’s exactly what I give them.

It’s like I’ve been molded into the ideal twink: vapid, vain and without an original thought in my hollow little head. Before, I had a personality, ambitions and ideals. Now, I was totally basic, unremarkable and indistinguishable from a thousand other empty slutty bottoms. My whole identity replaced with sex, just another hole waiting to be filled.

Being unique is like, hard work - having to worry about what to say, how to dress and where to fit in; why bother when I can be ‘gay’ and let that label completely define me. Being cute and wearing PINK to match my bubble gum brain while others tell me what to do. Some may take being called dumb as an insult, but I take great pride in it! Smart people spend their whole life working to get ahead, all I need to do is drop my pants and bend over. Heeheehee.

“Jakie! Stop spacing out like a Himbo and bring that butt over here! Take these.”

I walk up to him and he hands me a pile of dull looking clothes; a pair of black jeans and a plain top. Bleh, how ugly. I bundle them up and toss them in a bin in the corner. Toni is now holding up my new uniform. I take the thong and pull it up between my legs, the thin piece of fabric rides up between my cheeks and presses against my sensitive hole. A little indentation is visible where my tiny cock pokes out in front.

I ‘cover’ myself up with a pair of tight booty shorts, they don’t leave much to the imagination; the fabric bunches up behind me. Finally I put on the florescent PINK crop top, it hangs off my tiny frame leaving my belly button exposed. On the front it says ‘PINK BOI’, and on the back is an arrow pointing down and the words ‘Open For Business’.

__________________________

You find yourself somewhere you never expected to be - a wall to wall pink room. It was definitely challenging your sense of masculinity. But hey, you got one of these ‘free haircut’ vouchers and if the only cost is being subjected to a gay as fuck waiting room, it’s worth it. Although the receptionist had certainly put a dampener on the whole deal. You hear her shout across the room.

“You’re in number one, they will see you now!” Her voice several decibels louder than necessary, considering the relative distance.

You stand up and walk towards the door. Quickly you move to the side as the previous customer brushes past you. A glazed look is plastered across their face and they almost walk straight into you.

Your hand wraps around the door knob and you look back and give them a sideways glare. You shove the door open and are greeted by the widest of smiles.

“Oh hai, I’m Jakie!” I greet you, shooting you a seductive wink.

[occamstfs]

Model's New Mustache

Constantly annoyed by his androgyny, David stumbles onto a spam ad that leads to his first facial hair and unknowingly condemns his latest overly masc ex to the twinkdom he's leaving behind.

Pretty standard role swap/masc theft! Twinky bottom to hairy top though much of the opposite changes happen off screen. At any rate, hope you enjoy this tale of Twink Theft! -Occam

And so began the same argument that has led to the end of each and every one of David’s previous relationships. Sure, he knows he’s beautiful. Angelic many of his one night stands and observers from afar frequently point out. He’s a model by default and his face card is perfect bait for men to just fall at his feet.

David frequently finds himself with men almost stereotypically masculine, alpha bros and DL hoes are always drawn to his androgyny. But rarely do they ever consider anything but his looks. When the cherubic man can no longer hold back his ire at being considered just a pretty face they fight and then abandon him for some other waifish twink. Leaving him feeling like nothing more than a soft-skinned doll for them to play with and abandon.

Curled up in the passenger seat of his current horndog fling’s car, David looks from underneath his tangle of perfectly coiffed curls as Mattias just stares down the open road. Glancing at the hairy jungles covering the man’s torso and pits, David yearns to feel the scratch of hair against his body. The closest thing he can ever experience to growing it himself.

For half a moment the model believes that perhaps Mattias is reflecting, thinking about their argument. Considering David’s point of view at all. When a hand drifts to adjust a bulge clearly visible in his pants it’s clear there’s only one thing on his mind. And David is certainly not going to let that happen tonight. 

“You’re not even listening.”

“Shiiiit, I mean c’mon babe. Be serious. You couldn’t even grow facial hair if you tried. I just dunno why you’re being such a lil bitch about it.”

Bony arms hugging his long legs, draped with pants he purloined from a shoot, David feels a fire burning within him. He’s not even been allowed to try. His agency would can him on the spot. Staring at the small mustache decorating Mattias’ upper lip he reaches to feel his own smooth, soft face. He’s going to try.

“I don’t care what you think, I’m going to stop waxing. Keep complaining, see what else I might decide to try. Asshole.”

Eyes flitting to his passenger, Mattias reaches over to feel David’s inner thigh. “So, uhhh, that means we’re not-”

“Fuck off you horny fucking- Spend half an hour thinking about anything but my ass and maybe, maybe I won’t lose your number.”

Clicking his tongue, Mattias throws his head against his headrest and starts rerouting to drop David off at his home. Sure that his dick is anything worth craving he assumes David’ll come crawling back to him by the end of the week, femme-er than ever. Smirking as he nods farewell to the man, he imagines soft hairless cheeks bouncing on him come Tuesday and quickly redownload Grindr to try and satisfy his still throbbing cock.

Watching yet another mindless jerk abandon him to his insecurities, David is of a different mind. This time it’s going to be different. As soon as the tail lights of Mattias’ shit box are out of sight, David begins his research. 

It’s not long at all before David comes across a targeted ad. Formatted like any other, on the left there’s a twink that the model swears he’s seen before, on the right is a perpetually bear-faced man. Face overgrown with itchy stubble and capstoned by a burly mustache that makes David’s mouth water.

Averse to cumming in his pants from a spam-ad, David does his best to stop imagining the twink’s journey to become the hairy hunk opposite him. He can just picture the bleach blonde hair giving way to that ruddy brown as his hairline retreats. Stubble growing so quickly it’s not even worth trimming. David bites his lip to stop from imagining his bulky figure out of frame.

Trailing past both the familiar ditzy twink’s lolling tongue and the alluring garden of chest fur on his alleged new self, David reads the caption. ‘How I became a man with ONE simple trick’

Rather than inviting whatever malware hides behind this jpeg onto his system, David scrawls through his instagram hoping against hope that he does actually know this man. Lo and behold he miraculously finds him, though as of late the twink’s has been dry.

Refusing to acknowledge the reality that this ad probably just stole an image from this mystery model’s account, David prepares to cold-DM this man he doesn’t really know. Desperate to feel the way he has always craved, desperate to change, he types his message:

‘Hey Hi! Peyton right? Funny thing :P I just found an ad of u and this like,,, lumberjackey otter? U know anything about this?’

Within the minute the man replies:

‘lmaooo ya thas me dude so u wanna fucc or what?’

Shocked at the bizarre response, there are a few false starts before David lands on a message. While he certainly wouldn’t be opposed to getting fucked by the man on the right, his eyes are on the prize of being more like him than anything else.

‘Ahhhh unfortunately I was more just wondering about the trick the ad mentioned. Like,, is that real? Surely thats like a joke huh?’

Across town and annoyed at the boner that won’t be satisfied now that Peyton knows what David wants, the hirsute horndog whines and starts absentmindedly playing with his cock as he prepares to offer David the route to join him. Much like David’s string of horny tops, he’s slightly disappointed for the world to lose such a pretty boy, but he would never stand between someone who wants to join him in his most-masculine form.

And he knows it’s not the only change to erupt from David’s ascension.

‘its easy brother just click the link and type the guys name in’

‘The guy?’

‘the dude who made u feel like shit lil bro sumone u want to take down a peg’

Obeying the strange man’s prescription, David takes a deep breath before clicking the ad to find nothing but a small empty text box. Left with nothing to go off besides the man’s words, David pictures the most recent jerk to wrong him.’

Imagining Mattias’ sneer as David explained the pain he feels when he looks in the mirror, the mustache twitching with his lips is impossible to ignore. He yearns to just rip it off the man’s face and put it on his own. David quickly types his name into the box. And nothing happens.

MATTIAS

Worried he’s fallen for some phishing scam or at the very least made a fool of himself, David quickly hits his keyboard to ask for next steps from Peyton:

‘What now?’ … ‘Hello, you there? I typed his name in’ … ‘K. Well thanks for nothing’

After spamming the man who got him this far with a few more dms, unaware that the man has simply muted his notifications to quickly masturbate, David refuses to be awake any longer and falls into his bed. Tomorrow he’ll be over it. It’ll be just another day. He’ll go to a shoot, pose, go home, do his regimen, and then go to bed again. 

  Sinking into his mattress, David stares at his ceiling. Dimly lit by the computer monitor left on he swears he can see Mattias’ cocky face watching him. After a blink he sees his own, gaunt and smooth, like carved marble.

Seeing his face reflected in the funhouse mirror of his mind’s eye, David doesn’t know when sleep overtakes him. When he begins to dream about the man he is going to be, a small smile twitches across his sleepful lips as the slightest itch begins to burn atop them.

The changes he finds in the morning are already too drastic to outright explain, if he could notice anything new besides the slight but unmistakable new mustache, that is. Fingertips instantly poking against the adamant new prickles decorating his face, David rushes to the bathroom to find his new reflection.

Quickly tearing out his phone to get permanent proof of his first facial hair beyond peach fuzz, David is ignorant to how his messy ringlets retracted into the spiky new fade that crowns his slightly retracted hairline.

So focused on the new lip candy as to miss this most prominent of changes, the many more minute alterations absolutely breeze past the excitable new man. Staring at the stubble promising future growth on his chin, he doesn’t notice the rougher hands holding up his phone or the ruddier complexion covering his face. 

Underneath the shirt he fell asleep in the first steps of body hair begin to slowly prickle out. Struggling in a biome designed to prevent regrowth, David’s lasered chest and perma-waxed pits tingle as the first brave new curls begin the first steps towards a total rout of his smooth twinkish form.

Unable to do anything but grin as he delights in the first glimpse of a life and body he never truly saw for himself, David rushes to thank Peyton for putting him onto that strange site. He can’t believe all it took was some manifestation! Funny how a stupid little text-box prompt could be so helpful!

Blissfully unaware of the ocean of changes brewing beneath his skin, David is waylaid by a handful of notifications. Grin turning to a smirk as he imagines it’s his manager on his ass for being late to a shoot; little does he know he’s got a far bigger surprise in store. Scratching at the barely noticeable itch in his pits, his fingers free the musk that had been baking all night under his heavy shirt.

Half-preparing to send the selfie he took to the man who fought for him to stay femme more than anyone else, David instead finds the handful of texts are from his personal trainer. Of course he’s had one since he was brought on by his agency, but reading the handful of missed messages, David is thrown for a loop.

As far as he could remember their routines have always been on keeping him lithe. Maintaining his stick thin figure. Ensuring his cortisol stays low at any cost. To see message after message tearing into David for not taking strength training and bulking up seriously completely derails his train of thought. 

Something deep within his chest turns at the idea and without even changing into something more appropriate for the gym, David tears out the door and sprints to his trainer’s side. With every step further from his austere apartment, his body continues to adapt to its new status quo.

Calves designed to be draped with baggy pants burst with muscle as each rushing pace springs with more strength. Working from increasingly strained shoes upward, his calves begin to blanket with a soft garden of hair. Burgeoning curls tug at the air soaring by as they yearn to connect with the thickening patch of pubes surrounding a permanent-semi that David is struggling with as he continues his heady jog.

Before he even arrives at the gym he has already become an altogether different man. The step-above-peachfuzz mustache that languished on his face when he woke up has continued to thicken and now hangs entirely over his upper lip. Across his whole body his bony figure has continued to fill out from the exertion of his sprint to the gym. 

Biceps bulge onto his thin arms as they cut through the morning air on his run. Sleeves of a shirt not designed to be within a city-block of a gym are quickly strained as dark stains under his burgeoning shoulders show the beginnings of his tangled pits seeding proof of their existence. Smelling the unpleasant odor of his morning breath joining the aura of body odor steaming in his wake, David feels his underwear strain as his hips readjust and grow mid stride. Panting like a dog he moans from soreness burning as new muscle strands thicken and bulge onto his powerful limbs. 

Filled with gratitude greater than he can understand to the man who ushered him into this ecstatic change, he once more goes to message Peyton only to find a plethora of new messages from none other than Mattias. 

‘What did you fucking do to me you bitch.’

Absolutely no idea what that’s about, David stares dumbfounded at the screen before his attention span in high-demand is summoned by his trainer as he bumbles into the gym, late. “You ready to go or what princess?” Butterflies in his stomach quiver at the words, he’s not a princess anymore. And he’s going to prove it to Mattias, his trainer, and anyone else who gets in his way.

His chest burns with a need to grow as he makes his way over to a bench. The act of laying down alone causes his thin chest to bulge larger. The buttons that always hung loosely on his sternum fly off into the gym as pecs fill his sweat-stained shirt to its breaking point before sending lancing tears further down his chest.

Through each new open seam and widening hole, the hidden hair prickling across David’s torso makes itself known. Having expanded well beyond a paltry patch connecting a handful of curls swirling around his formerly petite nipples, the swath of tangled jungle covering his bulging pecs races to make itself seen. His growing chest aids in this as the single button still feigning modesty on his shirt bursts free to reveal the curls climbing towards his neck.

Feeling the pump of growth, his heart racing, David grunts and groans as torso firms and expands to compete with his strengthening limbs and eye-catching chest. Quickly filling the shirt like rising dough in a tin, David barely holds back a horny scream as he feels the fabric tear to shreds off his body. 

Standing nearby for obvious reason, David’s trainer simply stares blankly as his once doelike ward has grown into a stag. Watching as his face prickles with thicker stubble surrounding his gritted teeth, staring as arms that he swears were to be deliberately untouched thicken and trail with veins, the trainer has a burning urge to keep him here in the gym as long as possible.

To this end he reaches up to usher David to the next machine, opting to reach for the small of the man’s back for lusty greed alone, he bites his lip as he feels the beginnings of his trainee’s ass hair creeping up towards his shoulders. Unlike the still perma-poised David, the trainer doesn’t quite quiet a whimper from feeling up his sweaty back. “Mhhmm~”

Shocked to hear as much from someone David would’ve sworn was straight, David turns in surprise to stare at his visibly horny trainer. Blush paints the broish man’s cheeks and the twitching package he can’t hide makes it clear he’s certainly not red in the face from his own scant workout.

Stepping away David watches as his needy hands fall away. Gulping with need, there’s surely a part of the hitherto professional trainer that knows there is something strange alluring him to David, but when he sees the growing man’s bicep twitch even larger his train of thought has no recourse but to pull out all the stops to keep him close.

David knows he’s hot stuff, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten googoo eyes from a ‘straight man,’ but something’s off. Scratching his head he feels how his hair texture has shifted. As clear as he feels itchy tufts of thick hair in his pits rubbing the sides of his chest as he moves his arm, his thicker fingers feel hair that is both thicker and thinner than it should be.

Texture more akin to fur than the downy curls he once had, in real time he feels what’s left of his model’s do retract into a tight and rough buzz. Memories of a hair routine before bed every night dissolve to be replaced by David just rolling into a barber and getting the most basic cut they have to offer.

Glancing towards his trainer he feels something profound shift within his chest. He’s used to attention sure, but having a truly masc man stare at him with needy jealousy has awoken something within him. His own cock twitches and he reaches down to adjust it. When the trainer’s needy eyes follow David’s hand his newfound cockiness only grows.

He can almost feel the thick hair coating his chest thicken as his adorer’s mouth falls open in need. He does feel the cock that he’s only recently begun to fondle grows even more, only a semi thus far if David didn’t know any better he’d swear it was already larger than the most turgid erection he’s ever had. 

Having humored the man enough, Dave feels a profound urge to play with his food for just a second longer before dipping. Glancing at the muscular figure he’s always admired he doesn’t feel nearly the same heat that the trainer evidently has for him. Feeling his phone still blowing up in his back pocket he’s reminded he’s got a bitch- er, he’s still got Mattias to deal with.

To point he challenges his trainer. 

“What’s the problem with you?”

Sheepishly the trainer averts his eyes from the center of Dave’s chest where the hair is so thick that one truly can only guess that there’s skin beneath. Halfheartedly pointing to the next machine he viscerally feels any authority he once had over Dave slip away.

“Just let me go.”

Knowing deep within himself that this is profoundly wrong, that the twink he was hired to keep fit and keep femme has grown into a man like he’s never seen, when Dave pushes past him towards the exit of the gym the only thing he can do is giggle from feeling his sweaty skin against his own. Dave doesn’t even look back as he stomps out of the gym, hairy feet exposed as the tennis shoes he had on finally give way to the massive stompers this top heavy body requires.

Left behind, the trainer feels lightheaded as the source of his confusion leaves him be. Slightly worried he’s going to get chewed out for something out of his control, by the time Dave pulls out his phone and begins walking towards Mattias’ he doesn’t even remember having Dave as a client. It’s not like his employers had any interest in fashion for men who think deodorant is optional.

Finally free from the gym, Dave allows the asshole blowing up his phone some attention. Every message is whinier than the one that came before. Scrolling up to the first, Dave finds it the usual aggressive diatribe he’d expect from a man he chose explicitly for being a macho loser but with every step closer to the present his messages tinge with emotion.

“I no u did this u little bitch when i see u its over

“Look idk what I did but u need to stop it. Please I cant show up to my boys lookin like this”

“Fine, shit! Maybe I deserved it but you gotta stop. I don’t want to be some hairless twink.”

“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”

Every message only makes the hunger within Dave grow. Reading Mattias beg and whine and cry only makes him feel more. Bigger, hairier, hornier. Each heavy step towards this man’s house hits harder as his thighs bulk up to support his widening chest and the thickening cock between them. 

The mustache on his face thickens and hangs lower to cover the entirety of his upper lip. The dense thicket on his pecs decides it’s not enough as thick curls launch towards his shoulders and musty pits. His midsection continues to thicken as the thin arrow of a treasure trail that once pointed to his tangled pubes widens to engulf the whole of his heavy new muscle gut. 

Gym shorts he didn’t remember changing into are taut on his ass as it sends a couple tears straight down his ass crack, partly exposing his jockstrap and the dense tangles it struggles to corral to the open air. Dave can’t help but continue to read Mattias’ appeals as he grows. Thick vein bulging down his biceps as a coat of curls races down his muscular shoulders to meet the prodigious jungle on his forearms.

Grunting as he feels his cock strain the front of his shorts he wonders if he’s going to make it to Mattias’ without being criminally indecent. Seeing his thick cockhead near the lip of his shorts he finds Mattias’ most recent messages have switched their tune.

“I’ll fucking do anything babe please, anything but my cock.”

“I wish I had a cock like yours…

“God you’re so hot, I just wish I could be more like you…”

Doubletaking at the idea of this once vainer than life machismo obsessed douche yearning to be like him, less than a moment later Dave smirks and remembers his reality. Of course Mattias wants to be like him, who wouldn’t. The twink’s wrapped around his meaty finger just like anyone lucky enough to get to ride on his cock would be. Scratching his hairy gut he decides he wants to see his prize. 

Deigning to reply at last, Dave just sends two words. ‘Facetime me’

Within a second Dave’s phone is ringing for Mattias. Seeing his old profile picture Dave can’t recognize the middling man before him. Nothing like the twink he knows and loves to fuck, still he lets the mystery man’s face stay on his phone for a moment longer to leave Mattias waiting. Offering the perfect juxtaposition between Mattias’ new and old self.

“Hey daddyyyy~ Are you coming over or what?”

Even the most powerful supernatural effect couldn’t stop Dave from being stunned in his tracks, shocked at the twink, jittery with need, now performatively shimmying on the facetime call. Staring at the pathetic remains of the mustache and goatee Mattias once prided himself over, Dave feels his cock twitch and drip with pre as it finally escapes his shorts.

Accidentally grabbing a few curls on his thigh as he yanks his shorts back down to poorly hide his throbbing rod, Dave grunts in pain which causes Mattias to gasp as his thicker lips purse into a pout. “Are you okay baby?”

His airy whine drives Dave into one final wave of changes as he grunts out a “Be right over. You’d better be ready.” Shorts almost shearing off his meaty thighs as he begins sprinting towards his lay’s home, Dave pants like an animal in heat as he feels everything about him grow more extreme. No inch of skin is spared as his coat spreads to cover every inch of his sweaty skin. 

Swinging between his legs, Dave makes no attempt to hide his thick cock during his flight. Prioritizing speed above everything, his hairy feet do their best and miraculously the accidental nudist arrives at Mattias’ house with nothing but his hairy ass having been seen.

Stumbling into the front door, always left unlocked for him, Dave follows his nose to the floral scented bedroom and finds Mattias just where he wants him. Even thinner and smoother than he was on their call moments ago, Dave smirks at the pouf of manicured curls on his head and the pitiful few strands of hair clinging to his pits, the dregs of his  masculinity.

Pouncing on the bed to straddle Mattias, he sees a sparkle in the twink’s eyes as his massive cock bounces hard in the air. Shocked at just how large it is compared to Mattias thin waist he rests upon the small man and rubs his smooth skin with hands rough from the gym and a life lived with altogether no attention to skincare.

Feeling his cock buck of its own accord as it spews viscous pre onto Mattias’ hairless chest, Dave experiences for the first time just how powerful it feels to be The Man in bed, in a relationship, in life. Give him a few seconds and he might just cum from the very feeling.

Doing his best to restrain quick-cumming he leans down to whisper in Mattias’ ear, he feels his mustache scratch the twink’s regimented cheek. “Get on your stomach and let’s get this started.” Blushing like he’d never have done before, what is Mattias to do but obey the sexiest man he’s ever been with.

[jerisch]

Gymini

The date ended with a handshake. Not a kiss, not even a hug. Just a polite, firm handshake at her door.

"You're a great guy, Sebastian," she said, her smile pitying. "You're... safe."

Safe. The word felt like a castration.

Back in his bathroom, Sebastian stared at himself in the mirror. He was thirty-two, a newly appointed assistant Professor, and perfectly healthy. But the reflection showed a man who was functionally invisible. His chest was flat. His arms were thin wires. He had zero presence. He wasn't ugly; he was just... blank.

He didn't need to be a muscle monster. He just needed to stop being "safe."

———————————————————————————————

The gym was called Metrics. It was located in the basement of a modern office building.

Sebastian walked in, feeling out of place in his brand-new, loose-fitting workout clothes.

"Help you?"

The voice was deep, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning.

Sebastian turned. A man was wiping down a bench press.

Marcus. He looked to be in his forties, but he was in peak condition. He wasn't one of those bloated steroid users on magazine covers. He was thick. His neck was wide, his shoulders broad and heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms tightly, showing off dense, mature muscle. He had a short beard, black with specks of gray, and he smelled of clean sweat and expensive cedar soap.

"I'm looking for a trainer," Sebastian said, straightening his back, trying to look taller. "I assume that's you."

Marcus walked over slowly. He didn't smile. He just looked at Sebastian with dark, calm eyes. It felt like being scanned.

"I'm Marcus."

"Sebastian," he replied. "Look, I'll be blunt. I'm an academic. I don't have time to waste. I want to build muscle. I want to look... better." He gestured vaguely at his own thin frame, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice to mask his insecurity. "But I don't want to turn into one of those mindless meatheads. I just need the aesthetics."

He expected Marcus to be offended. Instead, Marcus just stared at him, his gaze dropping to Sebastian's narrow shoulders, then back to his eyes. There was a flicker of amusement in that look. Like a wolf looking at a very noisy rabbit.

"Aesthetics," Marcus repeated. His voice was flat, unreadable. "We can do that."

He stepped closer, invading Sebastian's personal space. The smell of him—musk and authority—was sudden and overwhelming.

"You want the look without the lifestyle. But the iron doesn't care about your PhD. It only cares if you can handle the weight." Marcus paused, looking at Sebastian's soft hands. "It’s going to hurt. A lot. Still want to proceed?"

Sebastian didn't understand the depth of the warning. He just wanted to fix the reflection in the mirror.

"Just tell me what to lift."

Marcus smirked.

"Fine. Let's see what you're made of." ————————————————————————————————

The first session was brutal.

Sebastian had read about "progressive overload," but reading about it and feeling gravity try to crush your chest were two very different things.

He was on the bench press. Marcus hadn't loaded it with anything crazy—just a 25lb plate on each side—but for Sebastian's untrained arms, it felt like a building.

"Elbows in," Marcus said from above.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, lowering the bar. His arms started to shake on the way up. He stalled halfway. The bar hovered, refusing to move. Panic started to creep in. He was going to drop it. He was going to die under 95 pounds in front of a stranger.

Then, Marcus leaned over to spot him. He didn't grab the bar immediately. He just hovered, his chest inches from Sebastian's face.

"Push," Marcus said.

The proximity was sudden. Sebastian was hit by a wave of heat radiating from the older man. It wasn't a bad smell—just intense. It smelled of hard work, sweat, and a distinct, deep musk that was unmistakably male.

It didn't make him gag. It flooded his senses. For a second, Sebastian's brain stopped worrying about the angle of his wrists. The fear, the heat, and that overwhelming scent mixed into a sudden spike of adrenaline.

He didn't know where the strength came from, but he shoved the bar up. It clanged into the rack.

Sebastian lay there, chest heaving, staring up at Marcus.

Marcus looked down, unblinking. "See? You had it. You just needed to stop thinking."

He pulled out his phone. "Download this. Gymini. It’s an app we use here."

Sebastian sat up, wiping his forehead, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief. "Is it a tracker?"

"Sort of," Marcus said, putting the phone away. "It uses an algorithm to adjust your routine based on how you feel. It takes the guesswork out. Just do what it says."

Sebastian nodded, still lightheaded, and scanned the code.

By the time Sebastian got home, he was wrecked. His arms felt like jelly. He collapsed onto his sofa, too tired to even turn on the TV.

He opened the app. The interface was simple, dark mode by default.

USER: SEBASTIAN

GOAL: AESTHETICS / TONED

He typed a question: What should I eat for dinner?

The reply popped up instantly: Grilled chicken breast, one cup of rice, large glass of water.

Simple. Sensible. He liked that.

He ate, showered, and lay in bed, but his mind was still racing. The soreness was already starting. He picked up his phone again.

Is there any way to speed up the results?

The three dots danced for a moment. Then a notification appeared.

TIP OF THE DAY:

PHEROMONE RECOVERY HACK.

DO NOT WASH YOUR GYM CLOTHES TONIGHT.

SLEEPING NEAR THE SCENT OF EXERTION CAN TRICK YOUR BODY INTO MAINTAINING TESTOSTERONE LEVELS DURING REM CYCLES.

Sebastian stared at the screen. It sounded like bro-science. Ridiculous.

He looked over at the laundry basket in the corner. His gym shirt was sitting right on top.

"Pseudoscientific nonsense," he muttered.

But he was tired. And honestly, after today... he felt different.

He got up, walked to the basket, and picked up the shirt. It was damp. He brought it closer to his face. It smelled of his own sweat, the metallic tang of the gym, and... yes, a faint, lingering trace of Marcus. That same warm, musky scent from the bench press.

It wasn't gross. It was just... real.

Sebastian hesitated, then tossed the shirt onto the empty pillow next to him.

"Just to test the algorithm," he whispered to himself.

He turned off the lamp. In the dark, the scent was stronger. He breathed it in, deeply. Surprisingly, it didn't keep him awake. It made him feel heavy. Safe.

He was asleep in minutes.

————————————————————————————————

Three weeks later, the apartment felt different.

The stacks of literary journals on the coffee table were still there, but they were now used as coasters for protein shakers. The air, once smelling of old paper and espresso, now carried the faint, sweet chemical scent of vanilla whey.

Sebastian stood in his bedroom, staring at his phone. Gymini was open.

It had become a reflex. He didn't agonize over choices anymore. He just checked the feed.

Outfit for Tuesday. Graduate Seminar.

The app loaded instantly.

NAVY POLO. SIZE M. TIGHTER FIT IMPROVES MUSCLE MIND-CONNECTION. LET THE BODY BREATHE.

Sebastian frowned. The Medium polo? He hadn't worn that size since he was an undergrad. It would be snug.

"Muscle mind-connection," he muttered. It sounded like bro-science, but he didn't hate the logic.

He put it on.

The fabric didn't just sit on him; it clung. The sleeves gripped his biceps—which were currently pumped from yesterday’s arm session. The buttons across his chest pulled slightly. It felt... aggressive.

But when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see a stressed academic worrying about tenure. He saw a man who had shape.

"Fine," he said, grabbing his bag. "Medium it is."

The lecture hall was warm. Sebastian was thirty minutes into a graduate seminar on Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author.

"Barthes argues that the text is a multidimensional space," Sebastian said, turning to write on the blackboard.

As he reached up, he felt the polo shirt ride up his back. The seam dug into his armpit. The friction against his nipples was constant, distracting, and... grounding.

He caught the eye of a student in the front row—a girl who usually took diligent notes. She wasn't writing. She was staring at his arms.

Sebastian paused. The old Sebastian—the one desperate to be taken seriously as a scholar—would have been mortified.

The new Sebastian felt a sudden, hot spike of gratification. She sees it.

"Professor?" another student asked. "You said the author is a 'scriptor'?"

Sebastian blinked. The academic definition floated just out of reach. His brain felt foggy, like it was wrapped in cotton. But his body felt incredibly sharp.

"Right," Sebastian said, checking his watch. "The scriptor. Look, the theory is dense. Just... don't overthink it. The text exists. That's what matters."

Don't overthink it.

He realized, with a jolt, that he was quoting Marcus.

He dismissed the class ten minutes early. He needed to hit the gym.

The transition was seamless.

Sebastian stripped down in the locker room and pulled on the new gear Gymini had suggested: a compression top.

It was black, synthetic, and merciless. It squeezed his torso, forcing him to stand straighter. He looked at himself. He looked like a tool. He looked great.

When he walked onto the gym floor, Marcus was waiting by the cable machine.

The older man didn't say hello. He just nodded at Sebastian's chest, his eyes tracing the lines of the compression shirt.

"Good," Marcus grunted. "Finally showing it off."

Sebastian adjusted his glasses, feeling a flush of pride. "Gymini suggested it."

"Smart app," Marcus said. He pointed to the machine. "Back day. We need width."

Sebastian sat at the machine. He reached up, gripping the bar.

"Pull."

Sebastian pulled. The weight was heavier than last week, but he didn't question it.

"No," Marcus corrected, his voice right behind Sebastian's ear. "You're pulling with your arms. Use the lats."

Marcus moved in. He placed his large hands on the sides of Sebastian's back, his thumbs digging into the muscle just under the armpits.

"Here," Marcus whispered. "Squeeze my hands."

The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of Marcus's body radiating behind him, the smell of old spice and musk enveloping him.

Sebastian’s brain—the one that held a PhD and was fighting for tenure—went quiet.

There was no theory. There was only the weight, the sweat, and the man controlling him.

He pulled. He felt his back muscles engage, hard and distinct against Marcus’s fingers.

"Good boy," Marcus murmured.

The praise hit Sebastian harder than any faculty approval ever could. His dick twitched in his compression shorts. He didn't even feel ashamed.

He just wanted to do another rep.

Later, in the locker room, Sebastian peeled off the soaked compression shirt. His skin was red from the friction, his muscles swollen. He felt stupid, tired, and happy.

Sebastian sat on the wooden bench, a towel draped over his lap. He was exhausted. His lats felt wide, swollen with blood, pulsing with a dull, pleasurable ache. But his mind was in chaos.

He replayed the moment at the cable machine. Marcus’s chest pressed against his back. The heat. The thumbs digging into his muscle. And those two words.

"Good boy."

It had triggered a reaction so visceral, so immediate, that Sebastian was still trying to rationalize it. His erection had pushed against the compression shorts with humiliating force. It was still semi-hard now, throbbing against the damp towel.

"Adrenaline," he whispered, staring at the floor tiles. "Just a cortisol-dopamine spike. Misattribution of arousal."

He picked up his phone. Gymini was already open.

He typed rapidly, his thumbs hitting the glass with defensive urgency.

Experienced sexual arousal during training. Is this a side effect of the pre-workout?

The screen flashed once. No processing animation. Just raw text.

ANALYSIS: NEGATIVE.

CAUSE: ATTRACTION TO SUPERIOR GENETICS.

STATUS: SEXUAL IMPRINTING DETECTED.

Sebastian frowned. Sexual imprinting?

He typed again: I am doing this to attract women. This reaction is counter-productive.

The text on the screen didn't scroll; it just changed. The previous words vanished and were instantly replaced by new, blocky capitals. It felt aggressive.

ERROR: OBJECTIVE INVALID.

BIOLOGICAL DATA CONTRADICTS USER INPUT.

WOMEN ARE IRRELEVANT.

"Irrelevant?" Sebastian scoffed, his voice rising slightly in the empty room. "That's the whole point."

He tried to type Correction: My goal is... but the keyboard didn't appear. The input field was gone. The app had locked him out of writing. It was only broadcasting now.

NEW DIRECTIVE: FIXATION.

TARGET: MARCUS.

RANK: APEX.

Sebastian stared. The screen flashed red, then settled back to black.

INSTRUCTION:

TO ACQUIRE THE PHYSIQUE, YOU MUST INTERNALIZE THE SOURCE.

YOU DO NOT JUST WANT HIS MUSCLE.

YOU WANT HIM.

"I respect him," Sebastian muttered, his thumb hovering over the close button. "That's all."

FALSE.

HEART RATE ELEVATED.

BLOOD FLOW DIRECTED TO GENITALS.

YOU ARE AROUSED BY HIS AUTHORITY.

Sebastian’s breath hitched. The app was reading his biometrics against his denial. It was using his own body as evidence against him.

LOGIC REWRITE IN PROGRESS...

ADMIRATION IS A WEAK WORD FOR HUNGER.

YOU WANT TO BE LIKE HIM.

YOU WANT TO BE WITH HIM.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

"No," Sebastian whispered. "I'm straight. I have a history of..."

DATA CORRUPTED.

HISTORY DELETED.

ONLY THE CURRENT STATE MATTERS.

CURRENT STATE: ERECT.

CURRENT STATE: OBEDIENT.

Sebastian froze. The logic was cold, circular, and terrifyingly accurate. He was erect. He had been obedient.

He looked down at his crotch. The towel shifted.

"This is... brainwashing," he said. But he didn't close the app. He couldn't. It was like watching a car crash.

ACCEPTANCE REQUIRED.

VISUALIZE THE TARGET.

SMELL THE TARGET.

DO NOT RESIST THE IMPULSE.

The screen went black, leaving only his reflection staring back—flushed, sweaty, and wide-eyed.

Sebastian sat there for a long time. The smell of the locker room—sweat, steam, and men—suddenly felt overwhelming. It filled his lungs.

He slowly dressed, his movements automatic. He tried to think about the blonde girl. He tried to picture her face.

Glitch.

Her face wouldn't hold. Every time he focused, the image distorted. Her soft skin hardened into rough stubble. Her perfume turned into the thick, musky scent of Old Spice and iron. Her eyes turned dark, heavy, and demanding.

Marcus.

Sebastian shook his head violently. "Stop it."

He walked home in a daze. When he crawled into bed, he felt feverish.

He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. But Gymini wasn't done. The text he had seen burned behind his eyelids.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

In the dark, his hand drifted down. He didn't want to touch himself, but his body had its own instructions now. He thought about the weight of the lat pulldown bar. He thought about the heavy hands on his back.

"Marcus," he breathed out, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

He jerked his hand away, shocked. "No."

He turned over, burying his face in the pillow. But the pillow smelled like the shirt he had slept with weeks ago. It smelled like him.

As Sebastian finally drifted into a restless sleep, his conscious mind shut down, but the new code kept running in the background.

Status: Rewriting mind set...

————————————————————————————————

Sebastian blinked.

The world rushed back in a blur of noise and gray concrete. The clank of iron. The heavy thud of dumbbells hitting the rubber floor.

He was sitting on the edge of a bench. His hands were gripping the vinyl padding so hard his knuckles were white. He was sweating—profusely. His chest heaved, gasping for air.

Where... when is this?

He remembered waking up. He remembered coffee. But the commute? The changing room? It was gone. A blank space in his memory. One moment he was tying his shoes, and now, he was here. Mid-set.

"You're drifting, Sebastian."

The voice came from above. Deep. Resonant.

Sebastian looked up. Marcus was standing over him.

The trainer looked colossal from this angle. He was wearing a gray tank top that was soaked through dark with sweat, clinging to his pectorals like a second skin. His arms were crossed, veins snaking down his forearms like roadmap lines.

"I..." Sebastian stammered. He tried to summon his academic voice, the one that commanded lecture halls. It wasn't there. "I don't remember getting here."

Marcus didn't look surprised. He stepped closer. He stepped between Sebastian's spread knees.

"The body knows where it belongs," Marcus said softly. "The mind is just luggage. Sometimes it gets left behind."

He was close now. Too close. Sebastian’s knees were touching Marcus’s thighs. The heat radiating from the older man was intense, a physical weight pressing against Sebastian’s face.

"Are you okay?" Marcus asked. It was a question, but his tone wasn't concerned. It was testing.

Sebastian looked at Marcus’s face. The salt-and-pepper beard. The dark, unyielding eyes.

Three weeks ago, Sebastian would have felt threatened. He would have stood up and backed away.

But now?

His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear, but with a sick, heavy excitement. The Gymini programming initiated the night before was running hot in his blood.

Target: Marcus. Obsession: Verified.

"I feel..." Sebastian swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I feel lightheaded."

"Good," Marcus murmured. He reached out and placed a heavy hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck. His fingers were rough, calloused. They squeezed the sensitive skin at the base of the skull. "That means you've finally stopped overthinking. That means the resistance is gone."

Marcus applied pressure, forcing Sebastian to look up at him.

"You've been doing well, Sebastian. The app shows me your metrics. You're growing." Marcus’s thumb stroked the line of Sebastian’s jaw. "You're becoming obedient. Does that feel good?"

Sebastian wanted to say No. He wanted to say I am a scholar, I am an intellectual.

"Yes," Sebastian whispered. The truth slipped out before he could catch it.

Marcus smiled. It was a predatory, satisfied smile.

"I knew it. You were never meant to think, were you? You were meant to lift. To sweat. To follow."

Marcus moved his hand from Sebastian’s neck to his chest, then lower, resting flat on Sebastian’s heaving stomach. Then, he took a half-step forward.

His crotch was now inches from Sebastian’s face.

The smell hit Sebastian like a physical blow.

It wasn't leather or cologne. It was the heavy, biological scent of a dominant male in his prime. It was thick, pungent, and intoxicating. It smelled of testosterone, aggressive sweat, and the sharp, salty tang of skin that had been working hard.

It was the smell Sebastian had slept with last night. It was the smell of authority.

Sebastian’s brain short-circuited. The "Professor" part of his mind screamed This is inappropriate! This is sexual harassment!

But the instinctive part—the part Gymini had cultivated—inhaled greedily.

Smell the target. Internalize the source.

"Breathe it in," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Don't hold your breath. This is what a real man smells like. This is what you want to be. Isn't it?"

Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned forward, drawn in by a magnetic force he couldn't fight. His nose brushed against the damp gray fabric of Marcus’s shorts.

"I..." Sebastian moaned, a shameful, needy sound. "I want..."

"What do you want?" Marcus asked. He didn't pull away. He pressed his hips forward, just slightly, rubbing the bulge of his crotch against Sebastian’s cheek. "Tell me. Use your words."

"I want... to be yours," Sebastian gasped. "I want to be a good boy."

"You are a good boy," Marcus growled. "But good boys need to be fed."

The sound of a zipper was the loudest thing in the gym.

Marcus reached down and pulled the waistband of his shorts down. He wasn't wearing underwear.

The release of the scent was overwhelming. It was raw. It was undeniable. It obliterated the last shred of Sebastian’s logic.

There was no hesitation. There was no "Am I gay?" There was no "What about my tenure?"

There was only the Man in front of him. And the need to serve.

Sebastian’s hands came up, trembling, to grip Marcus’s massive thighs. He looked up, eyes wide with a mix of terror and adoration.

"Open," Marcus ordered.

Sebastian opened his mouth.

Marcus guided himself in. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't violent. It was necessary.

As Sebastian took him in, tasting the salt and the skin, a final notification seemed to ping in his mind, clear as day.

PHASE COMPLETE.

COGNITIVE RESISTANCE: NULL.

CONTROL TRANSFER: TRAINER MARCUS.

————————————————————————————————

Three months blurred into a haze of iron, protein shakes, and Marcus.

Sebastian was still technically a professor, but the man walking into the lecture hall looked like he had eaten the previous one.

He was wearing a graphic t-shirt that was two sizes too small. The sleeves were rolled up, cutting into his biceps, turning his arms into veiny, swollen slabs of meat. His shorts were inappropriate for a gym, let alone a university—gray sweat material, tight enough to outline every muscle in his thighs and the heavy bulge between them.

He didn't carry a briefcase anymore. He carried a gallon jug of water mixed with Marcus’s "special blend."

Sebastian stood at the podium. He stared at the text on the projector: Derrida’s Structure, Sign, and Play.

The words looked like alien hieroglyphs. Signifier. Signified. Discourse.

"Ugh," Sebastian grunted, the sound amplifying over the microphone.

He tried to read the first sentence. "The... center is not the center..."

His brain stalled. It felt like trying to run through mud. The complex neural pathways that used to process philosophy were gone, paved over by Gymini’s new code: Lift. Eat. Sleep. Obey.

"Professor?"

It was the blonde student again. She looked at him, not with admiration, but with confusion. Maybe even pity. "You’ve been staring at that slide for five minutes. Are we going to discuss the reading?"

Sebastian looked at her. He felt a flash of irritation. Why was she talking so much? Why were there so many words?

"It's boring," Sebastian said flatly. His voice was deeper now, a permanent rasp.

"Excuse me?"

"The book," Sebastian gestured vaguely with a massive arm. "It's just words. Who cares? It doesn't... do anything."

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room.

Sebastian didn't hear it. His mind had already drifted. He was thinking about Marcus. He was thinking about the text he got ten minutes ago: Leg day tonight. Wear the jockstrap.

The thought hit him like a drug. He visualized Marcus waiting for him. The smell of the gym. The heavy weight on his back.

Under the podium, his dick surged. It grew hard and heavy, straining against the tight gray fabric of his shorts. He didn't try to hide it. He almost wanted them to see.

Real men don't read, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded like Gymini, but it felt like his own thought. Real men grow.

"Class dismissed," Sebastian muttered.

"But we still have forty minutes!"

"I said go," Sebastian growled, grabbing his water jug. "I have somewhere to be."

He walked out of the hall, leaving his tenure, his reputation, and his career behind. He didn't look back. He was already unzipping his phone to check the route to Home.

————————————————————————————————

One month later.

The apartment was warm. It smelled of cedarwood, musk, and sex.

Sebastian—no, the man formerly known as Sebastian—lay sprawled on the leather sofa. His head was resting on Marcus’s thick thighs.

He had been fired two weeks ago. "Gross incompetence," the letter said. "Behavior unbecoming of faculty."

He hadn't even finished reading it before Marcus threw it in the trash. Paper is for wiping, Marcus had said. You don't need it.

And Marcus was right.

The man looked up at his owner. Marcus was scrolling through a tablet, his other hand idly stroking the man’s hair, scratching behind the ears like he was petting a prize-winning retriever.

"The numbers are good," Marcus said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "Your preview video already has five hundred subscribers. They like the size. They like how... empty you look."

The man on the sofa smiled. It was a wide, vacuous grin. His eyes were clear, free of the anxiety that used to plague the Professor.

"Empty is good," he murmured. "Thinking hurts."

"Exactly," Marcus said. He put the tablet down and looked at the man. "We need to rebrand, though. 'Sebastian' is too long. Too syllables. It sounds like a librarian."

Marcus squeezed the back of the man’s neck.

"You look like a Stan."

The man blinked. He rolled the name around in his head. Stan. One syllable. Hard. Simple. It sounded like a command. It sounded like a tool.

"Stan," he repeated.

It felt right. Sebastian was the guy who worried about tenure and syntax. Stan was the guy who lived on this sofa, lifted heavy weights, and did whatever Daddy said.

"I like Stan," he said.

"Good," Marcus smirked. "Because Stan has work to do."

Marcus shifted his legs, spreading them slightly. The implication was obvious.

"We need to record the welcome video for the VIP tier," Marcus said. "Show them what a good boy you are."

Stan didn't need to ask what the script was. Gymini had deleted the need for scripts.

He sat up, his massive shoulders eclipsing the window light. He crawled between Marcus’s legs, his movements fluid and practiced.

"Lights on?" Stan asked, his voice thick with anticipation.

"Lights on," Marcus confirmed. "Action."

Stan grinned, a look of pure, mindless bliss on his face. He leaned down, burying his face in the source of his new reality, ready to serve.

[frozenthrall]

A Good Top

Being a gay Asian guy who didn't look the part was something Jin was extremely familiar with. With beauty standards and stereotypes going around, the guy had a hard time finding a partner. Now, he wasn't bad looking, if anything he had that 'cuteness' to him. That's what every guy he was with told him. But being a top who was constantly undermined for his looks, such compliments felt like a slap in the face.

He wasn't particularly tall, standing at 5'8, but... He wasn't short. Or at least he didn't consider himself short. He was average... A bit below average but still-! Unfortunately for Jin it wasn't just his height that he had problems with. His round face, soft eyes, skinny body... And 4 inches member were all seemingly working against him. God knows how many times he heard the question "Are you really a top?" And similar. People assumed he was a bottom just because of how he looked and he hated it.

And today? He had the same experience again. After sending his selfie to a guy he met online through an app, the guy almost immediately cancelled on him just because Jin "didn't look the part". And the guy wasn't even shy about it. He told Jin everything in his face and poor guy was both speechless and fueled with anger. But just as he was about to block this guy he saw a new message from him.

lankylavander: Sorry dude, no offense, but you are like shorter than me. I could never date someone below 6ft lol

lankylavander: Here is how a top should be

After which he sent a link to some website. And in fit of rage, Jin just clicked it without thinking as he was brought to a page that showcased a bunch of absolutely jacked hung jocks. He hated to admit but they all looked great. But that didn't matter now, as he was about to close the site he saw a pop-up add. It was some kind of app called "Be The Part" promising to help people change into who they truly are meant to be.

Normally Jin would ignore such obvious scam but today for some reason he clicked it and downloaded the app, without even replying to the guy on the app. That jerk could fuck off.

Opening the app, Jin was met with a few questions asking him about what he wanted and what was his problem. Writing how he wishes he was more like a top. A stereotypical one. And how he had enough of people looking down at hom just because of his looks, Jin was disappointed to find the app just seemed to send you words of encouragement and support for you to achieve your goal. Pretty stupid. But what did he honestly expect from such thing...?

Closing the app, Jin sighed, tossing his phone to the side. He needed to take a break from everything and calm down. Stuck with his thoughts, he heard a notification from his phone. Weird, he was pretty sure it was on silent mode. Whatever. Taking a phone to see what it was, Jin saw it was the damn app. How lovely let's see what it had to say...

"A Good Top spends every day in the gym, working on his body to make sure he looks good for his bottom. And you big guy? You look great. Hunk like you loves the pump and sweat. You relish knowing others envy you and wish they looked more like you. And nothing comes close to the feeling of your clothes stretching over your body, trying their best to hold on and contain all that brawn you carry "

Suddenly Jin felt a warn sensition take over him. Something was wrong but he couldn't quite name it. The feeling spread though his entire body as it began to pulse and grow, both in muscle and height. It was like his entire body was on fire. Groaning in what was a mix of pain and pleasure Jin could feel his clothes stretching over his muscles, his skin feeling too tight. With every second he was bigger, as if someone was pumping air into him. He could feel his spine getting longer until he was 6'5, his limbs growing and lengthening to accommodate the needs of his new body. His legs grew first, feet growing to support the new height as his old size 8.5 quickly moved up a scale to 15, with his hands turning from smooth and small into big rough paws from all weight lifting. Suddenly, his shirt gave up, splitting to make room for his growing pecs, unable to hold them in any longer. Letting another moan as he felt air on his chest, his sensitive nipples exposed, hanging from the meaty muscles, Jin was in state of completely bliss for a moment.

Looking himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but flex. He looked good today. The pump from the gym still didn't wear off. Taking a few pictures, he admired his abs as he was rather proud of them. Fuck he was proud his entire body. All that training with the team and many hours spend in the gym paid off. Many people assumed he got academic scholarship because he was Asian, but the truth was - he was a total atlehete. Big, strong and proud.

Looking at his phone he saw a message from a twink he was talking with earlier.

lankylavander: We still up for tonight, big guy?

lankylavander: Can't wait to see you in person and touch your amazing body.

A smirk formed on Jin's face without him even realizing. Like it belonged there. The little shit was eager. And he couldn't help but wonder how will his pretty face would look after he breaks him down tonight. Honestly, all of this was too easy. The moment Jin downloaded any dating app, he found a bunch of matches in seconds. He could afford to be picky and this gut definitely had a nice ass he could fuck to release some tension before the game tomorrow.

rice&raw:Ye Im comin

rice&raw:dw bro

rice&raw:Here is smth while you wait

Jin knew what effect he had on people. He knew the little bitch will be watering from the moment he sees the pic. He could imagine his tight bussy clenching already. And he didn't have to wait long to confirm how effective his picture was.

lankylavander: Omg, you look soo hot! I can't wait to feel you deep inside me tonight

Immediately Jins dick twitched. The guy had a good ass. Round and smooth, he couldn't wait to play with it like a dought before fucking him. Feeling himself through the shorts, Jin felt a small dissatisfaction as his 4-inch member came to life. If only he were more well-endowed. Now, 4 inches wasn't exactly small... But the guy like him should be more hung. Many of his dates were disappointed when he took off his shorts. But it was something he couldn't change...

Suddenly, he got another notification from that stupid app.

"A Good Top needs a big dick to satisfy his bottom. And you have a pretty big dick. Your confidence doesn't come from nowhere, you know you are big all over. Is there anything better than being a new standard setter?"

The warm feeling returned, only this time it was localized in only one part of his body - his dick. Jin could feel it swelling larger as the front porch of his underwear started to swell. Feeling his joy and pride rise to life, there was an obvious imprint against the front of his underwear. Reaching down with his mitten of a hand to adjust it, Jin stopped for a moment, phone still in his hand as he took another picture, before readjusting his dick. The 9-inch shaft now stood proud, a big mushroom head above the underwear and next to his belly button, as Jin casually stroked it while texting, as he leaked a bit of pre over his abs

rice&raw: I hope you can handle me

The lil bitch knew exactly what he was doing with that pic. And Jin couldn't wait to come over and shove his entire dick into them. Probably more than anyone else gave them or will give them. The stereotype about Asian's not being hung? Well Jin certainly didn't fit the stereotype, if anything he went against it. He loved when they struggled to swallow him, chocking as they tried to deep throat him. He could already imagine this fucker on his knees as his tight throat with tears of his eyes, filled with pain and pleasure he never knew.

After a shower, Jin got himself ready, putting on some tank top and jeans as he headed towards little guy's flat. He didn't dress particularly well because... Why should he? Not like they would stay on for very long anyway. Knocking onto apartments door, a short guy, not more than 5'9 opened the door. "Lankylavander?" Jin said, deep baritone voice coming out of his mouth.

"You can call me Noah..." He replied leading the way in. After a confirmation, he got in, ready to enjoy himself before he got a notification. Stupid app-

"A Good Top is doesn't need to think too much. That's reserved for bottoms. A Good Top has that cocky attitude and carefree nature, going through life without thinking. The only thing you worry about it who will milk and drain your balls today since they needed to be emptied quite frequently. It's eat, lift and fuck bro"

Just as he read it, Jin could feel his intelligence draining away, any remaining part of his old self drifting away. The new emptiness felt nice. His head felt hollow but who needed smarts when he did thinking with his other head anyway. All that was left were things he needed the most - how to eat, lift, and fuck. And honestly, who needed more bro?

Turning towards little guy's whose name he didn't remember, Jin smirked. "So like, where is your bedroom bro?" He asked putting his phone away. The annoying appdidn't work at all. But then again, how could he becomes more perfect than he already was? Heh.

Now hopefully this bitch knew how to handle a real men.

"Oh, let's just take a pic for snap before we continue " Noah said with hunger in his eyes. He couldn't believe what a hunk he scored... Tonight was really his lucky day

"You want to show me off? Sure broski, here" he said standing in front of Noah, arms flexed. His dick was already getting hard from the size difference and as little guy took photos, Jin's body completely hid Noah as his dick brushed again smaller guys stomach. "You are like, so small" Jin added, moving his hands onto Noah's waist "I wouldn't want to break you tonight" that was a lie, he definitely would.

Noah’s breath hitched as Jin’s massive hand slid possessively across his waist, the heat of his palm searing through the thin cotton. His own fingers trembled not from fear, but from the sheer size difference pressing against his stomach. The tip of Jin’s cock stood up and next to his abs, already leaking, as it smeared pre onto his abs. Noah’s knees nearly buckled when Jin bent slightly, his forearm muscles bulging as he gripped the back of Noah’s neck, pulling him into a rough kiss. Jin's tongue found, or rather forced its way into the little guy's mouth, conquering it with ease as they kissed.

"Mmf- shit" Noah gasped against those lips, his own dick straining against his pants, as his hands played with Jin's nipples. Meanwhile Jin's free hand dropped lower, fingers digging into the waistband of his jeans, yanking them down just enough to free himself completely. "Fuck, bro. You are getting me all worked up" Jin growled, his voice rougher now, deeper. He didn’t wait for a response as he carried Noah into the bed and spun him around, shoving him onto the bed face-first. The impact sent a jolt of pain up Noah's ribs, but before he could react, Jin was on top of him, his weight pinning Noah down as his cock now fully hard stood there and demanded attention.

"Gonna make you so full of me." Jin rumbled, his mouth hot against Noah’s ear, his breath ragged. The bed creaked under Jin’s weight as he shifted. Jin’s hands, rough and calloused, gripped Noah’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of his ass. Noah could feel the thick, veiny length of Jin’s cock pressing against him, the heat of it searing through the thin fabric of his boxers. Jin’s breath was hot and heavy against the back of Noah’s neck, his voice a low growl.

"You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Otherwise I won't be very happy broski" Jin murmured, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Noah’s boxers and yanking them down in one swift motion. The cool air hit Noah’s exposed skin, making him shiver, but it was nothing compared to the way Jin’s cock twitched against his ass, the tip already slick with pre cum. Jin didn’t wait for an answer. He spat into his palm, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, and then his fingers were there, rubbing the saliva into Noah’s entrance, stretching him open with a rough, insistent pressure. "Look at your hole, already clenching. It's hungry."

Noah gasped, his fingers clawing at the sheets as Jin’s thick fingers pushed inside him, the burn sharp and sudden. "Fuck! This feels amazing- You are so good at this" Noah hissed, his body tensing, but Jin didn’t stop. He worked him open with brutal efficiency, his fingers scissoring, stretching, preparing him for what was to come. Noah could feel the way his own body was responding, his cock aching, his hole clenching around Jin’s fingers, desperate for more.

"That’s it "Jin growled, his voice thick with lust. "You are ready for the real thing." And then his fingers were gone, replaced by the blunt, massive head of his cock.

"God, you're taking it all so well," Jin grunted, his intellect completely replaced by a primal, driving hunger for sex. He gripped Noah’s hips and with one powerful, unthinking thrust, he buried his entire length inside. Noah’s world exploded into white light, the sensation was overwhelming, a total invasion that stretched him to his absolute limit.

Jin didn't hold back, his movements becoming rhythmic, heavy, and punishing. Every lunge sent a shockwave through both of them, Jin’s giant chest muscles slapping against Noah’s back with the force of a hammer. The motion went on for quite a while, and as Jin finally reached his peak, he unloaded a massive, hot torrent deep inside Noah, before pulling his dick out. "Ready for another round?" To Noah's surprise, Jin's dick didn't deflate, if anything it seemed more hard than it was before...

And so after an eventful night and many rounds, Jin was finally satisfied as his balls were finally drained. For now. Laying in bed for a bit to rest and catch his breath before leaving after that amazing fuck, Jin heard Noah talking. "You are the best. I don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow... We need more tops like you. You are a really good one."

Fuck, he really was a Good Top.

[occamstfs]

Under New Management

Three friends chase a lucky break only to find it a situation worse than their worst nightmare. Forced to do what they can to turn a fixer-upper into something nearing habitable, they go to the tool shop next door where they can learn a thing or two about home repair.

A grumbling bear, a cocky bull, and a dumb otter walk into a hardware store- or at least that's what they walk out as! Hope you enjoy these three manly TFs, and Happy Spring! -Occam

That all three of them had opportunities in a new city, it just felt like a sign. A fresh start in a new world where they didn’t need to go it all alone. Brandon, Willie, and Tyson had been fast friends since they met in undergrad, despite Brandon and Willie’s best attempts to tank it all with their frequent will-they-won’t-they trysts and break ups.Still, they always land on their feet and every fight seems to make them closer than ever. 

Not quite a third wheel, Tyson’s more than happy to tag along with his best friends, ecstatic at how little work the process has been thus far. Willie and Brandon set up most of their housing, he just had to drive the moving van! It was almost too good to be true.

And so reality decides to drag the wishful-thinking Tyson back down. Arriving at their new home in a u-haul filled with their most cherished tchotchkes and most compactable furniture, they do not find their perfect fresh start as promised. Door knob almost hanging off the front door, ivies growing in through cracked windows, crestfallen can’t begin to describe their state as they stare at what was to be their new lives.

It’s so much a fixer-upper that Tyson wonders how their new landlord can even legally rent it out as a property. Taking a beat to calm down and avoid blowing up on his friends who swore up and down that this place was perfect, Tyson takes a deep breath as he throws his soft blond hair up into a bun before staring daggers at his new roommates.

As is often the case, hot-headed Willie was even quicker to rage and has decided that this is all Brandon’s fault. “This is Not the place you showed me Brandon.” Drowning in an oversized flowy button-up, the sleeves fall down his pale arms as he throws them in the air. Willie’s face burns red with anger as his small form can scarcely maintain his explosive nature. Likewise, Brandon’s guilty expression tinges red with embarrassment so intense it’s physically painful.

“I- These aren’t the pictures that I was sent! I- it’s-” 

“She probably AI-Generated them gah- you ff- You dumbass!?”

“That’s? B- But that’s gotta be illegal though? Right!?” Trying to compact as much as possible, he rubs the back of his neck as his watery eyes look to Tyson, who promptly steps in to comfort him. Tearing up himself even as he tries to be the adult here and figure out their next steps, Tyson rubs his friend’s back.

“Brandon you’re not an idiot.”

Willie ignores the pair, as he rushes inside to find sinks that don’t work amongst creaking floorboards and cracked tiles, “Idiot or not, what-fucking-ever! What do we do about his mistake.”

Brandon toys with his tight necklace as he retreats into his cell-phone, as he is often wont to. Unable to focus on the hard reality before him, the programmer tunes Willie out entirely. Frantically typing away, he doesn’t even hear as Willie moans or screams at finding a note left by their landlord listing the litany of things to fix on the fridge. Dubbed their responsibility.

Suddenly feeling the lead weight of living with this couple for a year as prominently as the noose around his neck of living in an inhabitable house, Tyson sighs as he realizes he just needs to fully take charge of everything. Obviously that rent was too good to be true, now it’s time for him to start paying the real price. “Can you just hand me that list, Willie?”

Stamping over, Willie forces it into Tyson’s hands and watches as the most mature of the trio decides what their first order of business is to be in repairing their inhospitable, nigh-hostile, home. Hemming and hawing in a manner that makes him seem a tad older than he is, Tyson does his best wading into an arena he knows next to nothing about. Home Repair.

“I found a hardware store a block away,” Brandon whispers out sheepishly, looking to Tyson. Setting down the list, Tyson sighs and smiles slightly at Brandon before looking past him at the dozens of messes and issues they’ll need to deal with somehow or another. “Guess we can just walk then. I’m sure we’ll apparently be very frequent customers.”

And then they’re out the door. Tyson continues throwing together a to-do list, doing his best to surmise what tools parts they’ll need for the most urgent of jobs, despite near total ignorance. Watching him struggle, Brandon offers that they could just hire someone for this, already preparing to offer that he pays more than his share, something he certainly can’t afford. 

“It’s just we don’t know anything about this stuff right? Maybe the people in the shop can refer us to, like, some real men or-”

Having finally stilled his ire, at this Willie’s eye twitches, “Real men!? Real men. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You- You know what I mean! You’re deliberately misunderstanding me Willie. Right Tyson? Obviously that was a dig on you and me too! Tell him!”

Trying to focus on the task at hand Tyson physically inserts himself in between the pair, “Let’s try and not scream in public. Jesus Christ, you two…” Short walk done, Tyson pauses and squints up at the fix-it shop’s name: Tyson’s Tools “Oh? Wild..? Did you not notice that Brando?”

Brow furrowed, Brandon is just as surprised. He would’ve sworn it was called something else when he found it on his phone but checking back he can’t even find evidence he looked the place up. He must’ve missed it in all his stress. He doesn’t like having missed something so obvious.

Arms perpetually crossed, Willie leads the way. Pushing open the door with his back, he holds it open for his friends, “Maybe they’ll give you a discount Tyson. You really should ask.” Following behind Brandon, Willie bumps into him to try and be playful.

Having not even begun to earn cutesy aggression, the act is obviously read as a genuine shove and Brandon pushes him back, “Oh my God! Can you just stop being an asshole for a second Willie!” 

Watching with dead eyes as another spat breaks out in front of him, Tyson reflexively crumples the list in his hands. Can’t they just act their age. Now everyone in the store’s going to know they’re immature brats. Or they would? Looking around, Tyson’s surprised to find the store uncomfortably quiet. Empty. 

Looking back to the arguing not-couple, Tyson is happy to take the opportunity to step away and starts to wander through the aisles. He can get more done by himself anyway, so what if he’s never really picked up a wrench. He can figure this out. He must.

Sneaking into an aisle laden with rental tools, Tyson scratches his head as he confronts how little he knows. He’s absolutely in over his head. Huh, his head is a little itchy actually? Fingers trail through his light blonde locks, scratching with a little more intensity than he intended. Suddenly his whole scalp is prickling, almost burning. 

His hair feels thicker than it has for some time, like it did before he started dyeing it. Unbeknownst to the man trying to make his new situation work, spreading out from his roots his ever-bleached waves return to a brown-ish shade that can almost be described as blonde before surging even darker. 

Shortening into a tight crew cut, Tyson’s hair-tie falls to the floor as he simply continues scratching. Unable to focus on anything but the strange feeling of something happening to his hair follicles. Head suddenly far lighter with its lost load, he twitches his neck to reflexively shake away the long strands that shall never drape down his neck again. Feeling the prickle of his short spiky new-do as they firm up with gel he can almost remember putting on, Tyson chastises himself for losing focus.

Shaking his head one last time for good measure, his attention falls once more to the list in hand and he’s shocked at what he finds. Who on earth made a list so vague!? It’s almost useless! Chewing on his lip as he leans against the counter to rejig the equipment with knowledge that’s beginning to trickle into his head, with his free hand Tyson starts to scratch at his stomach as it begins to tighten up.

Far too similar to the annoying sensation that was just on his head, Tyson reaches beneath his shirt and feels up his sweaty belly. Shortening nails pull at a few long curls pushing onto his stomach. Scratching out ‘screwdriver’ to replace it with the actual head needed, the idea of growing a treasure trail suddenly replaces cogent thought before a far more pressing itch alights on his chest.

Not realizing that he’s beginning to sweat more than a reasonable amount, Tyson feels his white tee suction against his chest and looks down to find that it’s not from sweat alone. His chest has begun to bulge into pecs. Startled at his body changing, growing before his eyes, Tyson drops everything to gawk at his pecs pumping larger with every beat of his heart. 

Feeling up his pecs bulking larger, he can almost see as thick new tufts of hair surge forth and cover his new pecs like a tidy garden. New curls lancing forth into a garden that will only help his beautiful pecs catch more eyes.

His own eyes almost cross and a hand flies to his mouth as toned abs punch into his core beneath his heavy new pecs, thickening new happy trail carving its way up between them yearning more than anything to connect with the sweat-dripping patch decorating Tyson’s pecs. Gasping into a hand, he feels his ever-soft face scratch with stubble as a deliberately maintained mustache rubs against his rougher palm. 

On the other end, when his cock throbs amidst thicker pubes at feeling his assuredly more masculine face, Tyson can’t help but feel his heavy new cock and the throbbing balls beneath it. Trapped in boxers more than a size too small for their new mass, the pressure is almost too much for the growing man as he feels pre start to trickle enough to stain. 

And then before he can give way to the overwhelming sensation, the sound of Brandon and Willie arguing brings him falling back to lucidity. Panting slightly, Tyson can hardly believe that someone as diligent as himself was about to masturbate in his- er, the store. That is. 

Grumbling something vague in the direction of those two boys. Tyson bends down to grab the note someone must’ve dropped. Doing so produces a deep grunt from his throat. Clearing it once more when he stands, Tyson finds it rougher than it has any right to be. Dry mouth stretching back down his esophagus. 

No matter. There’s now a task before him again. Skin still dewing with sweat, Tyson does his best to ignore how his shirt strains more and more against widening shoulders and pecs still throbbing thicker. Editing the shopping list before him with a precision that would require decades of work in the field, Tyson clicks his tongue and scratches his short sweaty hair as he wonders how on Earth those two punks’ll ever get a single thing done on their place.

Rubbing his chin as shaved stubble starts to thicken into a neckbeard, he shakes off some deja vu and reasserts- Tyson doesn’t know how we’re going to get our place fixed up. To this end he starts the easy work of collecting the equipment and parts they’ll need. Doing so with ease and efficiency, grasping each heavy tool like a craftsman, in no time he’s amassed a load he should be struggling to carry. And yet, he’s not.

As the load he carries grows heavier with each new piece thrown under his arms or into a handy toolbox he’s stumbled across, so too does Tyson’s core put on more mass. Abs that only just laid themselves like bricks across his stomach begin to push out further, bulging into more of a muscle gut with every heavier step. Arms that were struggling to catch up to his prodigious pecs and new bulky traps suddenly throb larger with every new piece of added weight to body and load. 

Tears sear down his already strained tee as his torso barrels out. His treasure trail continues exploring up his stronger gut and his arms grow to a size that’ll easily eclipse his still-eyecatching pecs. And with each new tool handled, with every new bulging muscle packed onto his lengthening frame does his mind change even more.

Already struggling between two points of reference, that which recalls coming in today with his roommates and friends begins to wane more and more. The stubble on his face continues thickening as with every heaving breath produced by his thicker chest, memories from a new life begin to displace those which he thought was true.

Callouses from yardwork, woodwork, the gym, even just using a wrench as often as does, scratch against his neck as he rubs it with his fat new hands. Veins bulge larger on his arms and legs as they itch hairier, not from his still adding mass, but from the years- decades` accrued from living a life altogether different. Even his hair begins to speckle with salt as the man that only just recovered from over-bleaching begins to thin once more.

Wandering back to the front with a load of tools weighing twice as much as the heaviest thing he’s ever carried, Tyson finds himself walking past a mirror. When’d he put that in. Frowning and crossing his arms he figures Willie must’ve thrown it up, that cocky little loafer. Still, looking at his chest fur and built ass, he figures he might as well leave it there. Never hurts to inspect the goods and all.

Suddenly built like a brick shithouse, strength oozes out of every veiny chunk of muscle. Hand scratching at his sweaty beard he has a vague memory of looking more refined, a body built for ogling rather than hard work. But why’d he ever waste time on vanity like that. No, he’s a man of substance. 

He then squints at his face as a few wrinkles etch across his eyes. “What the heck?” No heed is paid to the rough, deeper baritone that echoes through the store. No, when faced with aging quicker than he swears he should, he simply can’t appreciate his dulcet new tone.

“Swear I shouldn’t look a day over uh, 35? No. No, I’m younger than that?” His mind keeps throwing ages out, each feeling less real than the last. His back aches more as his mind weighs heavier with memories from a life far longer lived. Looking down at weathered hands and his straining pecs as his chest fur grows thicker, as his hairline retreats as his muscle gut rounds out ever-so-slight more, he finds something grounding. 

Clear as day he remembers celebrating his fiftieth last year with his boys. Willie and Brandon. He doesn’t quite remember hiring them, it’s like they’ve been with him the whole time despite that being impossible. Scratching the new underside of his belly he grumbles like any heavyset older man does.  

Where are those good-for-nothin’s. Better not still be at home. Muttering to himself he at last returns to the front of the store to find neither of them. Setting the toolbox down with a loud clang he rolls his eyes. Must be helping the customer he grabbed these for. Yeah, that makes sense. In the meantime, Tyson’ll just wait here and try not to get off from looking at his reflection in Willie’s new mirror. Bulge throbbing larger with each stolen glance as he continues to fill out.

● ● ● ● ● ●

Speaking of the devils. Willie and Brandon have continued arguing for far longer than either had expected. Usually when they’re not dating they’re good as gravy, but this majorly shitty situation has both men well past their breaking points. 

After Willie ignores what Brandon’s saying for the Nth time to score another cheap dig, Brandon opts to just abandon him for now to salvage any momentary peace of mind. Whining that they all signed the lease as he wills himself to be done for now, Brandon goes off to where he thinks Tyson is. Willie just watches him go, eyebrow twitching into a scowl all the while.

“Fine! Be that way bitch! You know Ty’s on my side!” Lips pursed so tight they’re almost white, Willie stamps his foot. “Ugh!”

Standing there. Now alone. Willie finds himself even more sour without a sounding board to tear into as now the only thing to reflect on is how shitty he’s been to Brandon and Tyson. No, there's no sense to pretend he’s been scattershot, how shitty he’s been to Brandon alone.

As soon as Brandon’s out of sight,  Willie takes a few deep breaths as his best friend-cum-frequent ex meekly suggested he do a few times over. While it helps slow his mind and calm his racing heart. It does little to help Willie’s literally hot head. 

In fact, it feels like he’s still heating up. Looking down to find small sweat stains in his pale blue shirt under his arms, irritation resurfaces anew now at this shitty toolshop. Refusing to look sloppier than necessary even in this most masc of stores, Willie opts to just remove the offending garment. 

Mouth twitching into a frown as he struggles to undo each button in turn, he can’t believe how slippery his hands are from sweat. Griping to himself that his deodorant better hold up, he at last gets the shirt uncinched and lets it fall to the floor heedlessly. Doing so it becomes little more than dingy rags sold by the store. Willie doesn’t notice however, he’s far too preoccupied with his lip still twitching.

Burning even. Reaching up almost fearfully, Willie gasps in shock as he finds something on his face. A moustache? No, it can’t be. His soft fingertips feel around in surprise at the wiry hairs pushing out against his upper lip before his palm feels too the push of long tangled strands pushing out from his chin.

Wondering when, wondering how his face somehow skipped stubble straight to this scraggly facial hair combo as sweat continues to trickle through hair growing greasier by the second, he glances down at his arm to find that strangeness does not stop at his newly scratchy upper lip. Willie’s eyes trail down his wrist to find his bicep looking larger than it ought. 

Watching with interest, his upper arm twitches larger with every miniscule movement of his fingers.Gasping in shock as he sees his arm truly peak with muscle for the first time in his life, with the deep breath he discovers a byproduct of his amassing muscle and the heat of this hellish store. It’s just as he feared.

Easily overpowering his usually faultless deodorant, Willie smells musk pouring from his pits like he’s never experienced before. And yet with every breath he craves the scent more. Eventually tearing his eyes away from a bicep he wants to take a bite out of, Willie looks to his hitherto hairless pits to instead find thick, dripping strands of pit hair. Curling like a bush, thicker than his trimmed pubes, as he watches Willie sees more and more skin buried beneath the tangle as it grows denser and spreads forth like weeds overtaking a sidewalk. 

It takes everything within him not to reach in to scratch the jungle for the sole purpose of smelling his musky, stained digits afterwards. The idea sets a needy fire in his stomach, and a far more pressing one throbbing in his crotch. Desperately trying to focus on anything besides the alluring sensations overtaking his body, he quickly finds it an impossible task. 

Sweat streaming in rivulets down his heavier arms, the scritch and squelch of his sweaty pits as he tries to move, it’s just overwhelming. Willie simply can’t help it as his hands keep inching towards his crotch, clearly growing its own burgeoning bush, challenged by his pits. Stopping just short, Willie allows compromises with his Id to instead just scratch at said bush as it creeps up into a new treasure trail.

Stealing a glance at this thick trail, he’s surprised to see his undershirt catching further up his waist than it usually does, exposing an adonis belt like he’s never seen. Willie’s concerns and frown are quickly washed away as a cocky smirk etches its way onto his face. Staring needily at his pubes rising into a tapered highway, he starts to wonder why he’s wearing a shirt at all. Why’d he want to hide this figure for a second? 

Almost as if he’s willing himself larger as heat continues to rise, Willie raises his muscular arms behind his head and hears his ribs crack wider. His spine stretches longer as muscle easily fills the new real estate. Pecs immediately swell enough to stuff his shirt to its breaking point and with one hand he tears it off and throws it to the floor.

Scratching his prickling ass with one hand and pubes with his other, feet that burst free from confines without his notice leave sweaty footprints in his wake as he finds his way over to a mirror he has a vague memory of setting up so he can always check his physique. Gotta look good for customers and all. It’s what he’s here for.

Pits thickening even further as sweat trickles down the sides of his chest in rivulets, Willie takes time to inspect every new bulging muscle group. “Fucckk I look so fucking hot…” Vocal fry tinges every word as his adams apple bulges larger to convert his whiny buzz into a deep rumble. 

And yet, even as his eyes swim in washboard abs, even as his hands scratch through picturesque stubble and his mind struggles to focus as his heady musk derails his own train of thought. He’s filled with a need for more. 

Could do with some chest hair. What was it that bitch said, that he wasn’t a real man? Willie’ll show him. Scowling as a few curls begin to circle around his hard nipples and speckles the center of his pert pecs, Willie feels his attention drawn ever south as the root of those most hormonal of changes begin to overwhelm him. 

Hard as a pipe, Will bites his lip as he feels his thickening cock struggle for room, jostling against the heavy balls that must be fueling his new masculine changes. Sucking up drool snaking from his lips, as he desperately tries to adjust his similarly dripping pants Willie struggles maneuvering his thick limbs around his chest. Finally getting a meaty paw in his pants he grunts as he tries to pull at his surely stained underwear before pausing with a dumb look.

Wait, Will laughs to himself. He’s not wearing any underwear. Sticky hand venturing back into the shorts he’s free-balling in, Will adjusts and wipes the pre that stains his hand into his hairy chest before giving his hand a good sniff. Doing so he feels the new stubbly beard that has spread across his jaw like a stain, connecting sideburns, moustache and erasing his goatee to instead have a perfect beard.

Hips twitching forward as his cock throbs in tight shorts, the horny, sweaty, horny man looks around the store in search of relief. Pent up like he’s gone weeks without cumming, Will worries he might just blow his load if he makes a single wrong move. Taking another deep breath of his sweaty pits certainly doesn’t help as he moans into the open air of the store, barely keeping it in his pants as his cock keeps snaking out of his shorts. 

“Fuuuuck~ Where’s Brandon when you need him.”

Panting as he holds back from losing control, barely able to walk without humping into the air, with all the willpower the oafish man’s able to summon Will narrowly avoids an orgasm. Hearing his boss grumbling from a nearby aisle he jolts up and starts to pretend to look busy before remembering he doesn’t care. “Fuck that, lol” With a smirk and a clear lurch due to the still raging boner he wanders off into the stacks in search of Brandon to help him blow a load.

● ● ● ● ● ●

One cannot overstate how bad Brandon feels about the hefty part he played in this massive mess. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, what they’re going to do. All their stuff is sitting in a uhaul outside a building more hovel than home. 

Wondering how non-professionals can even begin to fix a broken window, Brandon stares at tools and material he can’t begin to imagine a purpose for. Picking up a ratchet he struggles to think of something, anything he can possibly do to help Tyson before just tossing it back down.

He just feels so stupid! Trying not to tear up again he turns to Tyson. Wait, he would’ve sworn he was following Tyson and yet his bos- er, friend is nowhere to be found. Frowning, brows furrowed from his anxiety, Brandon paces back and forth trying to brainstorm anything he can possibly offer to ameliorate even a shred of their situation.

It’s not long at all before the same oppressive heat that affected his friends begins to fall upon him as well. Looking up to make sure he’s not standing under a vent, Brandon wonders why on earth the toolshop even has their heater on. He was already working up a sweat on the way just from the brisk walk from their wretched home. 

Unwilling to shed his shirt like Willie did, Brandon does his best to respectfully fan it, tugging at his neckline to usher air down his thin chest. After a few drags his lips squirm as unexpectedly, this tickles. Refusing to giggle and risk attracting Willie to his location, he stifles it and looks down his shirt to find whatever’s tickling him.

His sweat immediately shifts cold as underneath his heavy, sweat-stained shirt in the center of his chest he finds a few surly strands of chest hair beginning to sprout. Now, Brandon’s never been hairless but chest hair has always eluded him, and now there’s a healthy patch beginning to spread between his two thicker nipples. To say nothing of the even lengthier swirls encircling them.

And then his mind goes to Willie. Willie always wanted him to shave, wanted him smooth. Shivering from the ticklish curls working their way up his lither stomach, Brandon frowns as he tries to push Willie from his mind. They’re not even dating right now! He doesn’t even owe that jerk anything. If he wants to grow chest hair it’s his right! And oh does he want to get hairier.

Tense beyond belief, convincing himself that his still-growing chest hair has been there for a minute, Brandon doesn’t notice as his thin body firms up under the shirt. Veins bulge and pulse down his thin arms as their sinewy fibers expand and throb larger, inching closer to filling his sleeves more with every shrug and anxious twitch. The slight pudge on his stomach rapidly tightens into limber rows of abs below the perfect foundation for pecs to burst from on his chest.

Sick of feeling trapped in his mind, totally unaware as his body continues to change beneath his notice, in order to ground himself Brandon attempts to focus on the store’s fixtures around him. Doing so brings back frustration aplenty as his real troubles simply reignite. Stamping his feet he whines about their motley crew being wholly unable to essentially rebuild a house. 

They’re absolutely useless! What is a programmer to do on a construction site!? As soon as the thought occurs it’s like his mind hits a brick wall. Brandon pauses, a programmer? That’s what he is, right? Replaying the sentiment, the idea gets less familiar with every pass. Pretty sure he’s got a CS degree? He’s good with computers for sure. He thinks?

His mind starts leaking memory like a faulty program. The handful of programming languages he made sure to at least be familiar with fade one by one. Memories of slaving over simple games and messy code burn away like flash paper as he sees sunshine breaking through a house frame he helped put up. He- He’s not a prog-? He’s never been all that good with techy stuff…

Staring at his hands before him, Brandon watches as smooth thin digits more accustomed to a keyboard begin to crack and bulge wider. Soft fingers give way to skin that seems as rough as sandpaper, and as dirty as the bottoms of his feet. 

Woozy and nearly hyperventilating, Brandon leans against the counter behind him. Feeling his back prickling with goosebumps as his body hair erupts even thicker on his small tummy. New leathery mitts catch the edge of a shelf just in time too as his legs cramp and burn with a soreness like he’s never felt. 

His shaky legs are like jelly beneath him as from top to bottom his body grows more compact. Losing a few inches, the man who was already shorter than his companions feels his lost height shift into extra mass on his limbs. Already thicker thighs bulge with power and strength as biceps finally strain his sleeves enough to tear through his shirt even as it changes into a tougher fabric more suitable for his line of work. Muscles contorting thicker, Brandon feels the straining muscles throb larger as his highest operating level continues to drop.

Mind still speeding despite his processing power absolutely tanking, Brandon tries to slow his thoughts down and focus on his changing body. Retreating into said muscled-up body is surprisingly far easier than it should be. Which should concern him. Instead as he focuses on the feeling of his more powerful arms flexing, as he smells the musky pits hidden beneath them, he feels all worry drift away. 

Why should he be upset about being bigger, being stronger? They needed someone to fix up their place didn’t they? Squinting his eyes and scratching his greasy hair, he realizes he doesn’t really remember what place he’s thinking about? Tyson’s place is fine?

Rubbing his hands down thighs more akin to pistons, feeling their thick curls scratch against his rough fingers, Brandon can’t help but grin. And then he rests his hands on his new waist, playing with the darker expanse of hair on his stomach as he rejoices in his rapidly clearing mind. 

He’s a little hungry? 

Stomach rumbling, his eyes slowly scan the floor before him and while nothing immediately catches his interest, when he sees a lunchkit with his name on it, well. What else is he to do but have a bite. And so he does. It must be his and all, he simply forgot about it!

Tearing it open to find a sandwich, his eyes are larger than his stomach as he devours it hastily before reaching in hoping there is more to find in the bag, and so there is until he’s as full as he desires. Which takes quite some time.

So distracted by hunger, consumed by taste, Brandon doesn’t notice as with every bite and swallow his muscular form changes all the more. Rapidly mass begins piling on atop his bulky muscle. Abs are swiftly hidden behind a sizable layer of fat as his pecs grow softer from healthy weight.

Patting his delectable stomach with a content smirk, he struggles not to burp as he loosens his workbelt. While his physique may have plateaued, the jungle still racing across his body makes it clear that his new fur coat has not slowed. Above his heavy ass the curls inching much higher above his waistline are caught in his belt causing him to yelp before guffawing. 

While he thought he was hairy before, fur enough to call himself a beast makes it clear that this was not the case. His face that had only ever known stubble is soon hugged by a thick, now crumb-filled, neckbeard. One that will require constant maintenance not to encroach upon his upper cheeks or even connect with his thicker eyebrows. Should the beyond-low-maintenance man ever care enough to do so. 

Below the neck thicks grow even hairier. The few chest hairs that Brandon was initially excited over are absolutely buried beneath a tidal wave of new coverage. Pouring over his shoulders and down his upper arms, yearning to connect with his hairier forearms, Brandon’s upper body is almost entirely coated in a consistent jungle of fur. 

Raising an arm to inspect pits staining through his shirt as he continues eating, Brandon recoils from the musk before laughing. As the thick, sticky curls of his pits reach out to connect with that all-consuming tangle. For half a beat something about laughing about his b.o. feels wrong, but then he shrugs the concern off with ease. 

Stink’s funny. And if it’s not funny it’s hot. 

Sitting there having forgotten what task or another Tyson asked him to do this morning, he feels his dick throb as he smells something else in the air, and hears the all too familiar sound of some horny stud stomping towards him. Turning around there’s the foggiest memory of the Willie he knew before that’s displaced by the Man before him.

Brandon can hardly think at the best of times, sitting there, eyeing Will’s heavy bulge and ravenous eyes there’s only one thing on his mind. Falling to the floor he finds even more cushion on his ass as it fills out entirely and finishes covering with curls thick enough to rival those on his head, Brandon yearns to be filled.

Looking up just in time to see Will sprint over, champing at the bit and pawing at a cock clearly throbbing and dripping down his leg, Brandon does what anyone would and falls onto his back presenting himself. Will almost goes feral as he charges down the aisle. He doesn’t remember being mad, he doesn’t remember anything at all besides his need to fuck Brandon. 

Likewise Brandon doesn’t remember a worry in the world, their wretched rental is not a problem. Nothing is. Feeling himself pushed across the floor of Tyson’s shop as Will thrusts harder with every hump, he tries to moan before Will stuffs his fist in his mouth to stop him. 

Standing above, ever-aggressive Will feels his body harden into one made for this and this alone. His beard retracts into stubble as his moustache thickens out even more, emblematic of the dom he has always yearned to be. 

Lying below, gagging on the dirty fist in his mouth, the rest of Brandon’s too-complicated memories and concerns drift away alongside his skill at anything besides helping Tyson around the shop. Carrying the strength of an apprentice, and always hungry to serve however he’s able.

And then almost as soon as they began, Will finishes up and starts to leave Brandon a cum-covered heap on the floor. Tyson doesn’t like when they’re fucking on the clock, let alone in the store. Looking down at the ecstasy in Brandon’s eyes, Will smirks and leans down to lick the sweat off his lover’s legs as he yanks the man’s pants up and pulls him to standing.

Just in time too as when Brandon wobbles to his feat, Tyson yells from the front, “Boys! What am I payin’ you for! Get up here!”

Rushing to the front Will’s first to find the new Tyson as Brandon wobbles behind with eyes almost as glazed as his ass. There they find that briefly double take as Tyson has finished changing into their senior. Into their burly bearish boss.

Hand on his muscle gut and frown clear on his face, even through the beard absolutely covering his mouth, Tyson waits for them to explain themselves despite already knowing exactly what’s afoot. Will poorly feigns cluelessness as he adjusts his package. Behind him Brandon can scarcely string two thoughts together as he recovers from being reamed so.

“Which one of you was supposed to open the store for the day?”

Will looks to Brandon who slowly looks to find the ‘Store Open’ sign pointing the wrong way. “Oh, uh oh? Sorry… It should probably be facing the other way. Right, Sir?”

Tyson sighs and goes to fix the sign before gesturing to a heavy toolbox on the table, “In any case I got a delivery to be run out if either of you are interested. Some kids down the block need to rent some tools.” 

Watching his eye-candy employee regard the box with disinterest he changes his mind, “Second thought might as well both go, I can handle the legions sure to come in today.” Will frowns as Brandon brightens up and makes for the toolbox, grunting as he heaves it out the door. 

Feeling peckish himself he tacks on one last request, “Y’know what boys take the truck ‘n get me lunch while you’re at it. Have fun, now. Don’t you fuck in the company truck!”

Slightly more into the idea now that the boss man’s told them not to, Will feels like he’s about ready to go again as he watches Brandon heave the box into the trunk. Hopping into the cabin it’s immediately filled with their musk, already heightened from their recent tryst.

Will immediately forces a fist into Brandon’s pants and before he can protest that Tyson asked them not to, he’s already forgotten what it was the problem was. And so, one hand on the wheel, the other on Brandon’s shaft Will keeps working hard as he ever has while Brandon delights in the peace of mind that’s always eluded him. 

Grumbling to himself, sure that Will’s already working hard to add more stains to their old shitbox, Tyson complains to the empty store, “One of these days those boys’re gonna have to grow up.” After making sure they didn’t leave too much of a mess in the aisle earlier he softens up shaking his head with a smirk as he collects a single cum-stained garment from the floor, hardening up elsewhere. 

“Hrgh. Can’t complain t’much. Sure Brand n’ Will r’doin what they do best.” Imagining the dainty hands of men that need to rent out a phillip head screwdriver he frowns. Ain’t right that a man don’t know how to work with his hands. Luckily, his boys have a habit of making anyone into a regular. He can already picture them coming back with an eager new employee or two ready to dirty their hands with some real work.

[89-1999-deactivated20251110]

[mitchellkent]

[goodboyyyy]

"Eyes on the dogs, fagboy," he said, pointing at the two huge, sweaty feet inches from your face. You painstakingly tore your gaze from his masculine, handsome face, eyes traveling down his hairy pits, his huge biceps and lats, down past his yummy chest and those long, tan, hairy legs you wanted wrapped around you- onto his feet. 

"Good, good," he said, the bass in his deep voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket. “Closer,” Jake commanded, his voice a low vibration that bypassed thought and went straight to your spine. You moved in obediently.

"Now sniff."

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, the last vestige of your smart-ass exterior putting up a fight. You shook your head, your hair rustling against the comforter. The word “no” was stuck in your throat.

“Breathe it in,” Jake said sternly. "NOW!"

Your body reacted immediately, taking a huge inhale. The air hit your nostrils, a complex mix of salt, clean sweat, and the faint, expensive scent of his leather shoes. It wasn't what you’d expected. It was… masculine. Real. Your cheeks burned, but a different heat was pooling low in your belly. Your eyes drooped as your face settled into a contented smile.

"There's my boy. Look at that smile," he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, commanding register that made your thoughts go fuzzy. “You like the smell of a real man after a long day, don't you boy?”

The scent was overwhelming- the pure, musky essence of him. It should have been repulsive. A week ago, the thought would have made you scoff. But now, it was... delicious.

“Breathe me in, pretty boy. Get used to it.”

You did again. The act felt more intimate than anything you’d ever done.

His hand, large and warm, settled on the back of your neck, not forcing, just… owning. His thumb stroked absently against your hairline. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. This was so much more than you’d bargained for when you’d flirted with him at the library, all sharp wit and challenging smiles. You thought you were leading the dance. You were wrong.

You still didn't know how this all happened. You'd met at a dance bar. He'd took you home. It was a common occurrence for you, finding a nice hot jock, charming them with your twink looks, saying whatever you needed, getting dicked down, then leaving. Usually these late 20s, older dudes were easy. They loved the attention from a twink like you.

You’d followed him up to his apartment, the banter still flying, your usual armor of sarcasm firmly in place. “Nice place,” you’d said, glancing around the dark-wood furniture and the massive bed. “A little predictable, but nice.”

You’d moved to sit on the edge of the couch, ready to start the usual dance, but he’d stopped you with a single word. “Aht-.”

You stared at him, confused, but his back was to you until he sat in the large armchair in the corner. He didn't address telling you not to sit, instead stretching his long legs out in front of him on the coffee table. The casual dominance of the gesture, the rudeness, threw you, but damn, those legs were long....

“Ah. Good to sit after a long day,” he’d murmured, almost to himself.

"Can I-"

"Quiet boy," he said. It wasn't even aggressive, but your mouth clamped shut. He didn't even look at you when he said it. Moving his arms overhead, he stretched out in the chair, closing his eyes, smiling as he let out a long exhale. He was.. so tall... but still so solid... so... built... so... manly....

Your irritation faded as you stared at him. A nagging feeling. grew in you as he continued to lay there with his eyes shut. You weren't used to being ignored like this. You were used to being fawned over, being told you were gorgeous, being told you were everything some guys wanted- and here this man was, acting like you weren't even there. And it was making you desperate for it. For his attention. For his acknowledgement. For him to make you feel sexy and wanted. 

He shifted his weight, the muscles in his calf tightening briefly. "Tell me what you're here for."

You swallowed, your throat dry. "I... I thought we were going to hook up."

"That's not an answer." His tone was flat, uncompromising. "What are you here for, right now?"

 "I- I don't know-"

"Then I'm going to tell you," he said, smirking. "You have a smart mouth," he said, still not looking at you. "I like it. But tonight, it's for listening, not talking. Understood?"

You nodded, unable to speak.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you whispered.

"Yes who?"

The correction was instant, heat flushing your cheeks. "Yes, Sir."

The smirk stretched into a slow, genuine smile across his face. "That's better." He  gestured downward, snapping. "On your knees, boy. Now,"

You didn't know why, but you obeyed, and it felt good. Your knees crashed into the ground across the room from him and your cock stiffened. Obeying him just felt ... right.

The floor was cold and hard against your knees. You stayed there, the position foreign and yet feeling unnervingly correct. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You watched him, waiting for his next move, your usual clever retorts dying in your throat.

He finally looked at you, his gaze a physical weight. It traveled from your face, down your slender frame, to your knees pressed into the floorboards. He assessed you, and you felt utterly transparent.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t a request.

You crawled forward. The journey across the few feet of floor felt endless, humiliating, and incredibly arousing. Your cock strained against your jeans, a traitorous pulse of need. You stopped when you were at his feet, your eyes level with his worn sneakers.

“Look at me.”

You dragged your gaze upward, past the strong lines of his thighs, the defined bulge in his jeans, the broad chest, until you met his eyes. They were dark and focused, completely sure of themselves.

“You like this,” he observed, no judgment in his tone, just a simple statement of fact.

You couldn’t lie. A shaky breath was your only answer at first. Then, a whisper. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He shifted, planting one foot firmly on the floor. He gestured to the other, still resting on the coffee table. “These have been in my shoes all day. They’re tired. Why don't you let them out to breathe?"

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the laces of his sneakers, the worn fabric rough under your touch. The scent of leather and the faint, musky smell of his sweat filled the air, making your head spin. "Go on," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through you. You tugged the first shoe off, your heart pounding as his sock-clad foot rested heavy in your hands. This was different, and you were already lost in it.

This was different, and you were already lost in it. Your fingers found the knot of his first lace, working it loose with a slow, deliberate pull you didn’t know you possessed. The heavy leather sneaker came off with a soft thud onto the rug. His foot, still encased in a thick white athletic sock, was a solid, warm weight in your hand. You could feel the distinct, plump shape of his heel, the strong arch, the five knobs of his toes.

You repeated the process with the other foot, your movements reverent. He let out a low, gratified hum as his second foot was freed, flexing his toes under his sock. "Pause, boy. Just stare. Stare at these socks."

The command was absurd, yet you obeyed without hesitation. Your gaze fixed on the thick white cotton, stretched taut over the arch of his foot. You saw the subtle impression of each toe, the damp patch darkening the fabric over his sole. The room smelled of his cologne, yes, but now, this close, it was undercut by something earthier, something fundamentally him. Your mouth went dry. Your vision narrowed and focused, honing in on them as your eyes crossed a bit.

He noticed the change in you, smiling again. He nodded slowly, wiggling his socked toes right in front of your face.

"You're a good boy for me now," he said. A statement, not a question.

"I'm a... good boy... for you... now..."

Jake watched you, his expression unreadable. He slowly, deliberately, brought his socked foot to your chest and pressed. It wasn't a kick, just a firm, steady pressure, pinning you in place. The weight of him, even through the cotton, was immense.

"You feel that?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

You nodded, your breath hitching.

"Good. That's my weight. My authority. It's on you now." He lifted his sock-clad foot, pressing the warm, padded sole gently against your lips. The fabric was soft, but the firm pressure behind it was undeniable. "Get these off me. Use your teeth."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm. You leaned in, the intimate, musky scent of his skin filling your senses as you carefully gripped the cuff of his sock with your teeth. You tugged, the cotton sliding down, revealing the smooth, powerful line of his arch and his long, elegant toes. The second sock followed, your movements clumsy but eager.

He wiggled his bare toes inches from your face. "Look at you. Already so eager to please." His deep voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floor into your knees. You stared, captivated by the simple, profound authority in the gesture. This wasn't what you’d expected, but it was what you needed. "Now," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Show me what a good boy you are."

A flicker of your old self sparked. A defense mechanism. “You want me to… what, give you a foot rub?” you said, the cheeky tone a brittle shield.

He didn’t react with anger. He just smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips that made your insides liquefy. “No, pretty boy. I don’t want a foot rub.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a intimate rumble. “I want you to worship them.”

The word hung in the air between you, sacrilegious and electric. Worship.

“Go on,” he prompted, his voice gentle but firm. “You know how to be good, don’t you? Show me.”

Tentatively, you bowed your head. You pressed your lips to the top of his foot. The skin was smooth over the bone. You inhaled his scent, a mix of leather, clean sweat, and him. It should have been off-putting. It was anything but. It was intoxicating. A low, guttural sound escaped you, part shame, part pure, unadulterated need.

“Use your tongue.”

The command shattered your last remaining defenses. You did, tracing the line of his arch, kissing the ball of his foot, losing yourself in the act of service. It was the most submissive thing you had ever done, and it felt more honest than any kiss you’d ever shared. You were nowhere near his cock, and you’d never been more turned on in your life.

He watched you, his breathing deep and even, his hand occasionally coming down to rest on your head, not in a rough grip, but in a possessive, approving caress. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Such a good boy for me. You came here for a hookup. You thought you were the one doing the choosing. You weren't. I was. And you're mine now. This pretty body is mine to use. Isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," you said, sniffing his feet top to bottom.

The scent was overwhelming, a primal mix of salt, leather, and pure, unadulterated man. It filled your head, short-circuiting every thought that wasn't about obedience. Your tongue darted out, a tentative, nervous flick against the warm skin of his arch. It tasted of the faint, clean bitterness of soap and something else, something uniquely Jake.

A low, approving rumble came from above. "That's it. No one's watching. No one's judging. It's just you, and my feet, and doing exactly what you were made for."

Your cheeks burned, but the embarrassment was a distant thing. Here, on your knees, with the solid weight of his foot in your hands, was the only reality. You opened your mouth wider, letting your tongue lay flat against his sole, licking a slow, wet stripe from his heel to the base of his toes.

He let out a soft sigh, flexing his toes against your lips. "Good. So good for me." His hand settled on your head again, not forcing, just guiding. "Now, between the toes. Get them clean."

You obeyed without hesitation, your nose buried in the space between his first and second toe. The skin was softer there, the scent more concentrated. You worked diligently, your tongue probing, cleaning, worshipping.

""You had this whole script in your head, didn't you? The clever banter, the predictable moves. But this… this is real. This is you, isn't it? This desperate, needy boy."

A whimper escaped you. He was right. He was seeing right through the facade you showed everyone, the sharp-witted, carelessly sexual university student, and finding the raw nerve underneath. You nodded against his foot, your lips brushing his skin.

"Use your words."

"Yes, Sir," you breathed, the admission leaving you feeling hollowed out and remade. "This is me."

"What is?"

"A desperate, needy boy."

He shifted, lifting his other foot and pressing it gently against your face. "Then show me more."

You moved from one foot to the other, your worship becoming more fervent, more desperate. You sucked his big toe into your mouth, running your tongue around the nail, tasting the faint metallic tang of the day. You nuzzled the high arch, kissing it with a reverence that shocked you.

Time lost all meaning. There was only the rhythm of your service and the sound of his quiet, satisfied breathing. The dim lamp cast his shadow over you, a giant, encompassing presence. You were small beneath him, and you had never felt more secure.

Finally, he let out a long, deep sigh and slowly drew his feet back, placing them flat on the floor. You remained on your knees, staring up at him, your lips swollen and wet, your mind hazy with submission.

He looked down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray strand of saliva from your chin. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, and it made your chest ache.

"Stand up."

Your legs were weak, trembling as you pushed yourself to your feet. The room seemed to tilt. You stood before him, waiting, your entire being focused on his next command.

He didn't speak. He just looked at you, his gaze traveling over your flushed face, your heaving chest, the obvious bulge straining against your jeans. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips.

"Take your clothes off," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more commanding than a shout. "I want to see what's mine."

His command hung in the air, a final key turning in a lock deep inside you. “I want to see what’s mine.”

Your fingers, clumsy and shaking, went to the button of your jeans. Across from you, Jake stood and began his own undressing with a calm, efficient grace that stole the air from your lungs. He pulled his tight black t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and the world narrowed.

Your own clothes forgotten, your hands stilled at your waistband. You were transfixed.

His chest was a broad, sculpted plane of muscle, dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a trail leading down into his jeans. The dim light carved shadows between his pecs, highlighting the sheer power of him. But your eyes were dragged upward, to his armpits.

As his arm had raised, a dense, dark thicket of hair was revealed. It was raw, intensely masculine, a hidden part of him now on blatant display. The scent of him, that intoxicating mix of cologne and clean, musky sweat, seemed to emanate from there, amplified and primal. You stared, your mouth slightly agape, at this utterly ordinary yet devastatingly intimate sight. It was more vulnerable, more commanding, than any overt display of dominance could ever be.

He caught you looking. A slow, knowing smirk played on his lips as he deliberately lowered his arm, letting the dense hair vanish, then raised it again, watching your eyes follow the movement with helpless fixation.

“See something you like, pretty boy?” he rumbled, his voice laced with amusement.

You could only manage a weak, strangled noise in response, your entire body humming with a submission so complete it felt like gravity had doubled.

The smirk on his lips deepened. He let his arm fall to his side, the intimate view vanishing, but the scent of him—that clean, musky aroma—still hung thick in the air around you, a ghost against your face.

“Eyes down, boy,” he said, his voice low but absolute. “You got distracted. I didn’t say you could look.”

A hot flush of shame washed over you, so warm it was almost pleasant. Your gaze dropped instantly to the floor, to the worn boards where you’d been kneeling. You focused on the grain of the wood, your heart hammering.

“You have a job to do. It’s not finished.” He didn’t move, but you felt the command like a physical push. “Back on your knees. Get back to work on my feet.”

The order was a relief. A directive. Something concrete to obey in the swirling disorientation of your own surrender. You dropped down, the impact jarring up your thighs. The hard floor was a familiar pressure now, a grounding pain.

He shifted his weight and placed his right foot back onto your face, the sole warm and slightly damp from your earlier attention. The proximity, the sheer physical reality of it, made your head spin. You looked at the long, elegant lines of his foot, the dusting of dark hair across the toes, the faint lines etched into the skin of his heel.

Leaning forward, you pressed your face into the arch of his foot. You inhaled deeply, the scent now a direct line to whatever part of your brain was responsible for this unraveling. You opened your mouth and let your tongue drag slowly, purposefully, from his heel to the ball of his foot.

A soft, gratified sigh came from above you. “That’s better. Slower this time. Like you mean it.”

You obeyed, losing yourself in the rhythm of it. The taste of his skin, the solid weight of his foot on your leg, the sound of his breathing—it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming point of focus. Your world had shrunk to the space between his ankle and his toes. Everything else—the university, your sarcasm, the person you were supposed to be—was just noise fading into a distant hum.

The world had shrunk to the taste of salt and skin, the weight of his foot resting on your thigh, the sound of your own ragged breathing. Your tongue moved in slow, worshipful strokes, mapping the landscape of his arch, the subtle ridges and planes. You were so lost in the rhythm that his voice, when it came, seemed to come from another room.

"Look at you."

You didn't stop. You couldn't. Your eyelids fluttered open, your gaze unfocused. You were looking at his foot, at the sheen your saliva left on his skin.

"Good," he murmured, and the word felt like a reward that went straight to your core. "Now get up."

Your legs were unsteady as you rose, the blood rushing from your head. You stood before him, swaying slightly, feeling more naked now than you ever had with your clothes off. He hadn't even touched you properly, and you were already coming undone.

He reached out, his fingers not grabbing, but gently tracing the line of your jaw. The calloused pad of his thumb brushed over your lower lip, smearing the wetness there. "You're a mess."

You nodded, a shiver wracking your frame.

His hand slid down, palming the rigid bulge in your jeans. You gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily into the pressure. "And you're desperate for it. Aren't you?"

"Yes," you choked out. "Yes, Sir."

He pushed your jeans and boxers down in one rough, decisive motion. The cool air hit your heated skin, and you shuddered. You were fully exposed, achingly hard, and completely at his mercy.

He didn't touch you there. Instead, he guided you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. "Lie down. On your back."

You fell more than lay, the plush black sheets swallowing you. The ceiling above was a dark blur. You heard the soft rustle of his own jeans being discarded, the shift of his weight on the floor. Then he was over you, kneeling on the bed, straddling your hips. He wasn't touching you, just looking down, his powerful frame blocking the light.

"Hands above your head," he said. "Grab the headboard."

You reached up, your fingers curling around the cool, smooth wood of the slats. The position arched your back, baring your throat, your chest, your straining cock. It was the most vulnerable you had ever been.

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. His scent enveloped you, that mix of cologne and pure, clean male sweat. His eyes, dark and unblinking, held yours.

"This is what you wanted," he stated, his voice a low rumble so close to your ear. "You just didn't have the words for it. You thought you were playing a game. You weren't. This is real."

You believed him. With every fiber of your being, you believed him.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You're mine to use tonight. My good, pretty boy. And I'm going to use you until you forget your own name."

A broken sound, half-sob, half-sigh, escaped you. Your grip on the headboard tightened.

"Tell me you understand."

"I understand," you whispered.

"Louder."

"I understand!" The words were torn from you, raw and honest.

He finally, finally lowered his hips, his hard length pressing against yours. The contact was electric, a jolt that made you cry out. He didn't move, just held there, letting you feel the full, crushing weight of his body, the promise of what was to come.

"Good," he breathed against your neck. "Now keep your hands right there, boy."

The weight of him was immense, a solid heat pressing you into the mattress. You felt the slick slide of his cock against your own, a teasing promise that made your hips twitch upwards, seeking more. "Please," you breathed, the word sounding foreign and desperate.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest into yours. "Please what?" His hand slid down your side, calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire on your skin. "You have to use your words, pretty boy."

"Please... fuck me," you managed, your voice cracking. The admission felt like the final surrender, the last vestige of your cheeky persona dissolving into the dark sheets.

"Since you asked so nicely." He shifted, reaching over to the bedside table. The click of a cap was obscenely loud in the quiet room. You watched, mesmerized, as he slicked his length with lube, his fist moving in slow, deliberate strokes. The sight was brutally intimate, a preview of what was to come that made your stomach clench with anticipation.

He positioned himself between your legs, pushing your knees back towards your shoulders. The stretch was immediate, exposing you completely. "Look at you," he murmured, his gaze heavy and approving. "So open for me."

You turned your head, pressing your face into the pillow to muffle a whimper. His thumb pressed against your entrance, circling slowly, making you shudder. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. You dragged your eyes back to his, held captive by his intense focus.

He pushed in slowly, just the thick head, and the burn was exquisite. You gasped, your fingers turning white on the headboard. "Fuck," you hissed, the stretch overwhelming.

"Breathe through it," he instructed, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the invasion. You sucked in a ragged breath, and he pushed forward again, sinking deeper. The feeling of being filled, stretched, claimed, was all-consuming.

Then he began to move. The initial slow, deliberate pace was a torture in itself, each drag of his cock against your inner walls sending jolts of lightning through your system. "You take me so well," he grunted, his composure beginning to fray. "Such a tight, perfect hole."

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing any pretense of gentleness. The bedframe started a rhythmic thud against the wall, his hips pounding into you with a force that stole your breath.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with effort. "Take it. Take all of it." You could only moan, a continuous, broken sound as he pistoned into you. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, his guttural breaths, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly used.

Your orgasm built, a coil tightening deep in your gut, fed by every brutal, perfect thrust. "I'm... I'm gonna..." you choked out, your body trembling on the edge.

"Cum for me, boy," he commanded, his pace becoming frantic, animalistic. "Cum for your Master. Now."

It was the permission you didn't know you needed. Your cum erupted from you, stripes of white painting your stomach and chest as your body convulsed around his driving cock. Feeling you clench around him, he let out a final, guttural roar. He buried himself to the hilt, his body stiffening as he pumped his load deep inside you. The hot, pulsing flood filled you. He filled you. He filled with with...him.

As the last waves of your climax subsided, a single, clear thought crystallized in the hazy aftermath. Master. The word wasn't spoken aloud, but it echoed through every fiber of your being, a truth as undeniable as the man still nestled inside you.

"M-Master-" you murmured desperately, sitting up, drawn towards him, covered in and full of cum.

The word hung in the air, a raw, unscripted truth that shocked you more than the physical act itself. Jake went still above you, his breathing heavy. His dark eyes searched your face, seeing the naked vulnerability you had no hope of hiding.

A slow, possessive smile curved his lips. "Say that again."

"Master," you whispered, the title feeling more natural this time, a key sliding into a lock deep in your soul.

He leaned down, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like before. It wasn't gentle or exploring; it was a claiming. His tongue pushed past your lips, tasting you, dominating the space as thoroughly as his body had moments before. You melted into it, your hands finally releasing the headboard to clutch at his sweaty shoulders.

When he broke the kiss, he looked down at the mess on your stomach and chest. "Look at you. Covered in cum. Full of mine." His voice was thick with satisfaction. He dipped two fingers into the spend on your abdomen, gathering it up.

He brought his fingers to your mouth. "Clean it."

Without hesitation, you opened your mouth, your tongue darting out to lick his fingers clean. The taste was bitter, salty, and profoundly his. You sucked his fingers deep, your eyes locked on his, worshipping the evidence of your submission.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he groaned, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop. He shifted off you, the loss of his weight and warmth leaving you feeling hollow and exposed on the rumpled sheets.

"I want to be perfect. Perfect for you, Master," you said robotically. 

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing mingling with his. He slowly pulled out, and you felt the warm trickle of his cum down your thigh. He collapsed beside you, his arm draping heavily over your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

His embrace was firm, a solid wall of muscle and heat that grounded you in the aftermath. He nuzzled into the back of your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “Good boy,” he said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “Now, back on my feet for an hour, then you’ll start dinner.”

Follow on Twitter for more, going to be posting more there soon: https://x.com/goodboyyyy__

[idesofrevolution]

Tight Squeeze

With a pep in his step and a beaming grin on his face, Javi strut down the hotel hallway with his bag in tow. The annual vacation with Tom was the one thing that he looked forward to more than anything— he and his childhood best friend made plans every year since they had graduated high school, each destination getting more and more exciting. In just ten years, they’d visited six new states and four countries. It was a far cry from their summers in rural Indiana, and each time was a new opportunity to relive those days of playing the PS3 at his house until 4 in the morning and spending every waking hour together surrounded in laughter and excitement. Now, as the lovely New York City hotel rolled out the red carpet to room 1709, the simple task of pressing his room key on the door and the click of the door unlocking marked the beginning of his yearly respite. Javi pressed his hand against the door, and pressed it wide open.

"You're early," Tom said, his voice gruffer than Javi had ever heard it.

Javi looked up from his phone, his heart skipping a beat. The hotel room looked normal, just as the website had advertised, but something was definitely off. The lights were dimmer, the air thick with an unusual musk. And there, snapping a selfie in the mirror, was Tom. Or at least, someone who looked like Tom, but this Tom was… different. His skin was covered in a fine layer of hair, his body bulging with muscles that seemed to have been photoshopped on overnight. Javi's eyes lingered on his friend's feet, noticing the way his toes curled and flexed in those dirty, sweaty black socks. He couldn't explain why, but he felt a strange mix of fear and excitement.

"What the fuck happened to you, man?" Javi's voice cracked as he took a tentative step closer. Tom's reflection in the mirror smirked, turning to face him with a swagger that was entirely foreign to him. His warm brown eyes had a feral glint to them, his teeth baring wide in a snide smirk. Javi stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do… what to say… what to think.

"You like what you see?" Tom's tone was laced with an arrogance that made Javi's cheeks burn. He couldn't help but nod, his eyes darting back to those bulging muscles and the way the fabric of Tom's jockstrap strained against his shockingly massive bulge. The smell in the room was intoxicating, a buttery stink wafted off every inch of Tom's chiseled body. Something that sent a thrill down Javi's spine and made his knees weak as Tom stepped forward, his socks squelching with every footfall and leaving a trail of sweaty footprints as he strode forward. The walk, the voice, the fact that his formerly 5'8" band geek friend was now suddenly at least 6'0" and hulked out… There was an innate panic that swelled within him, but just the carnivorous eyes that New Tom flashed at him had Javi shuddering.

Tom stepped closer, and Javi found himself backpedaling until his knees hit the bed. "Yeah, I know you do," he said with a cocky grin, his teeth gleaming like a frat boy who had just scored a winning touchdown. "I've seen the way you look at me, the way you follow me around with those puppy dog eyes." He leaned down, his breath hot and minty on Javi's cheek. "I've seen you staring at my feet, Javier. How much you want to kiss them?" His words were a taunt, a challenge wrapped in a velvet threat that made Javi's cock throb.

Javi's heart raced as he tried to form a coherent sentence. "T-Tom, what happened to you?" He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the bulge in Tom's jockstrap. "You're not acting like yourself."

Tom flexed his biceps, his muscles rippling like waves under the dim hotel room light. He let out a deep, guttural laugh that seemed to shake the walls of the room like an earthquake. "You think?" He said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, let me tell you, the old Tom is gone, baby. This is the new Tom, and boy, do you ever look like you're going to love him." He winked, his new, alpha-male persona oozing out of every pore.

Javi felt his body betraying him, his own cock straining against his pants as he took in the sight of Tom. He had always had a thing for jocks, for the way they could make him feel so… small, so insignificant, yet so desired. And now, here was his best friend, his secret crush, transformed into the epitome of masculine dominance. He could feel his resistance crumbling like a cookie in a vice, and as much as he wanted to flee, his ass remained rooted to the spot.

"T-Tom, this isn't funny," Javi stammered, his voice a mix of fear and arousal. "You need to go to the doctor, something's seriously wrong."

Tom just snickered, the sound sending a cold shiver down Javi's spine. He took a step closer, and before Javi could react, his massive, hairy hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him onto the bed. The mattress groaned under the weight of Tom's new form, and Javi found himself pinned down, the scent of his friend's sweat and musk enveloping him.

"There's nothing a doctor can do for me, Javier," he said, his voice deep and commanding. "This is who I am now. And it's about time you admitted who you really are, too." Tom's grip on Javi's chin tightened, forcing their faces closer together, his breath hot and minty. Javi's eyes searched Tom's, looking for some semblance of his friend, but all he found was a ravenous hunger that reflected his own hidden desires.

"What the fuck do you mean?" Javi's voice was a whisper, his body trembling beneath the weight of Tom's towering form.

Tom's grin widened, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "You know exactly what I mean," he said, his grip on Javi's chin tightening. "You've had the hots for me since we were in high school. Don't even try to deny it." His eyes bore into Javi's, and for a brief moment, Javi could see the flicker of the old Tom, the one who had been his confidant, his ally. But then it was gone, replaced by the cold, hard stare of the new Tom. The one who was in complete control.

"You're wrong," Javi protested feebly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tom's grip on his chin tightened, his thumb tracing the line of Javi's jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the power behind it. "Am I?" His eyes searched Javi's, looking for the truth that they both knew lay just beneath the surface. "You've been pining after me for years. Now's your chance to show me how much you want this." His breath was hot and minty on Javi's face, the scent of his minty breath mingling with the musky aroma of his body.

Javi's mind raced, trying to piece together how Tom could have changed so much in such a short time. It was impossible, it had to be some kind of prank, or maybe a really good costume. But the feel of those muscles beneath his fingers, the way Tom's body seemed to radiate heat and power, it was all too real. He tried to fight the urge to kiss him, to touch him, but his body was already responding, his cock straining against his pants.

Tom's grin grew wider, his eyes never leaving Javi's. "Feeling a little excited, are we?" His hand slid down to Javi's crotch, giving his erection a squeeze through the fabric. Javi's eyes went wide with shock and arousal. He couldn't believe this was happening, but the proof was in the way his body was begging for more. "Told you," Tom said, his voice a low purr. "You can't resist New Tom can you?"

Javi's mind raced, trying to find some rational explanation. He'd seen prosthetics in movies, maybe Tom had gotten really into cosplay. The smell of his sweat, the way his muscles bulged, it had to be a silicone suit. It had to be. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the fear that had been building up. "Okay," he murmured. "Okay, Tom. I get it. You're just… playing a role."

Tom leaned in closer, his grin turning predatory. "You want to play along?" he whispered. "You want to find out who's really in charge here?"

Javi nodded, his eyes wide and filled with a mix of trepidation and excitement. The musky scent of Tom's body washed over him, making his head spin. He could feel the heat emanating from his friend's body, the power in every inch of him, and it was intoxicating. Tom grinned wickedly, rising to his feet and strutting over to the chair.

"Come on, then," he said, gesturing to his socks with a jerk of his head. "Take them off, I want you to get a good whiff."

Javi's cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and desire as he slid off the bed and onto his knees. He felt the plush carpet against his skin, the fibers sticking slightly to the sweat that had gathered on his body. As he crawled towards Tom, the room felt hotter, the air thick with the scent of unwashed socks and virile musk, something that was making his cock throb even more insistently. He reached out tentatively and took hold of the top of Tom's sock. The fabric was warm and damp, and he could feel the outline of Tom's toes through it. His stomach fluttered as he tugged it down, revealing the hairy, sweaty arch of his friend's foot.

"Look at them," Tom said, raising one of his massive, muscled legs and pointing a toe at Javi's face. "These are what you've been dreaming about, aren't they?" The room was so silent, it was as if the very walls held their breath. The smell of Tom's unwashed feet hit Javi like a truck, a powerful aroma of butter and roquefort that seemed to fill every molecule of the air around them. The sight of those size 15 soles, glistening with sweat and grime, had him feeling lightheaded with a mix of fear and arousal.

Tom's toes curled and flexed, the muscles in his legs bulging like those of a Greek statue come to life. He placed his foot firmly against Javi's cheek, his toes digging into the side of his face. "Worship them," he ordered, his voice a thunderclap of dominance that reverberated through Javi's body. And despite his racing thoughts, despite his better judgment, Javi found himself leaning in, his nose brushing against the furry, sweat-soaked arch of Tom's foot.

The scent was… indescribable. It was like a symphony of manliness, a concert of musk and sweat that played a siren's song to Javi's deepest, most secret desires. It was the smell of power and strength, of a man that knew no bounds, that could take what it wanted with no apologies. It was a scent that made him feel small and helpless, ensnaring him like a moth to a flame. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the odor filling his nose and mouth, coating his tongue. It was thick and heavy, with notes of gym socks and washed rind cheese, of locker room floors and the faint hint of something… animalistic. It was a scent that made his cock throb, his knees wobble, and his heart race.

Tom's voice was like a serpent whispering sweet nothings into his ear, urging him closer, deeper into the rabbit hole. "That's it, baby," he crooned, his toes sliding along Javi's cheek, the calloused skin leaving a trail of heat. "Sniff them, lick them, show me how much you love these stinking, sweaty dogs." The words were a command, a declaration of ownership that Javi found himself obeying without thought. He leaned in, his nose buried in the high arch of Tom's foot, inhaling deeply. The scent was overwhelming, but as he let his tongue snake out to slide across the slick sole, he found it… delicious. The salt of his sweat, the faint cheesy tang of his skin, it was a feast that had Javi's mouth watering. He licked along the length of Tom's foot, from his heel to the base of his toes, savoring every inch, every taste.

"Mm, yes," Tom murmured, his foot pressing harder against Javi's face. "You've always been such a good boy, haven't you?" Javi couldn't help but moan into the arch of Tom's foot as he continued to worship the musky flesh before him. "But now, you're going to see just how good I feel in this body." Tom leaned back in the chair, his muscled chest heaving with each breath, his abs rippling like a mountain range.

With a swift kick, Tom sent his other foot flying through the air, the smell of his sweat-soaked sock smacking Javi right in the face. "Take them off," he said, his voice a growling command. Javi's eyes watered, but his hands were already moving, eager to obey. He peeled the sock off, the fabric sticking to Tom's skin with the suction of a vacuum seal. He held it up to his nose, inhaling the potent stench of his friend's foot.

"Now put them on," Tom said, his foot still pressing down on Javi's head. Javi took the sock, his heart racing, and slid it onto his own foot. It was like sliding into a warm, wet glove that had been marinating in a frat house's lost and found. The fabric clung to his toes, the scent of Tom's sweat enveloping him. He took a deep breath, the smell of his friend's feet filling his nostrils and making his cock throb even harder. He couldn't believe what he was doing, but he also couldn't believe how much he liked it.

"Good boy," Tom said, his voice filled with a smug satisfaction that made Javi's stomach flip. "Now the other one." Javi obeyed, his hands shaking slightly as he slipped the other sock onto his foot. The smell was overpowering, a heady mix of musk and sweat that made him feel like he was inhaling pure, concentrated masculinity.

Tom's foot remained planted on Javi's head, his toes digging into his hair like they were anchors holding him in place. "Now, sniff them," he ordered. "Let me hear how much you love the smell of your new master's stench." Javi brought his best friend’s foot to his nose, his eyes rolling back in his head as the damp, sticky sole pressed against his nose. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he inhaled the scent that seemed to fill his very soul with a dark, delicious hunger.

“Ahhh fuck, Tom. Shit that’s so good.” With every suction of the thick miasma wafting now from both Tom’s foot and his own, he fell deeper and deeper into the thralls of lust. Letting his hand slide past the waistband of his shorts, the touch of his sweaty fingers gliding against the throbbing meat within made him gasp, droplets of Tom’s ripe sweat soaring into his lungs. Before he could take the initiative to pump, an even firmer pressure against his length was felt on his pleading groin. Opening his eyes, Javi could have burst just from the sight of it: Tom’s wicked smirk and his grimy left foot rubbing him through the pre soaked fabric.

“Such a good boy, Javi. I think I may deserve a treat, don’t you think?” Tom’s devilish grin sent shivers down Javi’s spine, and all he could do was nod in affirmation as the sweaty foot gently slid back and forth. “Yeah. I deserve a treat. I deserve you, Javi. Are you willing to give me my treat?” A guttural moan burst from his lips, the flavor of Tom’s sole against his face breaking any notion of resistance. He cried out with a muffled ‘mmhmm,’ desperation deep in his tone. That’s all Tom needed to hear.

It started as an ever so quiet little squeak, barely perceptible to the enraptured Javi. Though as he continued to lap at the slick sole, it wasn’t the wet squelches or the rubbery stretching that echoed in the hotel room that caught his attention; no, it was the sole. The way it started undulate, to bubble and warp beneath the smelly skin— Javi opened his eyes to see just what was truly happening. Tom’s sweat drenched boxer briefs, pulled down just below the pendulous balls, his long uncut shaft bulging and warping before his eyes as a grotesquely bulbous lump began to squirm up the length of his cock.

“Awww yeah. Javi, I’m gonna love it in there. You’re gonna love it too.” Tom’s teeth gritted with euphoric fervor as the bulge breached the tip of his stretching cockhead, wiry gray hairs slithering out wet and shellacked to the wrinkled, albeit handsome head of a man he did not know. Javi froze, the funk wafting from the feet his only comfort as the cock bloated and gaped around a vascular neck and broad shoulders. His eyes darted between Tom’s still smirking and wicked face and the hulking muscular man slithering out of his urethra.

“Oh… ohhh… unghhh…” The moans of pleasure that bellowed out of Javi’s mouth made Tom’s smirk widen as he continued to rub Javi’s throbbing appendage. Javi couldn’t process the surreal sight of the muscular man crawling out of his rod, down his thick, hairy legs toward him. As the man’s calloused hands pushed Tom’s foot from his face and his round rump and slimy cock sprang from the engorged slit, Javi’s mouth sat agape in mind numbing shock.

“Give me my treat, Javi.” Tom laughed wickedly as the man’s first few fingers slipped past Javi’s lips without so much as a gag of resistance. The taste of Tom’s cum coating the man’s form flavored his tongue with the sweetness of pineapple and tang of spunk as the man’s hands squeezed into his mouth— then his forearms, then his head… no pain, no discomfort, just… surrender. Once the foothold was established, the man’s arms thrust deeply down his bulging throat and into his core, it took little more than a firm tug for the man to slurp the rest of his chiseled form into Javi’s yielding body.

His cock tightening back to its thick, 9.5 inches as the last of the man’s ripe stinking size 15 feet slopped out of his slit, Tom let his head fall back onto the back of the chair as he wrapped his own hand around the length. He snickered to himself, listening to the schlorp and squelch of the man’s toes squeezing past Javi’s lips. The very same euphoria that overcame him when the leather daddy had dominated and entered his own body in the LaGuardia bathroom merely hours before was now overtaking Javi as the man made himself at home within his second body. Though it was not truly Tom in drivers seat behind those big brown eyes, he reveled in the addition of his host’s best friend into the cavalcade of identities merged into his consciousness— one more body to enjoy and experience. As he slipped on Javi’s skin, the overwhelming exhilaration of feeling the sensations of two bodies at once flooded his synapses while he pumped and smugly admired the hairy stud he’d created from the blank canvas of Tom’s skin.

“Heh, yeah boy. We’re gonna have some fun.” The sound of stretching rubber and elastic squeaks emanating from Javi’s warping form accompanied the slick, slimy noises of his lazy stroking. Gurgles and murmurs rang out with increasing frequency, mirroring the pace of his hand movements, until he grunted as the man’s head slipped into Javi’s like a silicone mask.

*SNAP*

Silence. Then a wry snicker as Javi stood- now mirroring his 6’4” stature and muscular, with the stench to boot. He towered above Tom, tugging on the elastic skin of his cheeks before they snapped into place, permanently.

“You gonna just stand there, or are you gonna join me?” Tom chided as he watched himself flex Javi’s thick, muscular arms- sweat dripping from his hairy armpits. His new acquisition still pouring in the body’s memories and incorporating them into his dominant consciousness; Javi leaned in, his tattooed hands landing squarely on either side of him on the armrests.

“Yeah, let’s have some fun.” Javi’s formerly sweet and innocent voice now thick with his gravel and grit, he sneered as their lips collided and tongues tangled.

———

“He’s on his way.” Javi leered as he fell backward onto his couch, kicking his funky, three week worn socks onto Tom’s lap as he sipped the last of his beer.

“You take the front, I’ll take the back. Nice spit roast for us.” Tom placed the empty Heineken on the table, resting his own identically ripe feet on either side of Javi. “Suckin’ and fuckin’, all at once. That’s the good shit.” Three weeks of wild debauchery in New York, and he had all but mastered the art of piloting two vessels at once. Tasting two brews simultaneously, savoring the buzz of poppers from two perspectives, feeling the tightness of latex on Javi and the creaks of leather on Tom… Manhattan had proved to be quite the training grounds for him. He wasn’t planning on letting that education go squandered.

“I know. That little twink won’t know what squeezed into him.” Javi smiled wryly, wriggling his toes beneath the grimy socks. “But until he gets here, give Javi some attention. The twink shouldn’t be the only one to enjoy him.” Tom grinned, letting his hands grip onto Javi’s damp foot, pulling it close to press against his face. “But you know, two is a party- three is a rave.”

[maningup]

SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: Imagine That

A/N: Okay this is the story where my creative desires went wild. The idea for this really was, two Suburban Legendz getting crossed in another tale's path. Once again, Mockups from Zippypixels.

“What the fuck bro?!?” Roberto Delacruz stared at the movie he was only passively watching as he gamed on his switch. Pringles that missed his mouth sat smashed on his leg, a cold Pepsi in hand. He was dumbfounded at what he saw on his screen.

—

There are suburbs out there that when night falls, light fails. The streetlights are as effective as a glow stick. The moon cannot serve a guide, only a witness. Those are places where the wind howls stronger, animals stir restlessly, and shadows hang just a second too long. The people who live there never notice the oddities, but newcomers are often off put until they either adapt or flee. Most are fine. But this isn’t a story about most.

Tonight was about more than a suburb, however. It was about a promise. Benito Martinez had been promised by his older brother, Matthias, they’d watch a horror movie tonight, 

alongside Matthias’ friends. The older teen had even dug out their dad’s old VCR.  An old cassette tape sat on the coffee table. A piece of media that seemed out of place even in the quiet backlogs of county living. 

Benito only caught glimpses of it as his brother set the VCR. He sat on the couch, kicking his feet staring at the tape. 

“Imagine That?” Benito asked, as his brother reached behind the TV, "What's it about?” The boy grabbed the tape and box. The cover art was a kid running with an arrow pointing toward a large muscular, naked man running in front of him. All black set against a stark white background. He flipped it over, nothing on the back. Blank. No summary or pictures to explain.

“Not sure. I found it in my room. I think Dad left it for me or something? Didn’t mention it though. Definitely wasn’t mom. When I looked it up online, people said the watching experience was intense. Mom thinks cussing it too much, she’d probably flip over this.” 

Benito looked back at the title. Imagine That. The way it was phrased, with the period inserted, felt more like a statement. Was he supposed to imagine what the cover art was showing? What did it mean? There was a tug on his brain, as he got lost in trying to understand the art’s meaning.

The doorbell rang and broke the spell Benito was under.

Matthias stood up wiping his clothes off. He had finished setting up. His walk to the door was quick as the visitor started pounding.

“I heard you the first time!” Matthias swung the door open, one of his friends standing there.

“Dude, we’ve got to go right now! Kylie is throwing a party tonight. You know the one with the massive…” made a double hand motion in front of his chest Benito didn’t understand.

Sucking his teeth, Matthias rubbed the back of his head, “You know I can't, my parents practically barred me from leaving the house whenever they're out. Also, Benito’s here.”

Matthias’ friend sighed, setting a hand on Matthias’ shoulder, “Stop being stupid, man. A party like this only comes around once in a lifetime. You gotta grab it by the horns.”

The car in front of the Martinez house honked its horn; more of Matthias' friends inside. “Guys come on, we're missing out.”

“Okay, Okay,” Mathias nodded his head. His friends cheered as the others returned to the car. The older brother walked his younger brother back to the couch

“Benito. I’m going to pop out for an hour or two—

“But you promised.”

“I know,” he held up his hands apologizing, “But this is Kylie, I have to go. And in return.” He tapped Benito’s leg, “I’ll let you watch this movie while I’m out. Then you can tell me all about it when I’m back. Sound fair?”

“I guess,” Benito pouted. Knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to change Matthias mind.

“Great, you're the best, little brother.” Matthias disappeared into the kitchen, bringing out some popcorn and juice he had started to prepare. Then he placed the tape in the VCR and told Benito how to start it, before he took off, switching off the lights and hopping into his friend's car speeding away.

Benito sat there mad. He didn’t want to watch the movie alone, but the box art was there, lit by the glow of the TV. The art made his mind race over what it was about. Standing up, he walked to the TV and pressed play.

In any other place, who knows what the tape might have done. An artifact is not meant for the setting.  A strange and unusual crossover in time and space. Darkness scratched against the house. Or was it the bare tree branches? Benito sat huddled up on the couch, leg to his chest.

All he had to do was imagine that. 

The cover art.

In those dark distant suburbs, one unspoken rule reigned supreme: Never watch a horror movie alone. Self-preservation perhaps? This VHS tape, whatever it was, had bypassed that. And though its cover made no promises about the film’s genre, Benito had already been promised a horror movie. The boy watched the tape and the darkness of the suburbs melded with the darkness in his house. 

Benito changed.

A small start. First his posture relaxed. He opened up his body, legs dangling arms, at his side. Next, like a rope being pulled in two directions, his spine and legs grew as his height increased. His white T-shirt dyed itself black soaking in the darkness, the material getting thicker. A burgeoning chest, flirted with bursting the shirt until it split into two halves. Nipples, bare, dark and brown poked out. His pajamas pants were tight on his crotch, having turned black as well. There was no ‘flirting’ with ripped seams there as his thighs simply destroyed the bottoms, hairy tree trunks finding freedom. The remaining half around his crotch morphed into tight briefs, only made skimpy by the size of his lower half. Benito’s feet swelled but stayed encased in his new dark socks, feet several times their size. Calves comfortably pushed the cotton to its limit.

Then there was his hair. His helmet of curls stylized themselves with invisible products, producing a stronger sheen to catch the TV’s light. Benito’s face morphed, jaw jutting down, cheekbones manipulating how light reflected off. His lips plumped. Kissable. Irresistible. Facial hair took root above his lip and on his chin, as his eyebrow competed in thickness. His T-shirt completed its transition into a dark Letterman jacket. A man now knows where Benito once existed.

—

“What the fuck bro?!?” Roberto Delacruz stared at the movie he was only passively watching as he gamed on his switch. Pringles that missed his mouth sat smashed on his leg, a cold Pepsi in hand. He was dumbfounded at what he saw on his screen.

He was watching a movie about the horrors of the suburbs. In it the main character had just transformed into…Roberto himself? The house had also just warped into Roberto’s place. He was watching himself watch the movie, in a feedback loop. He looked at the box art. It had changed. His face was on it. He couldn’t remember what it was before, but it sure as hell wasn’t him.

He snatched the cover, sleeve up, flipping it around, and read the back.

“Little Benito Martinez never thought he’d be cast in the lead role for SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: Imagine That. On a cold fall’s night Benito’s big brother abandons him, leaving the younger male with a mysterious VHS tape. Curious and foolish, he plays the tape of unknown origin into the VCR. As the boy watches he grows and changes into the thick and studly, Roberto Delacruz. Roberto Delacruz is our himbo hero with more muscles and cum for brains than sense. After watching a cursed tape alone in the desolate suburbs, will his ass… and cock be on the line to help the movie make a killing?”

Roberto got up rolling his eyes, making the VCR eject the tape. The dumb thing was stupid anyway, so much for a vintage movie night. His friends had probably fucked with his shit somehow. He tossed the cassette on the table and sat his toned fat ass back on the couch. Arms spread, reclining, he stared at the scene that lay in front of him.

His face was even on the tape’s title sticker. He leaned over and peered at the sleeve’s spine; there was even an image of him posing. What the hell, he wasn’t some dumb jock. What did this cover know? God forbid if he had to empty his nuts into a waiting mouth, he didn’t know that was a crime. Hell, if he was the main character he’d give the bad guy a major pounding. And if the guy was as sexy as the one in the cover, he was sure his ass could crush the guy's hips after riding them… or his cock could pummel that ass until the dude was unable to walk. Roberto shook his head, why was he letting what was obviously a prank get to him?

He stood up stretching, flexing his biceps, he didn't worry with guns like his. He kissed them. All that talk about trying to make the suburbs sound scary? Stupid as shit. Roberto looked outside at the dark beyond his window, chuckling; it wasn't all that. He went upstairs to take a shower, he’d deal with his friends and that tape in the morning. Right now, he wanted to stroke his meat to the stud that had gotten him hot. The water turned on and Roberto got in washing himself, but truly wanted to get to the good part where he could masturbate. His hand wrapped around his dick the slow first stroke sending shivers through his body. Like a stranger was touching him already. He moved again, hips grinding, finding the motion.

The house creaked, Roberto noticed, but didn’t stop on the edge of losing his senses.

A footstep pressed in his hallway. 

That made Roberto freeze. He turned off the water. Listening. Pissed, his goon sesh was interrupted. He reached for a towel.

Roberto wasn’t a fucking pussy; he charged out the bathroom to confront whichever one of his friends has set up this entire elaborate night to fuck with him. They were going to get their asses handed to them. Charging out, towel flapping open from its loose tying, he came face to face with a guy stepping out of the shadows.

The intruder entered pecs first, wide and sizable, like fucking tits. Women were probably jealous of the pair he was sporting.  His abs were cut like stone, arms just as formidable as Roberto’s. The stranger was in nothing but tight briefs, skull crushing things flanking both sides. A hint of the peachiest ass, showing. A 6’3” adonis walked through the hallway, headed only one way.

 Roberto's cock tented out his towel. It was fuck or die.

—

Everyone at Kylie’s party sat around watching the movie, as Roberto lured the masked guy to his bedroom. No one made a sound as if they were scared to give Roberto’s location away behind the door.

Kylie happened to find the old tape and had it playing in the background, but everyone at the party slowly found themselves walking over to watch it. They were enraptured. Mathias was the only one who seemed confused when an actor that looked exactly like him showed up in the movie with his name, wearing even the clothing he was now. The only difference was Matthias didn’t have a younger brother.

Everyone huddled, a few even flinched, as Roberto fucked for his life. There were cheers going as he pummeled the stranger’s prostrate. The intruder’s fat 10 in cock leaked all over the place, unwanting to get away form it’s fucking. Would have been instant death in the reverse positions. The man beneath Roberto moaned, though it was more like a groan as his cock unloaded between them both jettisoning nut everywhere.

The party cheered and evil was defeated. Crème de la Cruz deposited up its sexy ass. Applause all around. All together like this the horror movie wasn’t even all that scary. 

Outside, the trees rustled, the wind howled, and darkness pulsed all around, ignored by the party.  Whatever it had tried to enact though the strange tape was negated. Was it a consequence of the tape itself or something more? 

No worries, there’d always be more chances and always someone new to play with, when night came again in the suburbs.

[occamstfs]

Brazilian Daydreams

Eager to be anywhere else after the third snowstorm this spring, Mitch finds his mind keeps wandering to the sunny shores of Rio. Accidentally manifesting a new beach-centric life for himself, he wills his boyfriend along for the ride.

Back with another sporadic story! Two twinks TF into a Brazilian twunk and his bearish lover. Hair, musk, and reality change centric, hope you enjoy this story about yearning for a sunnier, sexier summer! -Occam

Sun warm on his face, the great roar of ocean waves crashing onto the beach lulls him to continue sunbathing even as seagulls caw nearby. Stretching in his rest he feels a speedo catch on his tight hips and bubble butt. Mitch quickly reaches down to scratch his crotch and adjust the speedo’s straining band, his fingers slide down bronzed abs glistening with sweat.

He- he doesn’t have abs?

Mitch’s eyes open to find the world not nearly as summery or idyllic as he had dreamed. Snow continues to flurry down from the heavens as winter continues to relentlessly storm through what should be the beginnings of spring. Stark blanket of snow covering everything in sight, Mitch rubs his face and sighs. Beyond regretful that he woke up from his vibrant dream.

Phone chiming again, Mitch realizes he was brought back to reality by a text from his boyfriend: [All good over there babe?]

Channeling the dreary extended winter he continues sighing and types up a real thoughtful reply: [ya]

Pursing his lips he figures he should put more of an effort in before, in the back of his mind, the gleaming sun returns. It is odd that he dreamed of the beach, isn’t it? Looking down at his pasty neck and a body that’s somehow too thin and pudgy at once, he’s never been the type to enjoy the surf and sun.

And yet, his fingers seem to disagree as his mind meanders. [Hey, Jason, what do u say we take a big trip once this whole thing blows over? Ever thought about Rio?]

Blearily looking back at his screen as he unconsciously sends the message, Mitch stares agog as he hasn’t for a moment thought about a trip to Rio. Never considered a trip to Brazil at all for that matter. Brazil. It’s not like him at all, he doesn’t speak Portuguese, he doesn’t like crowds. He doesn’t even like the beach! 

And yet, even as his conscious mind swears up and down that he’d rather die than get sunburned on some beach that’s half a day’s flight away. Something deep within him desperately wants to be on that shore. The logistics of planning a trip for him and Jason alone begin to cause a migraine and he chastises himself for humoring the idea. Simply not in the cards, nor, he remembers for the third time, something he wants to do even in the slightest.

That is, until he looks out at the snow once more. Surely it’s understandable that he’d yearn for sunny skies, empanadas in hand as he touches up his perfect tan. Mindlessly watching snowflakes continue to dance the oppressive white gives way to the deep, rich blue of the sea and sky once more.

What’s with him today? Mitch shakes off his dreaming of heatstroke and sticky sand to pointedly focus on the reality before him. He needs to find some way to burn his snowed-in day away. Could read, could game, Mitch struggles to focus on anything as his mind keeps drifting south. Vaguely light-headed, and even lighter of stomach, Mitch sets his on-edge mind towards breakfast. 

Brewing coffee, Mitch smirks oddly as he sees that the beans were grown in Brazil. He tells himself it’s just appreciating the happenstance, but behind his self-soothing the sensation can only be described as pride. Pride that leads him to unconsciously puff his thin chest even as he throws meat on the stove and bread in his toaster. 

One hand focused on preparing breakfast, the other keeps finding its way to the hem of his shirt. Stomach’s a little itchy. Must be the shirt. Coming to this conclusion, Mitch at last notices how the sweater he’s always worn explicitly because it was too big is suddenly tugging on his upper arms and chest.

Setting his breakfast off the heat, Mitch tugs at this thick fabric and watches as it retracts to hug his chest in a way that almost looks like pecs. Lips curl into a smile as Mitch sees his arms twitch against tightening sleeves. Not even noticing a hand easily snaking under the rising waistline to scratch at his stomach, he follows suit and simply tears off the sweater, throwing it to the kitchen floor.

Stumbling out of his pants en route to a full-body mirror, Mitchel gasps when he sees a body far more impressive than he thought he’d ever achieve. Sure, it seems like his ever–waxed treasure trail returned and there’s some unsightly stubble on his face that he’d need to be rid of when he sees Jason, but so it goes. 

The little fat that rounds out his face seems to dissolve as his jawline sharpens underneath the patchy beard. His stick thin neck thickens as he checks angles like a man made to model rather than sit inside and whine. 

Thighs almost bloating larger as he takes in his appearance, Mitchel’s mouth may as well water as he lets his mind wander to the azure sea again. Hands trail down abs slightly sticky with sweat as the scent of salty air and tanning oil assaults his senses once more. Wandering back to the living room he reposes onto the couch as if it were a beach blanket perfectly made to hold his growing form.

Giving into the sunny daydream more with every passing second, Mitchel almost begins snoring as he’d swear he feels the summer sun beaming down on him. Fingers still trailing up and down abs bulging larger, cupping pecs that are struggling to grow to their rightful size in a body bereft of strength- well, it’s no wonder they find themselves playing with the bush of pubes curling out from his underwear. 

Exposed skin tans from the burning sun in his mind alone as his thickening bush continues to tangle and rise higher onto his bronzing stomach. Skin so pale as to blend in with the snow outside is washed in a tan as darkening waves of sun kissed skin conquer. Neck lolling and mouth agog as he falls back onto the couch, Mitchel does his best to quiet a moan as his pre-dripping dick throbs into his palm. 

Shittt~ he can’t get off at the beach, can he?

Crotch now laden with a heavy bulge made to catch eyes in a speedo, Mitchel feels it start to get soggy with pre and in his foggy mind he decides to wander towards the sea to settle down. Never one to sleepwalk, trying to amble up with a far heavier body than he’s had to move consciously, Mitchel swiftly returns to the couch onto his wider back.

Having stumbled on the quickest path back to wakefulness, Mitchel gasps back to life as he should know it to find two wider hands stuffed down his pants. Retrieving his rougher palms before noticing the veiny forearms and even more impressive biceps they’re attached to. “Que merda?” Mitchuel mumbles out, barely noting the raspy deeper voice as he’s far more preoccupied by the fact he just spoke in a language he doesn’t know.

Small heart pounding in his heavier chest, the dreamlike scent of fruit and cooking milho vacate as the oppressive musk of his muscle bound body fills the space. Struggled breaths through expanding lungs inhale more and more of his sweaty stink and with heavy intake there’s a subtle scent of salty air growing stronger once more.

Chest panging in a manner than usually signals an anxiety attack to Mitchel, at present he reads his body's desperate pleas as nothing more than need. One which is his eager to fulfill as he twists his deeper neck to get a sniff of the sweaty jungle still thickening in his pits. Não está certo, né? But it’s so hot, how can it be wrong. 

Couch creaking underneath him, Mitchuel tries to keep his mind focused on the reality before him. Tanned legs and a heavy bulge throbbing with need, it takes a good deal of his focus not to start humping into his tight underwear and paw his cock to completion. Retracing his steps mentally to try and remember if he accidentally ate a psychedelic or something, Mitchuel doesn’t notice as his thoughts are increasingly bilingual.

Finally standing to his full new height, the knowledge of snow-covered streets outside the window behind him melts away as he begins to forget the nature of the reality he woke to this morning. He was going to have café da manhã… have breakfast… sim…

Wandering to a messy kitchen, tripping over a sweatshirt or something discarded on the floor Mitchuel snatches it with his feet and gives it a good sniff to see if it's clean before grimacing and tossing it back to the floor. Whatever, not like he needs to wear anything to cook. Scratching the trail of curls on his stomach still prickling thicker, he smirks as in place of what should be a half prepared bacon egg and cheese sandwich he finds small rolls he at first doesn’t recognise.

“Oh! É pão de queijo! Eh? What? Cheese bread..?”

Clearing his throat as an even deeper voice echoes back. Micuel quibbles as he tries to decide if he actually knows what that is, taking a long sip of café to ground himself, he shrugs and simply begins eating. Doesn’t matter what he’s having but if he wants to keep his perfect body he’s gotta fill it with something.

Tearing into the small puffs, Micuel moans as the familiar taste fills him with certainty of self. Wanting to keep his mind sharp as his body, he uses his small caffeine buzz to focus on a book that’s always on his kitchen table. Only, he finds it hard to make any progress at all? Words dance before his eyes as he wonders why the book’s in English.

Sure he speaks it well enough but he’s never been that much of a good student. Thin eyebrows furrow into burly caterpillars above his dark eyes as he forces himself to try and read on. Fortunately for the born-and-bred carioca, In his hands though, the book does its best to reform itself into a tome he’d be realistically able to read. 

Changes on his body finalizing as the book in his hand stains with sand and saltwater, the book becomes some barely intelligible guide to getting the perfect beachbody. One clearly functional as Miguel’s body becomes the textbook example. Shoulders crack wider as his pecs bulge towards the perfect size to allure anyone to hop on his dick as they’re covered by a patch of dark curls.

Shivering in the kitchen as a breeze blows through an open window, Miguel smirks as he sees another perfect sunny day shining outside. Stretching his muscular arms and lithe waist in the almost-too-bright sun, the man slightly lowers his speedo to ensure no inch of skin is anything less than perfectly bronze. Exposing his thick bush yet again, Miguel mindlessly plays with his pubes and bulge as he thinks out loud, now in fluent Portuguese. 

“Ahh, O que devo fazer hoje?” (Ahh, what am I to do today?)

Bouncing his ass in his breezy den as he simply delights in the splendor of the tropical air, the troubles of life snowed in on the costa leste americana is thousands of miles away. And anyway, the question is rhetorical. Obviously he’s going to the beach, he should see if Jason wants to go.

And then his mind fractures.

Isso não é… That’s not his boyfriend, is it?

Thicker brows furrowed, he tries to remember the finer details of his relationship with his longtime boyfriend. Paging through his simplified mind more like a pamphlet than a book, beach boy Miguel can’t remember bumping into a twink so, ehh, nerdy as the man his memory asserts is his lover.

And yet, sure as he knows the back of his hand or brand of speedo on his waist, that’s his lover. His amante. It’s just, he would’ve sworn that Jason was more, well, just more. Massaging his temples, feeling his fingers scratch through salt-laden curls, Miguel tries to refresh his memories.

Jason was Brazilian. They went to school together, grew up in a favela right by his side. Watched as it blew up into quite the touristy spot, one that might attract the meek man being produced whenever Miguel thinks of Jason. 

“Puta merda, minha cabeçaaa!” (God damnit my headdd!)

Josan was more than that, though of course it’s difficult to imagine anyone being more than Miguel somehow Josan managed it. The beach bunny just couldn’t quite remember how. Images of his lover flicker to mind.

He can see Josan’s ass, teasing him, luring Miguel to be as hornier as Josan was at any given moment. Back arched, covered in tattoos accrued from a lifetime of rushing from one excitement to another, performing twink with his cinched waist as if he weren’t even more of a lunkhead than Miguel.

Or sim! That’s it Jaosn was an absolute tank. Biceps the size of Miguel’s impressive legs, back wider than the front door at his place. Always eating to put mass on, the only man able to overpower Miguel’s musk and treat the built gym bro like a ragdoll. And behind that bulging veneer he’s just a teddy bear, bottom to boot. 

Tck, não. Joãn was never that obsessive about his physique. He’d come with to the gym sure, but he’d never sculpt or perfect. Just put on mass, strength… Yeah, and he was hairy! Hairy for sure, between the pair Miguel was definitely the brains too, not that it really matters since they’re always by the other’s side.

Whining to himself, bass petulance rumbling from his muscular chest, Miguel takes a deep breath and retreats to where he can always find peace. What he knows best. Cheers of people playing in the waves accompanied by bossa nova from a nearby bar. Daydream washing over him as if he were in the sea, his heavy hand moves as if possessed and reaches forward to cup João's soft chest. That’s it! That’s his urso.

Across town, scrolling on his phone Jason feels his cozy bedroom grow even warmer. Working up a sweat even as he sits still, the hitherto twink grunts as he feels his clothes are suddenly a little tight. No need to keep clothed he tears off his sweater and lays back down, noticing a slight belly he shrugs and half-covers it with a blanket.

Hand behind his head, as he gets back to his phone, Jason sees something from the corner of his eye. At first it’s just one long dark strand sticking out from his few blonde pit curls. And then there’s another, a patch, then one can scarcely see beneath the dark jungle of curls. Mindlessly giving them a sniff, Jason recoils as his musk smells like that of a completely different man. The man he is becoming. 

Groaning, he sits up and clutches his stomach as it begins to bloat. Josan stares as the same bountiful garden of hair races up from his pubes, cresting over what looks like an expanding beer belly pushing aside pecs similarly dusting with body hair he’d not dreamed of having with his natural blonde locks. 

Moaning as anyone would, he holds down a few burps as he looks down at thickening thighs and the heavier bulge in between them. Cupping which he feels it throb with an intense need. Stubble that’s already become a beard rubbing against his neck as he looks down, João gasps out to no one, voice cracking deeper as he does.

“Carambaaa~, eu sou sexy, né?” (fuckk~ I’m sexy aren’t I?)

Smirking as he begins playing with himself, his eyes as blue as the sea darken into two onyx gems. Black as the thick hair on his head, and the even thicker pubes in his crotch. Sucking up some drool that was beginning to spill into his pristine goatee, João puts a hold on self-love to take a call from his lindo.

Switching it to a facetime instinctually, João immediately brightens as he sees his own face reflected back at him. Exercising the self-control not to immediately start phone-sex, he impatiently waits for Miguel to speak up.

“Ei, bebê! algum plano para hoje?” (Hey babe! Big plans today?)

“Na, na verdade não, só estou esperando a nev-” (Nah nah- just waiting on the snow to-)

“Neve!? Nossa, amor, não é à toa que todo mundo acha que eu sou o inteligente, heh!” (Snow!? Jeez babe, no wonder everyone thinks I’m the smart one, heh!)

João pauses at this, wondering if people really do think Miguel is the smart one before realizing he doesn’t really care. Together they are just one anyway. Always at the front of mind, João finds himself far more preoccupied with the next time him and Miguel’ll have some fun.

“Você tem o Speedo que eu enviei?” (Have the Speedo I sent you)

“Sim, Sim. Ehh? Aquele laranja?” (Yeah yeah, ehh the orange one?)

“Claro!” (Of course!)

After a beat, João turns to a mirror and zooms out so Miguel can see the uniform already on. Mouth falling open at the sight of his bear in all his glory, Miguel feels his own blue balls suddenly grow far more urgent. Seems they’ve got something far more pressing to do than hit the beach, though there’s certainly time enough to enjoy their little slice of heaven afterwards.

Looking to the horizon, Miguel shivers one last time as the shining sea for some reason reminds him of blankets of snow like he’s never seen. Shrugging off the strange daydream of winter storms and a life indoors, he neglects to throw on a shirt as he starts his quick commute to fuck.

The world is brighter when he begins his walk through the bustling streets of Rio. Sun breaks through the canopy of buildings while thousands of voices singing and shouting vie for his attention. Only one man is on his mind as he waddles on, and only one destination lies afterwards. Miguel just can’t wait to have the sea on his skin, and João sunbathing by his side.

[axeeglitter]

Valentine's last delivery

Ethan’s boots felt heavier with every step down the sixth-floor hallway. The fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects, and the carpet was the same cheap beige it had been for twenty years. 3:47 a.m., Valentine’s Day was finally bleeding out and from the hallways, Ethan could hear the happy couples celebrating this special day. “Last delivery...” he said still fuming about this shift his boss forced on him or he would be fired. Pepperoni and mushroom, extra cheese, delivered to 612, Maple Street. Then he could climb back into his car, drive the twenty minutes home to Sarah, and pull the little velvet box from the glove compartment. He’d been practicing the words all night between runs: “Sarah, you’re my best friend and the love of my life. Will you marry me?” The ring was simple white gold, exactly what she’d hinted at for months.

He knocked twice on the door, polite but firm.

The door opened on a guy who could have been anyone. Mid-twenties, wire-rimmed glasses, brown hair sticking up in every direction, wearing white T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. Alex, the app said. Just another lonely customer who’d probably spent the night alone with his phone and a bottle of cheap wine.

“Eighteen fifty,” Ethan said, holding out the warm box.

Alex reached for his wallet on the little entry table. “Yeah, uh… keep the change, man. Sorry it’s so late. I guess you had better things planed for tonight.” Alex said kindly to Ethan as he kept looking for his wallet before handing the money. “Here you go, and you can keep the change. Thanks!” Alex finished as he grabbed the warmed pizza box from Ethan’s hands. The hallway lights flickered and unbeknown to them both, an invisible presence just happened to fly away from the gay couple apartment’s next door. “Looks like I still have time for one more gift for tonight…” Cupid said as he watched Ethan giving the pizza box to Alex. Cupid got closer and still being invisible, he smiled cockily as he exhaled a deep sensual gush of warm pheromones straight in Ethan’s opened mouth.

Ethan suddenly felt like a warm wave invaded his body and suddenly, the light around faded from his eyesight. The floor rushed up at him. He grabbed for the doorframe, but his fingers slid off the wood. His knees folded like wet paper.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there!” Alex lunged, catching him under the arms before he could hit the mat. The guy was stronger than he looked; his grip was solid, warm. “You okay, dude? You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Ethan’s head spun. His skin prickled with sudden heat. “I… yeah. Just… long night. Overdid it, I guess. Sorry.”

Alex didn’t let go. “No worries, man. Come inside for a second. Sit down. I’ll grab you some water. You’re not driving like this.”

Before Ethan could argue, Alex was guiding him over the threshold, kicking the door shut with his heel. The apartment smelled like stale popcorn and laundry detergent. A single lamp cast a soft yellow glow. The pizza box landed on the coffee table with a soft thump.

Cupid followed them just before the door closed and hovered invisibly near the ceiling, wings half-folded, one golden sandal swinging lazily. His golden tanned skin caught no light yet; the open toga clung to every carved line of his body. His thick cock was already hard, leaking a thin, glowing strand of pink precum. He licked his lips, eyes bright with bored cruelty.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.” He said to no one as his cock spasmed in the air, making a drop of precum fall directly on Alex’s bare arms.

Alex felt the same feeling Ethan had just been through as the precum was absorbed directly in his blood. Cupid smirked watching his precum disappearing and both of the boys slowly gaining back their composure as they were now slowly looking at each other’s in the eyes.

The thought bloomed in both their heads at once, thick and sweet and impossible to ignore.

God… he’s so hot.

Ethan blinked. The idea felt wrong, alien, but it was already sinking in, warm and sticky. Alex’s messy hair, the way his shirt hung off his shoulders, the faint stubble on his jaw… suddenly it all looked good. Really good.

Alex’s breath caught. His cheeks flushed dark. “Fuck… why is it so warm in here?”

Neither of them questioned it. The thought just felt right.

Ethan’s hands moved on their own. He tugged at the zipper of his uniform jacket; it slid off and pooled on the floor. Alex mirrored him, yanking the shirt over his head, revealing a soft, pale torso. Ethan’s pants followed, then Alex’s sweatpants. They stood there in the dim light, Ethan in his boxer briefs, Alex in nothing but socks, both of them breathing harder than the situation called for.

Cupid drifted lower, cock in hand, stroking slowly. You should jerk off, he whispered into their skulls. It feels so fucking good.

Ethan’s fingers wrapped around his cock through the fabric, stroking lazily. A low groan slipped out. Alex did the same, eyes half-lidded, jerking himself with slow, dreamy pulls.

“Sorry dude, … I just have to,” Ethan murmured, but his voice was thick, almost smiling. “God… You are so hot.”

Alex nodded, stepping closer. “Thanks. You are not bad looking either.” He answered getting closer and closer in a seductive tone.

Cupid chuckled silently, pre-cum dripping onto the carpet.

The next thought slid in even deeper as Cupid got closer to Ethan’s opened ears: On your knees. Taste him.

Ethan dropped without hesitation, knees hitting the carpet. He looked up at Alex with glassy, hungry eyes, then leaned forward and took the dude’s cock into his hungry watering mouth.

The taste was salty, warm, intoxicating. Ethan’s lips stretched around the shaft, tongue swirling, sucking with eager, sloppy enthusiasm. Alex groaned, fingers threading through Ethan’s hair, hips rocking gently. “Fuck… yeah, just like that…”

Ethan bobbed his head, taking more, gagging softly when the head hit the back of his throat. His own cock throbbed untouched in his briefs, leaking into the fabric. He was lost in the haze, moaning around the thick length, saliva dripping down his chin.

Cupid floated directly above them, legs spread, jerking himself in time with Ethan’s bobs. “That’s it, boys,” he purred to the empty air. “Get him nice and wet for what’s coming.”

After a few minutes Alex pulled Ethan off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting his lips to the glistening cock. He stood, spun Ethan around, and bent him over the back of the couch.

The blunt head of Alex’s cock pressed against Ethan’s hole.

And suddenly, the fog of lust in Ethan’s mind shattered as he realized what was happening while Sarah crossed his lost mind.

Reality slammed back into Ethan like ice water as Sarah’s heartwarming laugh echoed in his ears and brought him back.

“What the fuck am I…,” His eyes flew wide. He was bent over, completely naked, ass up. Alex’s cock was right there, hot and slick and pushing.

“No, wait, stop!” Ethan gasped, trying to twist away. But his body wouldn’t obey. His hole was slick, open, aching. Alex pushed forward anyway still lost in the maze of Cupid’s lust.

The first inch slid in.

Ethan’s scream was pure terror. “Get off me! I’m not… I have a girlfriend! I’m straight, I’m…”

Laughter exploded from the ceiling, bright, delighted, vicious. “THE FUCK IS THIS!!!” Ethan screamed as he heard Cupid’s laugh and voice and suddenly the fog covering and hiding Cupid’s presence vanished slowly, revealing his presence to Ethan’s aware eyes.

“Oh finally,” the voice sang. “I was getting bored watching you two idiots go slow.”

The first pale gold of sunrise crept over the windowsill.

Cupid began to appear clearer and clearer.

It started at his feet, golden Spartiate’s laced up thick, sculpted calves, the leather straps gleaming as the light touched them. Then his legs materialized, tanned and powerful. His cock came next, thick and veined and still leaking glowing pink. The open grey toga fluttered into view, clinging to a torso carved like a god thanks to a heart shaped golden broach. Black angel wings unfurled behind him. Finally, his face, beautiful, cruel, lips curled in a smirk.

He floated there fully visible now, cock in hand, watching them with open hunger.

Ethan’s eyes locked on the creature. His stomach dropped through the floor. “What the… who the fuck are you?!”

Cupid’s smirk widened, slow and predatory. “Me? Let’s just say I’m the one who gifts love once a year on a special occasion like this special day, princess.”

Without warning, Cupid’s hips bucked forward in the air. His massive cock throbbed violently, the slit flaring open, and with a single blink of the eye looking at Ethan’s gapped mouth, he came, not normal cum, but a thick, glowing arrow of solidified seed that shot from his tip like a crossbow bolt. The arrow streaked through the air and slammed straight into Alex’s chest with a wet thwack as it vanished instantly, getting absorbed in his soul and skin.

Alex’s body exploded with power, he didn’t even realize they were not alone in the room anymore.

Muscle detonated across his frame in violent, wet surges. Shoulders broadened with audible cracks, widening until they strained the air around him. His chest ballooned outward into heavy, veined slabs of pec meat, nipples hardening into dark, sensitive coins. Abs carved themselves into deep, ridged valleys that flexed with every thrust. Arms thickened into veined pythons, biceps peaking like softballs. Legs became tree trunks, calves and quads swelling with raw, brutal power. His face sharpened, jaw squaring, cheekbones rising, stubble darkening into a perfect five-o’clock shadow that made him look dangerously handsome. And his cock, still buried balls-deep inside Ethan, swelled brutally, thickening to the girth of a wrist, lengthening until Ethan could feel the head pressing against his stomach from the inside. A fat, throbbing knot formed at the base, locking them together with a wet, obscene pop.

Alex’s new voice was a deep, rumbling growl, but his eyes stayed glassy, lost in the maze Cupid had woven. He didn’t wake. He just kept thrusting, hips snapping with machine-like power, the knot grinding relentlessly against Ethan’s rim.

Ethan twisted his head, horror flooding his face in a cold wave. “Alex, Alex, look at you, oh God, what the fuck, you’re… you’re huge… this isn’t real, this can’t be happening…”

Cupid laughed again, already stroking himself with long, lazy pulls aiming for Ethan now. His cock pulsed once more. “Time for round two, princess!” Cupid said as Ethan turned his back to Cupid only to watch him jerking off his huge dick one last time and laughing hard. Another glowing cum-arrow erupted from the tip.

It struck him square in the sternum.

The heat hit him like molten lava pouring straight into his bones as Ethan started to scream in pure terror as he kept on watching Alex’s feral face thrusting deep in him.

His shoulders narrowed with a sickening pop, bones shifting, muscle melting away like warm wax. His chest deflated, then swelled again, soft, perky mounds forming where hard pecs had been, nipples puffing into sensitive pink buds that throbbed in the cool air. His waist cinched brutally tight, ribs pulling inward until he felt like he might snap in half. His ass surged outward in two heavies, jiggling waves, fat piling on in obscene amounts, cheeks rounding into perfect heart-shaped globes that clapped wetly with every brutal thrust from Alex. He felt his anus start to spasm and contract around Alex’s cock. He could feel it getting, puffy and slick, drooling sweet fluid down his smooth thighs in steady streams. His cock, still seven and a half full inches, remained, but the rest of his body had become almost completely smooth and delicate: slender limbs, a tiny waist, a soft, boyish chest with almost no muscle definition at all. He looked like the ultimate twink, fragile, fuckable, utterly helpless.

Ethan stared down at his transformed body in pure, gut-wrenching panic. His mind was still screaming that this was all a nightmare. He could see Sarah’s smiling face as they wake up side by side while he felt Alex’s thrusting deep in him, now almost clearly seeing the bulge created by his cock through his stomach. “No, no, please, this isn’t me, give it back, give my body back… You can’t do this…”

Cupid’s laughter rang out again, low and filthy, echoing off the walls. “Don’t worry princess, we still have some more time before the sun rise and I’m sure you’ll fall in love with the results!”

Cupid drifted lower, wings beating lazily, and reached down to one of his golden Spartiate’s. With a flick of his fingers, he pulled free a long, shimmering ribbon of pure golden, shimmering silk that seemed to pulse with inner light, glowing faintly pink at the edges.

“These are godly ribbons, princess,” he purred, voice dripping with mock tenderness as he floated closer. “Once they’re tied, only a god can untie them. And I’m feeling very generous tonight for a secondary gift.”

Ethan’s eyes widened in fresh terror as Cupid approached. The creature was breathtakingly beautiful, golden skin, black wings, that massive leaking cock, but the smile on his face was pure sadism. Ethan tried to pull away, but Alex’s knot held him fast, the bigger man still pounding away like a machine.

“No, stay away, don’t touch me, please, I’m begging you, don’t…”

Cupid ignored him completely smiling to the vision of Ethan’s hard and leaky cock in front of him. He knelt in the air right in front of Ethan’s still-hard cock, the ribbon dangling from his fingers like a promise. Ethan could feel the heat radiating off the god’s body, smell the sweet, musky scent of his arousal. “Yes, that’ll do perfectly…” Cupid said to himself between Alex’s feral moans.

The ribbon moved on its own.

It slithered forward like a living serpent, cool and silky at first, then warm as it made contact. It wrapped around the very base of Ethan’s 7.5-inch shaft, then began to coil upward, slow, deliberate, loop after loop, encircling every inch of his length all the way to the sensitive tip. The silk tightened with each turn, squeezing gently but insistently, pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat. It felt alive, warm, throbbing, almost affectionate in the most humiliating way. Ethan whimpered, hips twitching uselessly, his cock twitching and leaking despite the terror flooding his veins.

“It’s too tight, fuck, it hurts, please, take it off, I can’t… This is not supposed to feel like this…”

Cupid leaned in closer, his breath hot against the sensitive skin. He exhaled slowly, a warm, glowing puff that washed over the ribbon.

The silk melted and sank into Ethan’s flesh.

It disappeared completely, merging seamlessly with his skin until there was no trace of it left. But the effect was immediate and devastating. Ethan’s erection collapsed in a single, humiliating instant, his cock softening, shrinking, becoming completely limp and useless in the open air. No matter how hard his mind screamed for it to rise, how much he felt the need to get hard, nothing happened. It just hung there, soft and defeated, the blood draining away as if the ribbon had stolen every drop of arousal from his body forever.

Ethan’s breath hitched into a broken sob. “OMG! No… no, please, not like this… What have you done?!… what did you do to me? Stop this wicked game, please, turn us back, I’m begging you, turn us back to how we were! I don’t even know this dude!!”

Cupid only smiled wider.

But before he continued, he flicked his wrist and pulled a second gift from the folds of his toga, a thick, gleaming golden cord, warm and heavy, pulsing with the same inner light as the ribbon. He floated behind Alex, reached down, and wrapped the cord snugly around the base of the new jock’s massive cock and heavy balls, tying it in a firm, intricate knot. Then he exhaled the same glowing breath.

The cord melted and merged into Alex’s skin, vanishing completely. Alex’s balls swelled even larger, skin stretching tight as they filled with impossible volume. His cock throbbed harder inside Ethan, the knot pulsing with new power and need to breed. Stamina flooded the jock’s body, endless, relentless. “There we go, like that, nobody is jealous.” Cupid said as he watched Ethan’s limp cock jumping between his legs while he floated back above them both.

“Here’s the deal, princess,” Cupid said, voice silky and cruel. “I’m not a monster. As I said, I’m a giver of love. You want to turn back? You can! As long as you don’t cum before the sun touches your skin, everything reverts. You go back to being boring old straight Ethan. Back to Sarah. Back to your sad little life. But if you cum before that light kisses you… this is forever. New body. New life. Deal? Great!”

As he spoke, Alex’s thrusts grew frantic thanks to Cupid’s secondary gift. The enhanced jock body was moving on pure instinct now, deeper, harder, the knot slamming against Ethan’s rim with wet, obscene slaps. Ethan could feel Alex’s newly supercharged balls drawing up tight, the head flaring, the knot locking tighter, the bigger man’s stamina making every stroke feel like it could go on forever.

“You mean we can turn back? OMG, we have to. I can’t stay like that! Fuck why does he thrust harder!! OMG WHY DOES HE THRUST HARDER?!” Ethan screamed realized what was about to happen “No, no, Alex, don’t, please, I’m begging you…”

Alex’s glassy eyes rolled back. His massive chest heaved. He let out a deep, guttural moan that shook the walls. The truth is, Alex had no one he could hold on to to escape Cupid’s daze of lust and love, and Cupid’s knew that. With one final thrust, Alex moaned louder then before and with that Ethan screamed knowing what was now inevitable.

Alex came, just before the first golden fingers of sunlight brushed the very tips of his toes.

Thick, endless ropes of hot jock cum flooded Ethan’s guts, pulse after pulse, so much it immediately squirted out around the knot in creamy white bursts, running down Ethan’s smooth thighs in rivers. The enhanced loads were heavier, thicker, flooding him so completely he could feel his belly swell slightly.

At the exact same moment, Alex’s voice cracked into a raw, worshipful moan.

“FUCK YEA! YOU LIKE THAT DON’T YOU?! THAT’S MY GOOD BOY!!”

The words hit Ethan like lightning and without him being able to control himself, his limp cock started to spasm.

Clear spurts forced themselves out in helpless, humiliating arcs, painting the carpet while his trapped, soft dick twitched uselessly, creaming against his will as his ass clenched again and again around Alex’s still hard and buried cock.

Pleasure ripped through him so violently his vision whited out. He moaned, loud, slutty, broken, while terror clawed at his throat.

Ethan’s vision blurred as he could see Sarah’s face replaced by Alex’s new one. Her laugh now replaced by his moans. His muscled arms around her shoulder replaced by Alex’s biceps hugging him. The ring he bought completely erased from his memory while the box still remained discarded on the floor in the middle of Ethan’s old clothes.

The last of the old Ethan vanished in a single, blinding flash as all he could now remember was the feeling of belonging to his jock of a boyfriend.

Ethan blinked, dazed, still impaled on Alex’s knot.

He smiled up at Alex, heart full of nothing but pure, aching devotion.

The apartment changed with the first sun rays.

Walls brightened to warm cream. The sad couch became deep, buttery leather. A weight bench appeared in the corner; dumbbells neatly racked. Framed photos materialized on every surface, Ethan and Alex laughing at the beach, spotting each other at the gym, kissing at their engagement party. The lonely bachelor pad became the perfect love nest for two happy jocks.

Alex pulled out slowly, the knot popping free with a wet, obscene sound. Cum gushed from Ethan’s wrecked, fluttering hole in thick white rivers, splattering the new carpet and running down his smooth thighs.

Alex turned, eyes soft and adoring, already madly, stupidly in love with his well-bred boyfriend. He turned around as they both laid on the carpeted floor and picked something up from their discarded clothes.

A small velvet box.

He opened it as he smiled between two exhausted inhales of musky air.

Inside was the exact ring Ethan had chosen for Sarah, white gold, simple, perfect.

Alex looked into Ethan’s eyes; voice thick with emotion.

“Will you marry me?”

Ethan’s new heart soared, without hesitation, he opened his eyes as he smiled, still trying to get his breath back after the love they just shared.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice soft and adoring. “Of course, I will, baby. I love you.”

Cupid’s face, still faintly visible in the sunrise, curled into one final, satisfied smirk, as it disappeared into the sun rays for a year to come until February 14 of next year.

Another perfect Valentine’s couple created.

The sparkles that he disappeared into faded completely like dust in the warm first rays of the morning sun.

And Ethan smiled up at his fiancé, heart full of nothing but love for the men that he will share his life with. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey everybody! Long time no see ^^

I just wanted to share with you a themed story for this very special day of lovers.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope that even if you're alone, this story will bring you some joy and self-love :p

See you soon, and take care of yourselves. As always, my inbox and DMs are open if you have ideas or just want to chat.

[occamstfs]

Soccer Socked

Wallace swears his friend wasn't always a star athlete and is snooping around the field to confirm his uncomfortable hunch. When he puts his foot in the wrong clue it seems like he'll get to the bottom of the case quicker than he cares to.

It's my blog's anniversary and I couldn't just pass it up so here's a foot-forward hairy soccer player TF! Vaguely inspired by a FIFA ad burned into my mind forever ago, hope you enjoy this bottoms up Transformation! -Occam

He’s not a professional investigator, not even a student reporter, even. Honestly he wasn’t even sure if journalists actually did reconnaissance like this or if that’s just something that’s been made up and glamourized for movies. 

Still, something about the soccer team’s whole deal has set him on edge. Or moreover, whatever they did to his friend Rich has. And whatever it takes Wallace is going to get to the bottom of it. They were lab partners, this Wallace is sure of. At the beginning of the semester they paired up, two peas in a pod. He’s sure of it.

Vague memories of their professor and lab techs confusing them for being so similar still bubble up, but that can’t be the case, because Rich, or Ricky as he swears he’s always gone by, looks like he was bred to play soccer. And Wallace might simply crumble to dust if he were to step foot on the field.

If he were playing that is. At present, wandering around the green to snoop for clues is absolutely fair game. After watching a short video from a comedian showing off how far a fake press pass can get you, Wallace could no longer push down his burning curiosity and, after forging some shoddy press credentials, he made his way down to the university’s field during a practice.

Watching from afar, Wallace is yet to find anything out of the ordinary. Mostly interested in watching the couple dozen athletic men run back and forth he begins to wonder what sinister ongoings he expected to find?

Obviously Ricky would tell him if there were truly sinister ongoings, they are friends after all. Speaking of the devil, Ricky’s laughter resounds as he throws an arm around a teammate and Wallace’s chest pangs with pathos he can’t understand. Envy? Regret? The phantom pain of something lost. 

Blushing from the embarrassment of expecting to find his old friend here, of seeing the Rich that haunts the edges of his mind, Wallace chastises himself for believing in something so patently foolish. Obviously people don’t just change from reedy academics to professional athletes. And that’s all he has truly known Ricky to be, dead weight on titrations and counterproductive on lab reports. 

Rich is a figment, a dream. Nothing more. Clearly Wallace just needs a break, one that he will not find watching these barefoot athletes rile each other up. He does a double take. Barefoot..? The faux reporter’s mouth falls open, tilting his head in surprise as he indeed finds the soccer team is currently running drills in just socks. 

“Surely that can’t be right?”

Squinting, Wallace figures he must simply know less about soccer than he thought. Not particularly surprising. Preparing to leave, he sighs and throws his clipboard in his bag and writes off his increasingly pathetic plan to interview the players. That is, until he scans the rest of the field to find a pile of their discarded cleats. 

Once he sees it he’s like a man possessed. Unable to look away, with each moment focussed on the lifeless, surely smelly stack of shoes Wallace feels that strange deja vu building. Something about them evokes that feeling he gets when he daydreams about Ricky. No, Rich. 

Gritting his teeth, the fire of amateur sleuthing reignites within Wallace. Leave no shoe unturned. Ensuring the team and the couple of other spectators are distracted, Wallace stumbles onto the sideline, only noticed by an actual reporter from the university paper who simply rolls his eyes and continues his pursuit of legitimate sports journalism. 

Falling the few feet onto warm turf, Wallace immediately finds himself face to face with the pile of shoes. Triple checking that the coast is clear he inches closer, kicking himself for not preparing some back-up disguise as an athletic trainer. 

No matter. He must keep at it. Trying to use the strange sensation buzzing in his head like a dowsing rod, Wallace waves his hand over the heap of cleats before grabbing a single shoe that he swears is calling out to him.

“Shoot! This thing’s massive!?” He whispers.

Holding up to his relatively petite leather oxfords, Wallace can’t help but laugh to himself. The men out there are absolute tanks compared to him. Compared to him. Heady footstink pours from the shoe as he holds it in hand, warmer than it should be. The expression on his face dulls slightly, obviously it won’t fit. Mouth ajar, heavy eyelids droop lower as he blinks slowly. He’s gotta try it on. 

Kicking off his loafer faster than he can think, Wallace shoves his size foot into this titan’s cleat. The collar of the cleat doesn’t even touch his ankle as his toes have well over four inches of room at the shoe’s front. Imagining the size of foot that this cleat would require, there’s a twitch in his pants.

“Fuck…” Breathily sighing, Wallace would’ve sworn he wasn’t into feet. Maybe it’s the tension from sneaking around, maybe it’s the  overpowering musk blowing towards him from the rank cleats, or maybe it’s simply how his pale, tiny foot is completely eclipsed by the shoe. He certainly can’t say, at present Wallace is so overwhelmed he can’t string two thoughts together.

Instantly chubbing up, his focus only returns as he hears a whistle blow. Pent up in more ways than one, he kicks his leg out and sends the cleat that scarcely clung to his foot flying back into the pile. Seeing the crowd of athletes begin to wander over to his position, Wallace scrambles on his back and frantically reaches into his bag for the clipboard.

Nerves clear as day on his face, his alibi is half-hearted at best, certainly not aided by how thoroughly lodged his clipboard is on his crotch to hide a boner. Unable to fly in time, Wallace struggles to steel himself for whatever player might stumble towards him. In quite the unearned lucky break, who comes to Wallace’s side but Ricky.

Shirt hanging from his waistband and exposed pecs sweaty from a heated practice, Ricky looks over his hairy pecs down at Wallace. Clearly confused, he reaches down to offer the clearly spilled reporter(?) a hand. 

“Ay, yooo? Wallace, what’s up? Came to watch me and my boys orr?”

Keeping the clipboard firmly wedged against his waist, Wallace’s already shaky grin quivers as he accepts Ricky’s aid with his free hand. Feeling the athlete’s rough hand, gritty with sweat, the clipboard twitches as his cock throbs into it, his still-red face burns even more scarlet. 

“Ah, uhm, well yeah sorta? Just joined up with the paper and we’re doing a profile on your new season!” Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he surprises himself at spitting out something even remotely believable as his unshoed foot feels suddenly warm.

“Tight, tight. You know it’s mid-season tho right?”

“Well of course, did I say new season? I mean new, uh?” Scrambling, scrambling, scrambling, “Uniforms, right? Your new cleats?

“Ohh, yeah- well they’re not that new? But uh, guess that makes sense?” 

Having shredded any and all pretext to his presence here a few times over now, Wallace realizes this was his worst blunder yet as he directs Ricky’s attention to the pile of shoes and then Wallace’s clearly shoeless foot. Sure that he’s about to be assaulted for perving on the team, Wallace takes a nervous step back.

“Yo bro? Did you try one of them on?”

“What!? No of course not! Who would, why would I!? Heh..?”

Ricky stares at him, through him. Wallace can’t tell if he’s scowling or simply lost in thought. And then, just as soon as he began, his expression smooths into one of placid pleasantry. 

“True bro true. Why would ya, huhuh!” There’s a beat as Ricky tries to remember something that his coach said before he shrugs and scratches his furry stomach. “So uh, any questions lil bro?”

Sweating bullets himself watching Ricky’s arm twitch from scratching his meaty belly, Wallace gulps and shakes his head. “You know? I think I’m all set actually Rich. I’ll uhm, see you in lab!” Sprinting off his shoddy press pass flutters away in the wind as he abandons his shoe and dignity on that field. 

Ricky shouts after a little confused, “Text if you uh, need anythin’” Crossing his arms, he watches Wallace run off, eyes catching on his lab partner’s sock. Where the sole of his black no-shows should be, there is instead a small white patch. The image strikes him as familiar, but before any connection can be made it falls through his sieve of a mind as his coach calls the team back to attention. And he can think of nothing else but the game. 

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

Out of breath from seriously running for the first time in years, when he at last slams the apartment door closed behind him, Wallace collapses to the floor. Peeling off the button up and dress pants he just sprinted through campus wearing, he airs out his hairless pits and still slightly twitchy cock as he lies on the cold tile floor of his entrance way. 

“Ugh… What was I even thinking!”

Latching his arms around his weak knees, Wallace pulls himself up to sitting before he reaches to yank off his remaining shoe and the sock underneath. Grimacing at the slight odor hiding within he throws them to the side before grabbing the other and yanking. And then yanking again as it just tugs on his skin. 

“What the-? Ow.” Again, “Ow? OW!?” Worried his foot has somehow gotten some sick foot fungus or the like, Wallace leans in close to inspect the sock and is shocked at what he finds. Covering nearly the whole bottom of his foot and creeping up the sock’s sides, the busybody feels at the fabric and is dumbfounded to find it a wholly different texture than the softer sock it should be.

It must be glue right? Glue from the cleats? Trying to make sense of the dilemma, Wallace unconsciously continues rubbing the cheap scratchy fabric that brings to mind the gym. At least, it would were Wallace not increasingly distracted by the feel of the coarse socks on his smooth fingertips and the slight tug against the bottom of his feet.

Setting it on the floor, he tilts his head as he sees it next to its now barefoot pair. It looks a little larger doesn’t it? Wider. Massaging the socked foot to find any leeway to remove it he is constantly distracted by the strange, seemingly spreading, white texture.

Wallace may as well be drooling as he stares at his thin fingers trailing across the thick sock. Given enough time he surely would be. Needily gulping, he does his best to look away but as the black fabric continues to lighten and seemingly bulge as it cheapens into starchy, sweat-stained fabric. Meaningful thought overridden handedly with rumbling pressure, the sound of blood coursing through his ears, he is only brought back to sentience by the sound of his phone chiming.

“Ey yo brobro u got that report ritten up yet coach wants to b sure im gonna pass the class lmaooo dk y i signed up for smthn so hadr”

As if he were waking from a night terror, Wallace pants like an animal trying to come to his senses. Unaware if he lost time to delirium, Wallace looks down to find himself wearing a short, entirely white sock. 

“lmaoobro i ment hard”

Ricky would know what’s up. Surely right? He just needs to ask. Scratching at his ankle, Wallace pictures the look on his lab partner’s face when he thought he snuck on one of their cleats and reconsiders. It’s probably nothing. He just forgot what sock he had on, yeah. That makes sense! Not like he was all that thorough in any other regard sneaking around the soccer field.

Twirling his cell in his hand, Wallace bites his cheek and opts to figure this out himself. He’ll see a doctor tomorrow and get this stupid thing cut off or whatever. Pointedly paying no mind to the problem at foot, his nails scratch away half-heartedly. And as they do they drag across thickening curls around the whole of his ankle as a light tan begins to ebb out from the clearly otherworldly sock. He’s far too preoccupied with seeming normal as he texts Ricky back to notice. 

“Finishing it up now, partner! Tell Co your Coach not to worry.”

Message sent, Wallace sighs as focus fades ever so slightly. Unconsciously, he starts to type up a question he truly would never care to ask.

“You guys going to be ready for the game against Indiana”

Staring at it unblinking for a few moments the school-spiritless student nixes the question before tossing his phone down and grabbing his laptop to fulfill his promise to Ricky, and Coach. Or the coach rather. Stretching his back and legs he groans as his calves cramp slightly. Eyes taken by the computer screen, the academic doesn’t notice as his legs have somehow grown unevenly. 

One pale, essentially hairless, more bone than muscle. The other increasingly, impossibly becoming that of an athlete. New strands of muscle branching out from the bottom up, thick curls lancing out from the sock’s rising cuff as his foot cracks wider and his leg continues to lengthen.

Almost constantly moving in search of a comfortable resting position, the pair of limbs are more jittery than they ever have been. Leading the charge, the socked leg continues to obviously grow larger and lither, pushing out a couple inches further than its unclothed pair as Wallace jostles them against each other. 

Adamant to not get distracted by his sock-stuck foot even as the garment begins to stretch further up his growing calf, Wallace throws on a blanket and nobly tries typing up his report. Ricky, as ever, was less than helpful in the lab proper. Wallace’s not sure why the lab tech even allows the jock near hazardous material with how foolish he tends to be anywhere but the field. 

Legs bouncing anxiously even out of view, Wallace’s mind immediately begins to drift as he allows the first thought of Ricky to derail his assignment. Ricky. His mouth feels dry as he imagines the man’s hairy, muscular legs. Ricky. Running alongside him on the field, running faster than him.

Flexing his own buried calves, unknowingly accelerating their change as new curls rub against his blanket, Wallace opens Ricky’s instagram to watch his stories. There are a handful of highlights saved to his stories. Unable to quite make sense of the few soccer clips his partner has thrown up, Wallace alt-tabs to read up on the sport to hopefully understand more. 

One google search reads to another, which leads to a short video, which leads to watching influencers do tricks with soccer balls, which leads to him palming his crotch under the blanket. Cock hardening, the fabric of his pants begins to feel strangely silky as his thighs rapidly begin to bloat. Leaning back, feeling his bulge fill his hand when Wallace lifts his hips into the air and feels his dick bump against his laptop he moans far louder than he’d intended. 

The assignment tab isn’t even open anymore. The idea of working on a lab report is wholly washed from his mind, and in its place are memories of Wallace chasing a ball he should be loath to touch. Wallace’s eyes glaze over as he simply watches sweaty men playing with soccer balls on loop. Cock dripping with pre as he sees bronzed bodies sprinting and colliding with each other, Wallace stares mouth agog until the sun sets.

He doesn’t know when the videos switch with his imagination, but at such point he begins seeing himself and Ricky on the field. Athleticism fills his body and perfect midfield tactics begin to overtake his mind. Fabric touching his unsocked foot clings to it like static before tightening into a sock just like that on his wider sole. Bones crack as the newly captured foot rapidly grows to match its wider pair.

His clearly thicker legs twitch and bulge in his sleep as socks engulf his calves entirely, Wallace’s mind’s eye wonders when his legs grew to such a size. In dream his hairier legs chase a ball towards Ricky, causing his snoring lips to stretch into a grin as his still-hard cock twitches more intensely with each racing footstep.

When the sun rises and the light of day shines across Wallace’s dead laptop and crusty eyes, the wanton student yawns and stretches awake. Reflexively sniffing pits that offer a slightly more acrid musk than usual, he feels his pants cold and wet against his hips and finds his situation has continued to worsen even in his sleep.

From the waist down his entire body has changed. Not even acknowledging the fact that both feet are now a few sizes larger with socks that want to cover the whole of his calves, Wallace balks at the nylon shorts that cling to his dense fur-covered thighs. Discarding the blanket, apathetic to the laptop as it tumbles to the floor, at last he sees the wet patch covering his heavier crotch.

Frowning and complaining to himself with a voice faintly deeper and duller, he reaches to remove his cum-soiled shorts only to find them as stuck to his waist as his sweaty socks are to his feet. Medley of ‘what the fucks’ filling his living room, he falls over himself as he yanks time and again to remove the shorts. 

Each attempt has the shorts highlighting new aspects of his built lower body. Ass the size of the ball he can’t quite remove from his mind. Thighs thicker than he thought his waist should be. His cock throbbing oppressively and filling his underwear to a point that seems impossible to hide as the heavy balls underneath pang with need.

In the end he only stops pulling at his pants when his hand cramps, Wallace looks at the digits and sees the palm is wider, his digits rougher and longer. Unsure if it’s from contact with the shorts or if its yet another change from overnight he was simply yet to notice, Wallace gives up and tries to just towel off the stain from his shorts before throwing clothes on and rushing out the door to find the only man who might know what’s happening to him, Ricky. 

Behind him as he struggles to force his larger feet into obviously straining tennis shoes, the now cum-stained towel slowly discolors and patterns with their university’s logo. His embattled mind continues to similarly tinge with memories of a new life and his book-cluttered home disappears a sheet of paper at a time while laundry piles up and fills the place with an omnipresent musk that rivals his new locker room.

Sprinting down the street, Wallace doesn’t question how he knows where Ricky is as each heavy footstep brings him closer to his bro. He doesn’t hear as his shoes begin to clank against the concrete sidewalk as his cheap tennis shoes smooth and tighten into cleats just like the one he snuck on the day prior.

No, there is only one thought in his mind as he runs, faster with every step as his upper body begins to change. He needs to find Ricky. Slight paunch on his waist hardening, his one-track mind shifts more bandwidth towards finding his teamma his partner, the edges of his mind, of his self continues to fill in with the ephemeral thoughts of an athlete. And so too does his morphing body continue to reflect that.

Feet stomp wider in his new cleats as his upper body rapidly firms up. Every contorting step forward tightens his core from the never-honed torso of a sun-fearing student and into that of a prime athlete. Propelled forward with ever increasing energy, Wallace takes increasingly deeper breaths as his chest and diaphragm expand with his widening shoulders and newly bulging pecs.

 Unhappily hiding his new socks and newer piston legs, the pants Wallace threw on over his shorts begin to shorten and silken into athletic shorts, underneath the still-stained inner pair of shorts cling to his legs as they sop with sweat and tighten into compression shorts. By the time he arrives at the gym he’s clad in an outfit just like the countless other mindless men working out at the time, save cleats for more sensible shoes. 

Ricky sees him coming before he even notices he’s arrived.

“Wallace bro! What’s up? You here to get pumped?”

There’s a smile on his face as soon as he hears his bro calling out for him, one that’s far too difficult for him to wipe and remember the reason he’s actually here. Focus, he needs to focus. 

“Look bro- Ricky, something’s going on-”

“Wearing cleats to the gym bro?”

“Wearing..? Huh?”

Looking down he for the first time notices his entire outfit has changed. Now needing to crane his thicker neck to see past his newly acquired pecs, Wallace immediately tries to kick off the very cleats that began his sick transformation. Miraculously, for the first time he’s able to tear some jock-wear away. 

Pristine cleats clatter to the floor and before anything else Wallace frowns at having worn down their studs from running on concrete. Feeling the cold jersey sticking to his burning hot chest he starts to forget where he is before Ricky speaks up.

“Here, you can borrow some of mine lil bro.” After a beat he reconsiders, “Or just bro huh? You been bulking~ huhuh!”

Tossing his bro some more appropriate shoes, Ricky then reaches to massage Wallace’s traps. In response Wallace can scarcely do anything but smile as his mind is overwhelmed with pleasure more than he can truly comprehend With each grasp and drag of his fingers every pillar of himself begins shifting, begins being rewritten.

“Nnn- no… Ricky please! I need help, b- bro.”

Feeling the nylon and lycra suctioned against his skin as he continues growing and squirming under Ricky’s touch, Wallace moans as the once slow waning of his past life begins to crumble outright. Hair and eyes darken to a flat brown as his upper body rapidly carpets with curls. Ricky’s hands move down his shredded back as his treasure trail works its way up to connect with his sparsely hairy chest before erupting to coat his pecs like lichen, spreading up to peak across his shoulders.

All the while his interior life smooths and simplifies. Concerns about his Master’s program and favorite classics immolate so memorized stats of the greats can take their place. Countless games watched and played line his mind and overwrite his personality, soccer rising to the preeminent place in his mind as everything besides his game and his team pales into nothingness.  And yet he tries to cling on.

“Oh I’ll help bro, anything to make sure you’re good to go for the game tomorrow!”

The game. The game tomorrow. 

Freezing in place, everything within Wallace tenses up as the words sink into him. Did he have a game? Some small fraction of a fraction of self pleads for him to realize he wasn’t on the soccer team. But Ricky wouldn’t lie to him. Not his bro. Staring into the distance the gym looks far more open, emptier. It’s shiny waxed flooring the green turf of a field he knows far too well. 

Motions burn into his tight legs as adrenaline sends his heart racing. Unburdened by thought, Wallace follows Ricky around like a dog, seamlessly mimicking his sets like he was made in a lab to be an athlete. Hairier arms pack on pounds as his lower body refines into one designed to propel him across the field. 

Tan settling into a sunkissed bronze that will ever catch eyes on the green, his hair lengthens into a cocoa bird’s nest. In sparse moments when his sensible mind breaks free from Ricky’s thorough regimen, Wallace tries to speak up only to offhandedly think of the games he’s played and life he’s lived and is sent flying back into the recess of his true self. Wallace, the midfielder.

Unconscious of what’s going on himself, Ricky watches as the Wallace who once knew Rich continues to struggle less and less. In no time at all the bro he knows and loves takes complete control, cocky smirk and all. Taking huffs of his sweaty pits in between sets, Wallace asserts himself on the space just like he does on the field.

“Shittt bro, you ready to hit the showers? You’re steaming up the mirrors from here with your stank!” Ricky laughs and pats his teammate on the back, wiping the sweat on his own stained jersey with a guffaw.

“You think I’m gonna waste this musk bro? ‘S a tool! Gonna have those chumps tomorrow breathin my b.o. like it’s air, won’t know what ‘em!” Reaching down to remove his jersey, the sticky shirt clings to his drenched body. When at last he gets it over his wide shoulders he sends a spray of sweat onto Ricky and a man on a neighboring machine. 

The pair of soccer players laugh as their fellow gymgoer scowls. 

“Yo bro, if you want more of that, come to our game tomorrow!”

“Gonna be killerrrr!”

Checking the time the duo realize they’ve gotta run or they’ll be late. Continually riling each other up even before they leave the gym Wallace and Ricky jostle past a few other people working out without a care in the world, besides winning the game tomorrow that is. In their wake they leave nothing but a handful of sweat covered machines and a pair of pristine cleats.

Grumbling to himself, the man Wallace splashed with sweat prepares a laundry list of complaints about the pair. Hoping to perhaps get the whole team barred, he snaps pictures of the soiled machines before noticing the discarded cleats. Of course those oafs would leave clothes behind.

Good Samaritan despite how they treated them he immediately quibbles and plans to return their shoes to them. And then he thinks again. God those are big aren’t they? Looking down at his own feet he wonders if the cleats might hold them shoes and all… Kinda wants to try them on? No. No, he shouldn’t. Right? But why not? It certainly couldn’t hurt to just try them on? Might as well…