Richard Bren Breederson @rod-tf - Tumblr Blog

Hey bro, do you have any advice for a small gay guy that wants to get big and jacked up?

At first, Yusuf thought it was just a coincidence.

He noticed it on his walk home from work, a man passing him on the opposite sidewalk, broad enough that Evan instinctively stepped aside. Asian, maybe early thirties, arms thick and relaxed at his sides, tank top darkened with sweat. There was something unhurried about the way he moved, like the world adjusted around him rather than the other way around.

Then it happened again the next day. And the day after that.

Different ages, different builds, yet all of those were huge, and all wore crosses that caught the light when they moved. Yusuf noticed that they all seemed to come from the same block, always relaxed, always finished with whatever they’d been doing.

Yusuf wasn’t small, he was lean, defined in the way that came from tiny effort. He worked out just enough to keep his lines sharp, his clothes flattering. He’d always told himself that was good enough. Watching those men pass, he felt that something was not working.

He followed one of them one afternoon without fully realising why.

The building was quiet from the outside, it looked clean, like it was just new, no posters, no slogans, just a name carved deep enough to last:

Christ's Faith Gym

Inside, the air pressed against him. Warm, thick, layered with iron and sweat and something earthy, almost resinous. No mirrors, no music. The men worked in steady rhythms, correcting each other with brief words, hands firm on shoulders and hips. Yusuf became aware of how lightly he moved in comparison, how little sound he made.

“You looking for something?”

The man at the desk was older, thick through the torso, strength settled rather than sculpted. His presence filled the space without effort. A small silver cross rested against his chest.

“Just advice,” Yusuf said, smiling the way he always did when he wanted to be liked. “I want to get bigger.”

The man looked him over, not unkindly, not impressed either. “Advice doesn’t change bodies, working for it does.”

The man stated strictly. “Richard Breederson.”

He didn’t ask Yusuf’s background, didn’t ask about goals, didn’t care. He put him under a bar, adjusted his stance with two fingers at his lower back and told him when to breathe. Yusuf found himself focusing in a way he hadn’t before, no performing, no checking angles, just weight and movement and the man’s voice behind him.

Between sets, Richard handed him a dense bar wrapped in paper. “Eat.”

It was salty, it had some weird aftertaste. Yusuf felt it settle low in his stomach, heat spreading outward. By the time he finished, his arms shook, not weakly at all like it would the very few days he trained arms, but like something had been woken inside.

“You can come back,” Richard said, already turning away. “If you’re serious.”

Yusuf realized he’d already decided.

He came back the next day. Then again. The gym began to structure his time without asking permission. His body responded quickly, shoulders rounding out, chest thickening, hair darkening along his arms and sternum. The smell that had overwhelmed him at first became familiar, even comforting.

He noticed the men around him more now. How they spoke about work, about their wives/girlfriends/hookups, about their sets. How little patience they had for anything out of their vison of correct behaviour. Yusuf tried once, out of habit, to flirt with a guy resting between sets, a flirty smile, a soft joke. The response was brief and closed, it was polite, yet he could sense the annoyance and disgust the guy was feeling by getting flirted at by a guy.

Yusuf felt heat rise in his face, not shame exactly, but awareness. He adjusted without thinking, sat back, focused on his breathing. The thought that followed surprised him: Why would you even do that here?

A few days later, he caught himself watching a woman stretching outside the gym. The curve of her hips pulled his attention before he could stop it. His body reacted instantly, heavy and undeniable, he never had an erection this big, not even for his previous boyfriends. The realization startled him more than the arousal itself.

He didn’t push it away, why would he, it felt right and very good.

That day Richard started calling him Yun.

Yusuf corrected him once. “It’s Yusuf.”

Richard nodded. The next time, he still said Yun.

The irritation faded faster than Yusuf expected. Yun was easier and he kinda liked the way it sounded. He started answering to it without noticing.

His thoughts shifted quietly. Not arguments, just instincts. He found himself impatient with men who complained about masculinity while avoiding responsibility, annoyed by people who talked about identity more than effort, by complaints that went nowhere. When Richard spoke about discipline, about faith not gently, but as structure, as order, Yun didn’t feel preached to, instead he felt honoured.

The men joked with him now, rough and easy. One of them slapped his shoulder and said, “Careful, man, you keep getting bigger like this, women won’t leave you alone.”

Yun laughed, thinking about all his late hookups.

At some point, Richard told him to help a beginner adjust his squat. Yun remembered doing it before, yeah that sounded correct.

Other memories followed, rearranging themselves neatly. A stricter upbringing, church on Sunday, a father who’d demanded more and been right to do so. The details didn’t clash; they fitted with the way he thought.

By the time Yun noticed his reflection no longer looked Arab at all, it felt overdue. His features had sharpened, his skin tone deepened into the same warm tone as the others. His posture matched theirs now, grounded, unapologetic.

One evening, after closing, Richard poured two coffees and sat across from him.

“You’ve been doing good work,” Richard said. “I’ve heard only things.”

Yun nodded. “Trying to make you proud.”

Richard studied him for a moment, then smiled. “You are, especially after last weekend.”

Yun chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, blushing a bit. “Yeah. She’s excited, nervous, but excited.”

“That’s normal,” Richard said. “Means you did things right son.”

Yun felt a deep, steady satisfaction settle in his chest. He thought of her, warm, soft, trusting. Thought of responsibility, of a legacy. The idea of the life growing from that connection felt right in a way nothing else ever had.

Richard stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a man now, so act like one.”

Yun straightened instinctively. “Yes, sir.”

When someone asked him later, quietly, uncertainly, about how to get big, how to get serious, Yun didn’t posture.

He just said, “Find a place that tells you the truth about yourself. Then let it finish the job.”

And he meant it literally.

Im back with another story, hope you enjoy it!

#gay to straight #male tf #male transformation #jock tf #muscle tf #transformation #reality change #jockification #dumber #atheist to christian #christian tf #lib to con #g2s tf #Christs Faith Gym #ai generated

mystrangetfs

A fun assignment- Muscle growth ai sequence and story

Alan and Mac stayed after class as instructed by their politics and economics professor. Alan shuffled awkwardly with his books trying not to look at the mountain that was Mac, the jock was huge in height, weight and muscle mass. Alan wrinkled his nose as he got a whiff of sweat and body odour that was radiating off of Mac, he couldn't believe that they even attended the same college, let alone the same class. How was it that such a dumb mountain of muscle was allowed to coast along while people like Alan studied day and night. Alan had just spent nearly two weeks solid in the library writing his report on the power of words of authority while he assumed Mac must have spent it in the gym. Both men then turned to their professor, he beamed at them both. "Thanks for staying guys. I wanted to let you know that for the next assignment I'd like to pair you up for a debate. After reading both of your recent papers I think it would be enlightening for both of you to spend some time working together".

Alan almost gasped at the news but stopped himself.

#gay transformation story

thefunkfactory

The Recruit

The sun was beating down on the main quad, so I took the back route behind the old brick science buildings. It was a longer walk to my dorm, but the shaded, empty path was usually my sanctuary. I adjusted the heavy straps of my black backpack and let out a long breath, my unbuttoned plaid shirt catching a brief, welcome breeze over my tank top. I had just survived a grueling two-hour seminar on modern geopolitical economics, and my brain was completely fried.

I just wanted to get back, kick off my Sambas, and collapse.

That was the plan, anyway. As I rounded the corner by the large oak trees, a figure stepped squarely into the middle of the narrow concrete walkway.

He was decked out in crisp, full OCP camouflage. He had a tight, regulation fade, a thick, no-nonsense mustache, and was clutching a wooden clipboard with a blue pen like his life depended on it.

"Afternoon," he barked, his voice projecting way too loudly for an empty sidewalk. "Got a minute to talk about your future, son?"

I instinctively brought my hands up, palms out, offering a polite but firm boundary. "I'm good, man. Just heading back to my room."

He didn't move. In fact, he took a half-step forward, effectively cutting off my route. "A lot of guys your age are 'good' until graduation hits and reality sets in. Those student loans are going to crush you. The U.S. Army can wipe that slate clean. Give you real-world skills. Give you a purpose."

I sighed, shifting my weight. "Look, I appreciate it, but I’m really not interested in participating in the military-industrial complex. I'm not looking to be deployed overseas to protect corporate resource interests under the guise of 'spreading democracy.'"

The recruiter's eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened, making his mustache twitch slightly. "Corporate interests? Son, we're talking about defending the Constitution. We're talking about serving your country and protecting the very freedoms that let you walk around this campus complaining about the system."

"You mean the system that intentionally underfunds public education so recruiters can use crippling student debt as a coercive tool?" I countered, feeling a familiar spark of political frustration ignite in my chest. "It’s fundamentally predatory. You're offering basic human necessities—like healthcare and education—but locking them behind a contract that might ask me to give up my life or take someone else's. Why not just advocate for universal education instead?"

Click. Click. Click.

He was furiously clicking his blue pen against his thumb now. The polite, polished recruitment facade was cracking rapidly. He glanced up and down the empty path, realizing no one else was around to watch him maintain his professional composure.

"You think you've got the whole world figured out because you read some theory in a textbook?" he snapped, his voice dropping an octave into something much more hostile. He took another step into my personal space, his boots loud against the pavement. "You think I want to be standing out here arguing with some smug college kid in a gold cross who thinks he's morally superior? I have a quota to hit by Friday. I am three contracts short, and my commanding officer is breathing down my neck."

He shoved the clipboard slightly toward my chest. "So you're going to stand here, and you're going to listen to the benefits, because I don't have the time or the patience to go back to my office empty-handed again today."

I'd had enough. This wasn't just an annoying sales pitch anymore; the guy was genuinely unhinged.

"Look, man, back off," I said, putting my head down and stepping to the left to shoulder past him. "I'm not signing anything. Find your quota somewhere else."

I expected him to grab my arm or step in my way again. I did not expect him to drop his clipboard, balance on one leg with terrifying speed, and violently yank off his left combat boot.

"Hey, what are you—"

Before the words even left my mouth, he lunged. In one fluid, desperate motion, he ripped the heavy tan boot off his foot and shoved it directly into my face.

The stench hit me like a physical blow. It was a potent, weaponized cloud of pure foot funk—a horrifying blend of stagnant swamp water, damp wool, and weeks of marching through a humid desert. It was so concentrated, so unbelievably putrid, that it bypassed my olfactory senses and went straight to my brain. My vision immediately blurred. The world spun. All my carefully articulated thoughts about the military-industrial complex and universal healthcare were instantly vaporized by the sheer, stupefying force of the odor.

I gasped, but breathing only drew the noxious fumes deeper. My arms went completely limp. My rebellious energy melted away.

"Take the pen, son," the recruiter commanded. His voice sounded distorted, echoing through the pungent fog filling my head. "Sign the paper."

"I… I…" I tried to formulate a rebuttal about systemic exploitation, but all that came out was a pathetic, compliant wheeze. The mind-numbing funk had completely short-circuited my free will.

He thrust the clipboard back into my field of vision. Still trapped in the hypnotic, toxic haze of the combat boot, my hand reached out, moving completely on its own. My fingers closed around the blue pen. I scrawled my name, my social security number, my dorm address—everything. I filled out every single box like a mindless drone while he held that bio-weapon inches from my nose.

"Good boy," he grunted, finally lowering the boot and hastily slipping it back onto his foot.

The fresh air hit my lungs, but the stupefying effects lingered. I was totally docile, my brain reduced to a compliant mush. He grabbed the back of my plaid shirt, steering me like a shopping cart down the path and around the corner of the science building.

Parked illegally by the cafeteria dumpsters was a windowless, olive-drab military van.

He popped the heavy back doors open and practically tossed me inside. I stumbled onto the ridged metal floor, blinking in the dim light, still tasting the phantom funk in the back of my throat.

The recruiter looked over his shoulder, checking the empty alleyway, before slamming his hand against the side of the vehicle.

"Drive," he yelled to an unseen driver up front. "We got another sucker."

The heavy doors slammed shut, plunging me into darkness.

The rattling of the windowless van finally ceased, and light pierced the gloom as the heavy rear doors swung open. I blinked, sucking in greedy lungfuls of crisp, pine-scented air.

Almost immediately, the oppressive, swamp-like fog in my brain began to lift. The hypnotic effect of the recruiter's foot funk was dissipating with the fresh oxygen. Concepts like habeas corpus, bodily autonomy, and illegal detention rushed back into my prefrontal cortex. I remembered who I was. I was Jesse. I was a poli-sci major. And I realized with sudden, crystal-clear horror that I had literally been kidnapped by the U.S. military.

I hopped out of the van onto the gravel, ready to unleash a scathing indictment of their predatory, illegal tactics. Standing before me was a towering Drill Sergeant, built like a brick outhouse, his campaign hat pulled low over his eyes.

"Now listen to me very carefully," I started, planting my feet and raising a finger. "This is a blatant violation of international law and my civil liberties. I demand to speak to—"

I never finished the sentence. The Drill Sergeant didn't even blink. He just casually hoisted his massive boot with terrifying agility and shoved his heavy-duty, steel-toed combat boot directly into my face.

If the recruiter's foot had been a tactical strike, this was a nuclear payload.

The stench was an apocalyptic wave of concentrated authoritarianism—a punishing, eye-watering cocktail of severe athlete's foot, sour ammonia, sulfur, and the sheer, unadulterated sweat of a thousand forced marches. It physically burned my nostrils, coating the back of my throat with the taste of old pennies and rotting onions.

Inside my mind, a desperate, violent battle began. My intellect tried to build a barricade of sociological critiques and debate tactics to hold back the toxic tide. I tried to mentally recite the First Amendment to anchor myself, but the words began to corrode. The concept of freedom of speech rapidly melted into falling in line. My college education was a fragile paper castle caught in a category-five hurricane of pure, unwashed grunt funk.

I could literally feel my IQ draining out of my ears. The intellectual light behind my eyes flickered, fought against the pungent darkness, and was snuffed out entirely. The political theory vanished. The critical thinking dissolved. My brain smoothed out into a perfect, compliant sphere.

"You are going to take off those soft, civilian, liberal clothes, trainee," the Drill Sergeant's voice boomed, cutting through the stupefying fog like a foghorn. "And you are going to march to the laundry bunker."

"Yes… Drill Sergeant," I droned. My voice didn't even sound like mine anymore; it was flat, robotic, and empty.

My hands, operating on entirely external commands, sluggishly unbuttoned my plaid shirt, dropping it to the dirt. I kicked off my beloved Sambas. I stood there in just my baggy jeans and gray tank top, staring blankly ahead, my mind a humming static of pure obedience.

He marched me across the compound. I didn't take in the barracks or the obstacle courses. I was just a meat-puppet following the boots in front of me, my peripheral vision narrowed to nothing.

We stopped in front of a heavy, reinforced steel door marked Quartermaster Storage. The Sergeant threw the heavy latch and shoved the door open.

A visible, yellowish-green miasma rolled out into the hallway.

It was a mountain. A sprawling, ceiling-high topographical map of the most foul laundry known to mankind. There were thousands of pairs of olive-drab socks, stiff as boards with dried sweat, tangled with brown tactical underwear that looked like it hadn't seen detergent since the Cold War. The smell was beyond description—it was a living, breathing entity. It was the collective, concentrated essence of fear, exhaustion, and terrible hygiene. It smelled like a locker room that had been left to ferment in the sweltering desert sun for a decade.

"Get in there, maggot," the Sergeant ordered, shoving me hard between the shoulder blades.

I pitched forward, sinking deep into the damp, crusty, suffocating pile of rank socks and soiled cotton. The putrid cloud swallowed me whole.

This was the final blow. Whatever tiny, microscopic shred of Jesse the college student was still fighting in the deep recesses of my subconscious was instantly, permanently annihilated by the crushing density of the odor. The sensory overload was absolute. The stench seeped into my pores, rewriting my DNA, overriding my very soul.

There was no more resistance. There were no more geopolitical debates. There was only the sweet, simple, mind-numbing reality of the funk.

I buried my face deeper into a stiff, crusty pair of size-eleven boot socks, a vacant, blissfully empty smile spreading across my face.

"Sir, yes, sir," I mumbled into the foul darkness, finally at peace. "Ready to serve."

A few weeks later:

I like the heat of the laundry bunker. It’s warm. It’s safe. There are no big, confusing words down here. No theories. No books. Just the soothing hum of the industrial washing machines and the thick, beautiful smell.

The Drill Sergeant says I am the most obedient recruit in the history of the United States Armed Forces. He says if he told me to march into a brick wall, I’d do it until my boots wore out. But he also said my brain is "tactically compromised." He tried to hand me an M4 rifle once on the firing range, but I just stared at it, drooled a little, and tried to wipe a smudge off the barrel with a dirty sock. Guns are too complicated. They require thinking.

So, they made me the Laundry Boy. The only Laundry Boy.

Every day, the damp, crusty, foul-smelling uniforms, socks, and tactical underwear of four hundred sweating recruits are dumped into my bunker. I sort them. I soak them. I breathe them in. The foot funk doesn't hurt my brain anymore; it feeds it. It keeps the confusing college thoughts away.

I haven't taken off my tank top in weeks. It's practically glued to my chest with a thick layer of grime. Deodorant is a soft, civilian concept. Why would I use it? I spend twelve hours a day wrestling with mountains of sour, fermented laundry. The stench of the battalion has seeped into my skin, merging with my own natural musk to create something truly magnificent. I smell like damp wool, stale onions, raw exertion, and pure, unquestioning obedience.

The heavy steel door of the bunker groaned open, letting in a sliver of cool hallway air.

"Private Jesse!" a voice barked.

I turned around, dropping a pair of stiff, mud-caked trousers. It was Captain Miller. He was standing in the doorway, already holding his clipboard defensively over his nose and mouth.

"Private, I need Bravo Company's dress uniforms pressed and the entire stockpile of PT socks sterilized by 1400 hours!" he yelled, his voice sounding entirely nasal and strained. "Is that understood?"

My empty mind hummed with pure, joyous compliance. A direct order. I love direct orders.

My spine snapped perfectly straight. My boots clicked together with a sharp crack. I whipped my right hand up to my brow in a crisp, flawless, textbook salute.

The sudden, violent upward motion of my arm acted like a bellows. It forcefully expelled the hot, trapped air festering beneath my armpit, sending a concentrated, invisible shockwave of weaponized body odor directly toward the door. It was a dense, humid cloud of peak biological warfare—the ultimate culmination of zero showers, heavy labor, and living inside a mountain of unwashed military grunt funk.

Captain Miller’s eyes bulged out of his head.

He dropped his clipboard. It clattered against the concrete floor. His face rapidly drained of color, shifting from a healthy pink to a sickly, pale green. He stumbled backward into the doorframe, letting out a wet, desperate gagging sound from the back of his throat. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes as the invisible wall of my B.O. assaulted his sinuses.

"Sir, yes, sir!" I shouted enthusiastically, a vacuous, happy smile plastered across my face, completely immune to the toxic haze hanging between us. "Laundry will be sterilized, sir!"

Captain Miller couldn't form words. He just wildly waved a hand in front of his face, dry-heaved into his own shoulder, and frantically pulled the heavy steel door shut behind him to seal off the bunker.

I lowered my arm, content and at peace. Good soldiers follow orders. I turned back to my glorious, stinking pile of socks and got to work.

#dumber #stink #musk #foot funk #jock tf #military tf #ttf

dumbmusclehypnojockboy

Iron Dominion Fitness™

Happy belated birthday to @transform4u . I'm sorry this is so late, and it's kind of shit. I think I had too many ideas, and didn't want to expand on them as much as I should have. I also wrote it over several days, so the tone is all over the place. I'm not happy with this but, I hope you like it anyway. Happy birthday! BTW, a div is a kind of demon of gigantic size, in Persian mythology.

Another year older, another few lines on your face. You keep telling yourself they came from stress, from bad sleep, from staring at a monitor at three in the morning writing garbage transformations for strangers online. Endless writing. Endless pretending. It wasn’t like any of it was real, was it?

Tharnis wasn’t real. The Genie Ashur wasn't real. Robin Morningstar wasn’t real. The weird soda cans, the cursed clothing brands, coins, and cursed TVS, the Redwave shit — all fiction. Cheap fantasy. Stories about becoming someone else because maybe it was easier than being yourself for a while.

Right?

You were turning thirty at the end of the month, and honestly you mostly hoped for free stuff. Coupons. Promo emails. Some pathetic little “happy birthday” reward from companies that wanted me to buy more garbage. So, when your phone buzzed that night, you opened your inbox without thinking.

At first you thought it was just some stupid spam.

No sender. No company logo. Just a single unread message with the subject line:

“You made me.”

Your stomach tightened.

Then the screen started glowing.

Not bright — not enough to light the room — just a low, dim red leaking from beneath the glass, pulsing softly against your fingertips. Like there was something alive inside your phone, breathing slow and steady, waiting for you to open the email.

Fingers shaking, you open the email. The subject line was “You made me.” You scroll down to the rest of the message. Random characters and runes are strewn about the e-mail message, you have to wonder, how did they do that? Is that even possible? You finally get to the text of the message. You made me, so I’ll make you. That’s all the message says. You feel tired, head to bed and black out.

***

The next morning you wake up. You start to go about your morning ablutions, but, as you exit your bedroom door you bump into a gift box, literally. It was left on the floor, right in front of your bedroom door. You pick it up. There’s a tag, but all it says is “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” the type seems kind of burned in to the paper.

You decide to open the box. The air feels kind of heavy as you tear it open.

***FWOOSH!***

A pulse of heat rushes out—red laser beams shoot from the box like demonic spotlights, dancing at a night club! A soft odor emits from the box: brimstone, sulfur… and something else? It kind of evokes days spent at the gym. And after, in the locker room. You cough a couple of times, and take a big breath in. It smells very familiar.

What’s in the box?

The outfit is intense. Not just clothe, but true gym wear. For men who really get in to lifting. On top sits a bright fire engine red weightlifting belt, thick and serious-looking. Next up there’s a crimson compression top. Followed by metallic gold compression pants that shimmer under the light. The look like they may be too small? Would they even fit you? And lastly, a pair of Otomix Stingray Escape shoes — fire engine red, laced tight like boots for a gym rat. Below the shoes, etched on the box, a note:

"Congratulations on your birthday. To claim your free month at Iron Dominion Fitness™, wear this outfit exactly as presented. You may wear your own under garments if you so choose. Pleas call 555-IRON to schedule your initial fitness consultation.”

And that’s it. All you’re left with are a whole lot of questions. How the hell did that box get in your house? Who the hell is Iron Dominion Fitness™? Why did you get some mysterious box for your birthday? And did this have anything to do with that mysterious e-mail? Should you even go to that gym?

***

You didn’t remember making an appointment, but for some reason you found yourself headed to Iron Dominion Fitness™ at 7 am on a Sunday morning. Your contact there, someone named Div Daimon?

When you get there, Div himself, greets you. He is an immense man, made completely of muscle. The reception desk is dwarfed by this giant of a man. He comes from behind the desk with a sly smile and says in an accented voice, ‘Welcome! I was expecting you.”

Was that a Middle Eastern accent? Persian? You had no idea. You tell Div that you were here for the free trial. He tells you that you look good in the promotional kit, and that he has a protein shake for you to sample, and a short video to show you about the rules of the gym. Div says the protein shake is a new proprietary blend that the gym has commissioned.

Div hands you a frothy protein shake, in a cup with “Fuel” printed on it. He says it’s hand crafted for gains only.

You drink it one go, you hate protein shakes, but you realize, you really enjoyed this one. It tasted like the perfect root beer float and didn’t have the chalky aftertaste of most protein shakes. How the hell did they do that? You have to wonder.

Div takes you to a back room. It has a couple of desks with computers on them. He sets up one computer, and pulls out a chair for you.

"Sit here," he says, pointing to a desk with large headphones resting on it.

You sit down. The seat feels sturdy, like everything in this gym was built for giants.

Div plugs the headphones into the computer, clicks play—and suddenly…

The screen is very simple. No menu card, no title page, just straight to video. Blak background, and in fades red text, varsity font, “Iron Dominion Fitness™”.

No menu.

No title.

Just *immediate video*—black background fades into soft red text:

Rules & Philosophy

A calm voice starts speaking—deep but not aggressive. More… authoritative coach vibes?

It's playing through your headphones now: Clear sound, no distractions~ For some reason you feel completely focused on this video. You are ready to listen and absorb the important words you are about to hear.

The voice continues—firm, steady, like a drill sergeant speaking in velvety bass, “Respect is the foundation of Iron Dominion Fitness™. Without it? No gains. No brotherhood. Just chaos."*

The screen shows:

- A montage of huge guys spotting each other

- Trainers high-fiving members

- Everyone nodding to one another with serious eye contact

Then text flashes and blinks on screen, You must respect clients and trainers.” The Voice continues, “Every man here has been invited here. We are not rivals; we support each other. We do not fight with other members on the gym floor. The gym floor is for getting swole, not to clash egos.” Then a pause, in a harder tone, “You must listen to all orders issued by staff. All orders issued by staff must be complied with immediately. You will obey all staff members.”

Not a suggestion. Not optional. It was

mandatory.

And with finality, the voice says,” It’s a matter of respect.”

Div watches you watch the video, his arms crossed—like a coach looking at his star player.

The rules continue on screen.

Mandatory Training Sessions

The voice says, "All new members must train under supervision for at least 2 hours per day. No skipping.

You show up. Work out.

Follow orders from trainers. You will say yes, sir after each rule, do you understand?”

You were transfixed. You reply softly, “Yes, sir.”

The voice says, “That’s not good enough. Say it like you mean it. Like it has etched it’s way on to your brain. Like it will become your life’s work.”

“YES, SIR!”: you say with gusto. You believe you will come here every day and put your two hours in every day of the week.

The text on screen is replaced with new text, “Rule 2: Uniform Enforcement.”

The velvety bass voice, his coach says, "Members must wear Iron Dominion Fitness™ approved gear during all workouts — no exceptions.” That means the red compression shirt, belt, gold pants, shoes are to become your new gym uniform, you think to yourself.

“Rule 3: Daily Performance Reviews”

The voice, his coach says, “Every member gets graded daily by staff on strength, discipline, and ‘bro energy.’ Low scores mean extra training. No slacking, just training and getting swole, bro.”

“Yes, Sir!” you exclaim. This is great. It means you have to stay motivated or they will allow you to make up the time you were wasting so you could reach your full potential, you are starting to get pumped.

Rule 5 appears on screen: “No Personal Phones During Workouts” is displayed on screen.

Coach says, "Phones are banned in the gym floor. Focus is mandatory."*

No distractions. Just weights. Personal customized music tracks will be made for you to help you achieve your full bro potential.”

“Rule 6: Weekly ‘Bro Talks’”

Coach tells me, "Mandatory group discussions about masculinity, respect for authority, and proper bro values."*

You are zoning out to the rules, making sure they sink in to your brain, the protein shake you drank making you fully receptive to the rules coach gave you. You feel Div walk behind you, placing his hand on your shoulder. “I am your Coach,” he says, “You are Chad. A personal trainer here at Iron Dominion Fitness™.” Your mind tries to fight it, But you feel that what Coach is saying sticking to your brain. You ARE Chad, You ARE a personal trainer at Iron Dominion Fitness™.

“You are a total jock bro. Your IQ is 100, you might not no algebra, but you do know about macros, meal plans, and calculating the perfect weight for your clients to lift. You are the ultimate Chad personal trainer, you know how to get people to sign up for personal training. Now drink your pre- workout and get on the floor.”

As Coach was talking, you could feel your body changing. You could feel your body growing taller, wider. You could feel your muscles buzzing with energy as they grew and became the perfect musculature for a personal trainer. Your brain hurt as you lost information about your old life. You became Chad, personal trainer at Iron Dominion Fitness™, and you were fucking awesome, bro. You fucking knew all the tips and tricks, to uhhh, like, make other bros fucking swole, dude. You knew your stats were like, 6’6”tall, and you weighed 275 in the morning and you kept your uhhh body fat percentage at like 10% when you were like on a fucking bulking phase, bro, but when you were fucking competing, you cut down to fucking 3% pretty easily, bro.”

By the time Coach Div was done with you, you had become a 6’6” tall, 275 lbs muscle jock. Your muscles had muscles. You couldn’t help by flex and look at yourself in mirrors. You were the ultimate jock bro personal trainer.

#muscle growth tf #jockification #male tf #jock tf

abdullahbroshairif

#abdullah broshairif #abdullah tf #gay tf #hairy tf #race tf #arabophile #hairy indian men #indian tf #arab tf #arabization #islamification

preppypal

The Church Want's You - part 6

Mark and Chris walked side by side down the quiet suburban street like they had done this together for years.

The evening sun reflected warmly off Mark’s glasses while the perfectly tightened navy tie sat snug beneath his fully buttoned collar. His hair remained slicked neatly back without a single strand out of place.

Chris glanced toward him proudly.

“You look sharp today, Elder.”

Mark smiled calmly.

“Thank you, Chris.”

The old nervousness in his voice was completely gone now.

He carried the pamphlets carefully against his chest while the two approached Riverdale High School together.

Students were still leaving sports practice nearby.

Nobody paid much attention to them.

Yet.

—

They stopped outside the principal’s office entrance.

Mark adjusted his glasses slightly.

Chris straightened the yellow bow tie on his own collar.

Then Mark knocked politely.

Inside, footsteps approached.

The door cracked open.

The principal frowned immediately upon seeing them.

“No thanks,” he said flatly. “Not interested.”

He started pushing the door shut again.

But Mark suddenly stepped forward and planted his polished shoe firmly against the doorway before it could close.

The principal’s expression changed instantly.

“Hey—”

Chris already had the spray raised.

A sharp hiss filled the doorway.

The principal recoiled immediately, coughing and grabbing his eyes.

“What the hell?!”

He stumbled backward into the office blindly.

Mark calmly removed his foot from the doorway and entered with Chris following behind, shutting the door softly behind them.

—

The principal leaned heavily against his desk still rubbing his eyes furiously.

“You two are insane—”

Mark calmly set the pamphlets down.

Then Chris reached into his bag.

The machine emerged slowly.

Metal.

Wires.

The blue spiral glowing softly at the center.

The principal froze.

“…what is that?”

Mark smiled faintly.

“An opportunity.”

—

Ten minutes later the principal sat motionless behind his desk.

Eyes half-lidded.

Breathing slow.

The glowing device hummed softly beside him while Chris rested one hand against the man’s shoulder to keep him still.

Mark stood nearby holding the newly prepared reform document.

His voice sounded calm and measured now.

“Read stage two again.”

The principal obeyed immediately.

“After a transitional period, long or messy hair for boys will be prohibited, as well as beards if there is any.”

Chris nodded approvingly.

“And stage three.”

The principal continued blankly.

“Collared shirts are mandatory. Maximum one button open. This is to uphold discipline and prevent the spread of promiscuity.”

Mark slowly adjusted his own tie.

“Good.”

Chris smiled faintly.

“The structure is improving already.”

Mark turned another page.

“Continue.”

The principal read obediently:

“For all sports and physical education classes, polos are mandatory.”

“All shirts must be tucked at all times. Jeans are strictly banned.”

“On Mondays and Wednesdays, white shirts are mandatory.”

“When wearing a shirt, ties are mandatory at all times.”

The office felt eerily quiet except for the low mechanical hum.

Mark’s expression remained calm behind his glasses while Chris watched proudly beside him.

Then came the final sections.

“Biology and Chemistry will be replaced by Religious Studies and Moral Philosophy.”

“Boys and Girls will be placed in separate classrooms for all academic subjects.”

“Strict compliance is mandatory.”

Chris finally placed a pen carefully into the principal’s hand.

“Sign it.”

Without hesitation the principal signed every page carefully.

Mark and Chris exchanged satisfied looks.

The transformation was complete.

—

Monday morning.

The school hallways buzzed with confusion.

Large framed notices covered the walls beneath banners reading:

ACHIEVEMENT • CHARACTER • LEADERSHIP • DISCIPLINE

Groups of students stood frozen in front of the newly posted reform plan.

“What the hell is this?”

“No jeans anymore??”

“Mandatory ties?!”

“Separate classrooms?!”

“Wait… Biology is gone?!”

One student stared blankly at the page.

“Relaxation machines… what does that even mean?”

Another boy tugged nervously at his hoodie.

“Bro this school turned insane over the weekend.”

Others looked disturbed reading the sections about hair restrictions and mandatory collared shirts.

One muttered quietly:

“This feels like some weird cult school now.”

—

Then the hallway suddenly quieted.

The principal appeared.

But he looked completely different now.

Dark tucked polo shirt.

Pressed trousers.

Hair trimmed neatly and combed carefully.

Hands clasped behind his back as he slowly inspected the students standing around the announcement boards.

Calm.

Composed.

Almost sternly proud.

The students watched him uneasily.

One whispered:

“Why does he look like that now?”

Another noticed immediately.

“Wait… he never used to dress like this.”

The principal stopped beside the board.

His eyes calmly scanned the confused crowd.

Then he spoke evenly.

“These reforms are designed to improve discipline, moral focus, academic structure, and student presentation.”

Nobody answered.

The students just exchanged stunned looks.

Some uncomfortable.

Some annoyed.

Some genuinely nervous.

#preppification #preppy #suit and tie #polo shirt

preppypal

The Church Wants You - Part 5

Note: Strongly encourage following the attached pictures while reading. Enjoy!

Mark’s fingers clawed desperately at the metal band around his head.

The hypnosis machine sparked and whined as he twisted violently in the chair.

“I SAID GET IT OFF ME!”

With one sudden movement he ripped the device sideways free from the cables.

The missionaries stumbled backward in shock.

Chris grabbed for him too late.

Mark lurched to his feet breathing hard, tie hanging loose and crooked against his chest. His white shirt clung damply to him with sweat now, collar open from the struggle.

He looked terrified.

Wild.

“What did you do to me?!” he shouted.

The machine dangled from one hand as blue sparks flickered weakly across it.

Then Mark bolted toward the open doorway.

But Elder Jensen stepped in front of him fast.

“Mark wait—”

“MOVE!”

Mark shoved him hard enough to stagger him sideways.

For one second it almost worked.

He nearly reached freedom.

Then Elder Thompson grabbed his arm from behind while Chris seized his other shoulder.

“Please!” Mark yelled desperately. “I don’t want this! Please don’t do this to me!”

The machine glowed brighter again.

The missionaries forced him backward into the chair as he fought wildly, shoes scraping against the floor.

“No no no—”

Chris held his wrists tightly.

“Mark,” he said softly, almost sadly. “You’ll feel better once you stop resisting.”

“I DON’T WANT TO!”

Tears welled in Mark’s eyes now from panic and exhaustion.

The metal band lowered back over his head.

Locks clicked shut.

The blue spiral pulsed directly over his forehead.

“No please…”

His voice cracked completely.

“Please don’t take me away…”

The humming deepened.

Low.

Rhythmic.

The room itself almost seemed to vibrate around him.

Mark strained against the chair one last time.

Then Elder Jensen pressed a small device against Mark’s side.

A sharp electric crack snapped through the room.

Mark screamed.

His entire body jolted violently against the restraints.

The tie jerked sideways again.

His shirt wrinkled heavily across his chest.

Then another pulse from the machine flooded through him.

The spiral spun faster.

Faster.

Mark’s resistance started breaking apart in fragments.

His breathing turned uneven.

His hands weakened.

“No…” he whispered weakly.

The tears rolled down his face now.

“I don’t want… this…”

Chris moved closer, holding Mark steady as the machine continued pulsing light into his eyes.

“That’s alright,” Chris murmured gently. “You don’t have to think anymore.”

Mark’s expression slowly unraveled.

Fear melted first.

Then anger.

Then confusion itself.

His shoulders sagged.

His head tilted back against the chair.

The spiral reflected faintly across his wet eyes.

“I…” Mark whispered blankly.

The machine emitted one final deep tone.

Then silence.

Mark went limp.

—

For a few seconds nobody moved.

Only the soft buzz of the lights remained.

Mark sat slumped in the chair breathing slowly, tie hanging loose around his neck, top button undone from the struggle.

Eyes half-open.

Empty.

Chris carefully reached forward first.

Almost tenderly.

He straightened the crooked tie little by little, sliding the knot upward again.

Then he folded Mark’s collar neatly back into place.

His fingers worked calmly now.

Practiced.

Button by button he fixed the wrinkled white shirt.

The loose collar closed again snugly around Mark’s throat.

Chris pressed the top button carefully through the hole and adjusted the tie until it sat perfectly centered beneath it.

“There,” Chris whispered softly. “That’s better.”

Mark stirred faintly.

A tiny flicker of awareness crossed his face.

His hand rose slowly toward the tight collar.

Fingers touched the knot.

The pressure.

The snugness around his neck.

For a second Chris thought he might undo it again.

But Mark only held the tie gently.

Feeling it.

Breathing quietly through the tight collar.

Then his hand lowered obediently back into his lap.

The resistance was fading now.

Almost gone.

—

Elder Thompson uncapped the styling gel.

The missionaries stood around Mark carefully grooming him while he remained dazed and passive in the chair.

Thompson combed the dark wet hair backward slowly.

Jensen smoothed the sides flat with precise fingers.

Every rebellious strand disappeared beneath the glossy clean side-part.

Chris watched proudly.

The transformation finally looked complete.

Disciplined.

Orderly.

Proper.

Mark’s old messy curls were gone entirely now beneath the slick polished missionary style.

Elder Jensen smiled faintly.

“He looks ready.”

Chris rested a hand firmly on Mark’s shoulder.

“Mark.”

No response.

Chris squeezed slightly.

“Elder.”

Mark inhaled softly.

Then his eyes opened.

Calm this time.

Focused.

No panic.

No confusion.

Just stillness.

Slowly he stood up from the chair.

Chris immediately adjusted the tie knot once more, tightening it snug against the fully buttoned collar while smoothing the front of the white shirt flat against Mark’s chest.

Mark smiled faintly as Chris fixed him.

Almost proud of it now.

Much different from earlier.

Elder Thompson stepped forward holding a pair of dark rectangular glasses.

“Final touch.”

He slid them carefully onto Mark’s face while Jensen straightened them evenly over his ears.

Mark blinked once behind the lenses.

Then smiled wider.

Clean white shirt.

Tie perfectly aligned.

Hair slicked neatly back.

Top button fastened tight.

Black name tag shining against his chest.

Chris stepped back admiring him quietly.

Mark looked composed now.

Refined.

Like the last pieces of the old him had finally settled into place.

#preppification #preppy #suit and tie #mormonism #bow tie #uniform #polo shirt

preppypal

The Church Wants You - Part 4

Chris had not expected how good it would feel walking through the grocery store dressed like that.

The pale-blue short sleeve button-down sat crisp against his shoulders, tucked perfectly into dark navy trousers. Top button fastened neatly. Black belt centered exactly. Hair combed smooth with a careful side part.

Even pushing the shopping cart felt… orderly.

Purposeful.

He caught people glancing at him occasionally as he picked through apples with calm concentration. Instead of embarrassment, he felt pride blooming quietly in his chest.

This is how a respectable man looks, he thought.

The thought arrived automatically now.

Natural.

—

“Chris?!”

He turned.

Mark stood frozen halfway down the aisle holding chips and frozen pizza, staring at him like he had just seen an alien.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Chris blinked once calmly.

“Hello, Mark.”

Mark walked closer slowly, eyes moving over the tucked shirt, polished shoes, perfect posture.

“Dude.” He laughed nervously. “Are you cosplaying a Mormon missionary or something?”

Chris smiled faintly.

“I lost a bet.”

“A bet made you look like a youth pastor?”

“It’s just clothing.”

Mark kept staring.

The weirdest part was not even the outfit.

It was Chris himself.

Too calm.

Too composed.

Like every messy, sarcastic edge of him had been ironed perfectly flat.

Mark pointed at the collar.

“You buttoned the top button voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell.”

Chris looked down briefly at his cart.

“You should come over tonight.”

Mark smirked. “For intervention?”

“For beer.”

That finally got a laugh out of him.

“Okay. Fine.”

—

When Mark arrived that evening, he stopped dead inside the doorway.

“…Jesus Christ.”

The apartment looked transformed.

Everything organized.

No clothes lying around.

Books aligned.

Kitchen spotless.

Shoes paired neatly beside the wall.

Soft warm lighting.

Even the air smelled clean.

Chris stood waiting in the living room wearing the same pale-blue shirt, sleeves smooth and perfectly folded.

Top button still fastened.

“Come in,” he said gently.

Mark walked farther inside slowly.

“Dude. Did your mom visit or something?”

“No.”

“What happened to your apartment?”

Chris simply smiled.

Mark noticed framed scripture verses on the wall now.

Then he saw the dark blue book resting carefully on the coffee table.

His expression changed instantly.

“Oh no.”

Chris picked it up reverently.

“The Book of Mormon.”

Mark groaned immediately.

“Oh my god, they actually got you.”

“You should read it.”

“Nope.”

Mark took a step backward.

“Chris, seriously, this is weird. I’m leaving.”

But Chris calmly opened the book.

Something inside the pages hummed softly.

Mark frowned.

“What are you—”

Then he saw it.

A strange spiral pattern hidden between the pages.

Moving slowly.

Rotating.

His eyes locked onto it unintentionally.

Chris’s voice became lower. Softer.

“Just relax, Mark.”

Mark blinked hard.

“Chris…?”

“Look carefully.”

The room suddenly felt distant around him.

Warm.

Heavy.

Mark’s breathing slowed.

Chris stepped closer.

“That’s right.”

Mark’s hands loosened at his sides.

His expression emptied gradually.

The resistance drained from his face like water.

By the time Chris closed the book, Mark was standing perfectly still in the middle of the room staring blankly ahead.

Chris smiled softly.

“Good.”

—

The clothing box waited already prepared beside the couch.

Chris opened it carefully.

Inside sat a folded white dress shirt.

Dark striped tie.

Black trousers.

Name tag.

Belt.

Everything perfectly arranged.

Mark stood motionless while Chris worked.

First the black T-shirt came off.

Then the jeans.

Chris carefully dressed him piece by piece.

The white shirt slid over Mark’s shoulders.

Chris buttoned every button slowly and methodically.

Bottom.

Middle.

Chest.

Collar.

Until finally the top button closed snugly against Mark’s throat.

Mark barely reacted.

Chris smoothed both palms down the front of the shirt carefully.

Perfect.

Then came the tie.

He looped it expertly around Mark’s neck and tightened the knot until it sat firm beneath the collar.

“There,” Chris whispered. “Much better.”

The black trousers followed next.

Then the belt.

Chris tucked the shirt in tightly and adjusted the waistband until every line sat clean and straight.

Finally he attached the black missionary name tag over Mark’s chest.

ELDER MARKSON.

Mark stared blankly ahead the entire time.

Not speaking.

Barely blinking.

Chris stepped back admiring the transformation.

The sloppy college guy was disappearing already.

Now he looked disciplined.

Structured.

Proper.

—

In the bathroom Chris opened the styling gel.

“Hold still.”

Mark obeyed automatically.

Chris ran the gel carefully through his messy brown hair, combing it slowly backward into a clean missionary side-part.

Every strand pressed neatly into place.

Mark’s old appearance vanished more with each stroke.

When Chris finished, he tilted Mark’s chin toward the mirror.

Mark looked almost unfamiliar now.

White shirt.

Tie.

Perfect hair.

Top button closed.

Blank expression.

Chris smiled proudly.

“You look worthy.”

Mark did not answer.

—

A knock came at the door.

Chris opened it immediately.

The two missionaries entered carrying the machine.

Mark’s eyes flickered faintly at the sight of it.

Something buried deep inside him stirred suddenly.

Fear.

The blond missionary smiled.

“Ready?”

Chris nodded.

Together they guided Mark into the chair.

The metal hypnosis device lowered slowly over his head.

Wires.

Lights.

The humming spiral glowing brighter.

As the straps tightened around his temples, Mark suddenly jerked violently.

“No— wait—”

His eyes snapped back into focus.

“What the fuck is this?!”

The missionaries grabbed him immediately.

Mark thrashed hard in panic.

His tie yanked sideways crooked.

One hand clawed desperately at his collar until the top button burst open.

Air hit his throat.

“What am I wearing?!”

He struggled wildly against the chair.

“Chris! What the hell is happening?!”

The machine whined louder.

Blue spirals flashing rapidly across his terrified face.

“I don’t want this— let me OUT!”

The dark-haired missionary grabbed his shoulders harder while Chris tried pulling his hands away from the collar.

“Mark, calm down.”

“No!”

Mark twisted violently again, half-ripping the tie loose as panic flooded back into him.

“I’m not one of you!”

#preppification #preppy #transformation #mormonism #bowtie #suit and tie

maningup

SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: The Gardener

A/N: Mockup from Zippypixels.

The look of annoyance was back on that face as the man tried to shake the teen’s hand.

There was a rumor floating around town: Kamran Mirzaei didn’t like the gardener his dad had recently hired. Strange for a young person to be the center of discussion for so many, but the townsfolk were more perplexed by Kamran’s dislike. ‘The Gardener’, people lovingly called him as they often forgot his name, had worked on most of the houses in the community. It wasn’t exactly correct to call him only a gardener when he did landscaping, construction, remodeling, and much more. He was always there helping without complaint. If things didn’t make sense, it soon would with The Gardener around.

The Mirzaei’s had moved in a month ago to a house that sat on a hill, overlooking the others. It made sense, everyone knew the family was loaded the minute they saw the furniture being unloaded. Mr. Mirzaei was a gregarious man throwing a house party to get to know the neighbors. Just him and his son who kept away from everyone invested in his phone. That’s where he first glimpsed at The Gardner getting introduced to his dad. That’s where the gardener first saw that look.

And now here it was again, as Mr. Mirzaei gave The Gardener a tour of their new house. The man wore an open flannel, no undershirt, jeans, boots, and a peculiar necklace, Kamran could only assume was store bought, or some form of cheap made pottery. Mr. Mirzaei was looking for a really spruced backyard and money wasn’t an issue. Kamran, however, was clearly over it strutting around in his underwear, enjoying the summer heat. After ignoring the man’s handshake, Mr. Mirzaei told his son to go inside.

Kamran heard his father say, “I’m sorry, he gets restless here, being back from college.” Kamran rolled his eyes walking to the fridge and chugging orange juice from the carton. He eyed his dad and The Gardener, from the windows. As if he didn’t know. His dad was being professional, talking all smooth but Kamran knew when his dad was smitten. The moment his eyes landed on The Gardener, Mr. Mirzaei was taken and as they prattled on about plants he was completely smitten.

The work began. The Gardener showed up early every day, greeting Kamran with a smile, as the teen was often the only one up to open the door. Mr. Mirzaei would bring The Gardener drinks or even snacks, and they'd sit out there and talk before he got back to work. The two men fell into a good pace with each other and Mr. Mirzaei ended up inviting The Gardener to all their breakfasts before work. Kamran would walk down in his underwear only to see the hired help munching on his chocolate chip pancakes. His dad sent googly eyes constantly to an increasingly blushing gardener as the mornings together went on.

One day after, their guest headed into the backyard to start working, Mr. Mirzaei talked with his son. “People in town say, be nice to The Gardener.” He dropped another two pancakes on Kamran’s plate.

“So?” Karman said, having already stuffed a slice in his mouth.

#age progression #muscle growth #young adult to adult #mental change #reality change #transformation #absorption #merging #SUBURBAN LEGENDZ #possession #takeover #incest

maningup

Tech Amuck: JOCK GT2BU

“I can’t believe you, Nolan.” Mr. Klemens shook his head, eyes on the road, not even looking at his son. “Caught cheating on a test?!” The air in the sedan was tense. As was expected when a phone call from school interrupted any parents' working hours. “Letting A.I. do your thinking for you? If you don’t use your brain. You’ll lose it. It’s a muscle just like any other.”

The man had pulled his tie off and dropped it on the gear shift. The top of his shirt was undone, pecs practically heaving underneath with the glimpse of his white tank top. Every grip after continuously relaxing his hold on the steering wheel translated into his biceps flexing under his shirt. A man who clearly loved the gym and it showed. For all the bravado, his body was mostly putting on a natural show; it was all under his command.

Nolan Klemens sat bunched in the passenger seat of his dad’s car, “I wasn’t cheating.” he pouted. “It’s not my fault, Mrs. Yanni thinks everything is A.I.” His form was swallowed up by his red hoodie. Frustratingly his dad had forbidden him from putting the hood up. He wanted them to make eye contact. But Nolan’s brown hair was shaggy enough to hide some of his face.

Mr. Klemens raised his hand, a gesture as if praying for peace of mind, “You know I don’t get all this techno lingo, but alright I’ll bite. It’s my responsibility to at least hear you out. What actually is A.I.?

“No dad, that's what I’m telling you. It’s not even real A.I. like that, it’s Jock GT2BU. Ollie uses it.”

The man sighed exasperated, “For god sakes Nolan, if Ollie jumped off a bridge, would you?” He was so tired of hearing about Ollie and his hair brained schemes now. A bad influence from day one. Not because he was malicious or even cruel, just a no brain kid in Mr. Klemens eyes.

“No Dad, it’s like a translator app.” Nolan explained

“Translator? Translating what?” Mr. Klemens asked.

“To help me communicate with the jocks at school.” Nolan threw up his arms; the reason was obvious to him. “So, I can understand them, and they can understand me. The app…it helps me make friends.” he admitted quietly.

Mr. Klemens face softened taking a glance at his son. “Helps you? Nolan, you don’t need technology for that, people love you when they meet you. All those sports you were in!”

“Yeah, when I was like 9.” the boy grumbled. “But people change. They like other things. They get bigger–not me. There’re cool kids and not. The ‘rich’ and the ‘smart’ cool kids are just kind of mean–so the jocks just seemed the easiest to get along with.” His dad, as an ex-collegiate and school athlete, seemed incapable of understanding that his own dreams of Nolan being any sort of athlete were never going to come to fruition. While Nolan certainly had talent in elementary school, as a late bloomer, he couldn't quite keep up with the raw power of the kids in the midst of puberty. He was a tiny guy who could get barreled over easily in any sport.

Shaking his head, Mr. Klemens licked the inside of his cheek, puttering on how to convey his thoughts. Sometimes he swore he was psychic, because he could read his boy’s mind even when they weren't facing each other. Mr. Klemens did not want a mini-him. Sure, it would have been nice if Nolan was invested in fitness, or an athlete, but it wasn’t the end of the world. But sometimes he was reminded, he had to find ways to show Nolan that as a father, he was still invested, even in the nerdy things his son liked. “So, this, Jock G-T-2-B-U,” he extended an olive branch, “what is it?”

Nolan’s eyes lit up, pulling out his phone. He pointed to the app, in his dad’s face. A round blue square with the silhouette of a jock in the center of it and its name across the bottom.

#age progression #muscle growth #transformation #reality change #mental change #teen to man #father and son #incest #Tech Amuck #possession #takeover #race change

maningup

Gods Reborn: Zeus

Even Gods can make mistakes, most of all Zeus. However not even the oracles could have foreseen how momentous of a disaster he would make when dealing with those trickster gods, within and beyond his pantheon. Across the world their names echo in legends, Hermes, Anasi, Loki, and so many more.

Zeus hadn’t even dared to note what his transgression was, that’s how little he regarded his folly. Was it a grievance? A failed romancing of the group of tricksters? He’d never know. But the backlash would come for all the gods indiscriminately. No pantheon’s would be safe as revenge would strike like an unyielding sword.

Time gives and time takes. Gods rise and fall as their prominence dwindles as those who revere them diminish. However, gods are never truly gone, their rule may end, but every age brings a new chance for them to step into the world once again. Rebirth. The promise of a new life to experience the world through new eyes. Their divinity hidden under a guise of mortal likeness, as eras shifted.

Zeus sat on Mt. Olympus, sensing the new age arriving, and with it a new form. A brilliant shimmering light that would bestow new features. Gods could appear in many forms, but his rebirthed form would set the latest template for him: A new face to woo maidens and bachelors alike. As the all-encompassing wave drew close Zeus spread his arms out, reveling in his own power reveling in his future. The light swallowed him, and the king of gods felt immediately something was wrong with the light of rebirth. He tried to pull away, but it was too late.

Rebirth had begun.

Jolts danced around his fingertips before, mere sparkles, before the powerful showing of a storm danced around him. Clouds coalesced around him, wind picked up, thunder bellowed, lightning crackled as Zeus attempted to combat his own rebirth. Though gods know better than most, one cannot stop fate. Zeus felt his very being, split into two. A precise copy of the god, not bathed in glowing divinity, stumbled out from his form. The storm did not heed the cries of the Zeus replica; he was but a soul that was hit by the rebirth. Without his divinity to guide the change, his soul was as malleable as clay. Zeus' soul fell from Olympus, dragged to the earth.

Zeus’ divinity on the other hand was unbridled power as the storm raged. Without a soul to structure his form, the trickster’s trap was enacted. Zeus’ hand collapsed in on itself, the winds tore as his body folded. His was forced to his knees, legs weakening, as the storm refused to die. The Almighty Zeus felt it the pressure, the condensing, as his body lost it all: his looks, his muscles, His Divine cock. Flesh gave way to metal as he compacted, continuously decreasing in size; his godly essence, filling up his body, reduced to a surging liquid. The storm Zeus had summoned enshrouded his refined divinity, before it plummeted from the heavens.

#age progression #muscle growth #boy to man #mental change #transformation #Gods Reborn #father and son #implied mpreg

maningup

Tech Amuck: ALERT! Strays

My son and I were walking through the park as part of our summer morning stroll. The scenic portion. He was taking charge because he wanted the milkshake waiting for him in the shop across from the park. It was a beautiful day, sparse clouds, bright sun, barely anyone out.

An alert came in on my phone, now vibrating fiercely, breaking up my thoughts.

It didn’t make a lick of sense. For one, my phone had been turned off. Were they saying the dogs had rabies? Then why not just add that to the text message. Why were they sending vague messages? But better safe than sorry.

“Hey Coop, we got to head back bud, no milkshake today.” No response. I looked up, not hearing my son's protest as I expected. Cooper’s attention was focused on something up ahead. I followed his sight to a dog’s curious snout then, face popping out of the bushes. It tilted its head before wandering out. There was nothing strange or off about it.

And that’s what made it weird, with the context of the text, the dog was a little too normal. The dog trotted closer to my boy.

A weird shiver went down my spine, “Coop, we got to—

#age progression #muscle growth #boy to man #teen to man #transformation #mental change #reality change #father and son #brothers #Tech Amuck

maningup

Big Boy Undies: Dad Chores

“It’s so hot!” Clayton complained. The sunglasses he wore barely helped. His muscular body sat on a lawn chair being hounded by the sun, legs longer than the chair's length. Being in nothing but white briefs also didn’t help

“That’s the tenth time you've said that.” Tripp replied, spraying down the car in front of him with a hose. He also wore nothing but a pair of white briefs that clung to his muscled ass, barefoot in Clayton’s front yard.

“Because it’s true.” Clayton added.

“Are you gonna help out? Or sit there?” Tripp said annoyed. His eyes ran over his friend’s form, the large bicep holding up Clayton’s arm.

“I can barely move man.” Clayton answered. “It’s summer.”

“Yeah, it’s my summer too and I’m here washing your dad’s car because of you!”

“Hey, your dad agreed to the punishment.”

“Which wouldn’t have happened because of your stupid idea.” Tripp stated back.

—

#age progression #muscle growth #teen to man #father and son #friends #mental change #transformation #BBU Shorts

maningup

Tech Amuck: Son Software

You know growing up I had to be subjected to Nate Watson’s perfection constantly. He was my warden. Oh, I’m sorry ‘babysitter’. Yes, Me, plain Edgar Hughes. Though I was certainly NOT a baby, even then, I was considered a miscreant by my parents. Just because I was a little more spirited than most people my age didn’t mean I was bad. Still, I found myself forcibly attached to the hip of the neighborhood's golden boy. I’m talking, rich, star quarterback, clean cut. People started to believe I was his little brother because he had me around so much. My parents had hired him because his limitless stamina and patience made him the only person able to keep up with my antics. To be fair to me though, he wasn't the town’s golden boy when I met him, he was some high school freshman goody two-shoes.

When he came over with that Christian boy smile, it irked me. I couldn’t break his good mood no matter what I did. My little brother was too young and fortunate enough to get to stay with my parents and not be tucked under Nate’s arm while struggling. I guess in someways I mellowed out as my parents began dropping me off at Nate’s place, and though we lived on the same block I understood the disparity between our family’s income when I stepped on his waxed floor. Seeing a mansion and being in one were two very different experiences.

As Nate continued to watch me, his muscles grew and his body enlarged and his name got talked about around town more. People would stop my parents asking about Nate, because they were used to seeing me with him. Weird to actively watch someone grow into popularity in town as people fall in love with their talent. Personally, I couldn’t care about his talent by the time he was a senior, I was having my own struggles being around Nate Watson. Puberty had reared its ugly head and with it an attraction to men. Forget the underwear aisle, Nate was a walking ad. We were close enough that at his house he would walk around in his underwear, or post a shower, come into his room with a towel around his waist, before kicking me out. My eyes would steal so many looks at his chest and often drift lower to look at his bulge. I don’t think he ever really even thought twice about having me around.

But then there was his graduation party.

I learned more about rich people than I ever intended. The end of the party transitioned into a sleepover Nate held for his closest friends. He had sleepovers before and I was never invited, but said his honorary little bro deserved to be at the last one. The graduating seniors were nice to me but also boisterous and peacocking for all the other males in the room. Felt like all of them failed to see what I was seeing in how close they were. Invading personal space, leaning on the other. Literally gaming between another guy's open legs like a TV pillow. I stayed huddled on Nate’s bed.

Then Nate came in, “I’ve got it!” The other boys cheered and hollered. For a moment I thought he meant Alcohol, but then he pulled out something I’d never seen before and wagged it. Who's it going to be tonight? All the boys hand shot up, then they started to fight to put the others’ hands down.

“No fair, you did it last week”

“Well, Jamal did it four times back to back before that.”

“Stay mad.”

Nate rubbed his temples briefly listening to them argue, “You know what! We have someone here for the first time. Let’s have Edgar do it.” A few of the older boys whined as Nate approached me and sat on the bed. “Are you familiar with CGI Labs?” He asked.

“The commercial?” It had been all over the news.

“Yeah well, my dad got a hold of their newest product based on their recent discovery.” He held it up. “An entire person, contained on a disk, this one is mine.”

#age progression #muscle growth #boy to man #mental change #transformation #brothers #Tech Amuck #CGI Labs #takeover #merge

maningup

Gods Reborn: Ares

A/N: Come on, I wouldn't actually leave you all hanging like that.

Ares. Mars. Call him what you will, the title was always the same: The god of war. He wasn’t mad. He wasn't angry. He was fucking pissed. All of his power was confined and frozen in a small statue of his visage. Strong, powerful, spear-ready, armor shined: Pure masculinity. At least his form of it. He was sure Apollo’s version was either surfer or fuckboy. Ares knew at least that much about this era. His divine-self, turned statue, had been discovered and lauded as a lost artifact, where he was promptly put on display at a museum. All the god could do was watch people come in and out, families, couples, tourists, students. All day, every day. Funny what gods learned about humans when forced to spend time observing them.

Despite the many men who passed by, young, old. None ignited the spark of Ares’ soul. He waited patiently, watching and learning. The soul of THE Ares would surely command attention. However, no man in his presence could commandeer others the god desired. There were family men, cheating boyfriends, jocks, and athletes. But where was the fighting spirit? His patience got chipped away, a god of war, a god of action could only be still for so long. If the fates would not deliver his soul, he’d find it himself.

It was a Friday, when the class came to tour the museum. Loud, and bored as the many classes before them. Blank faces. Zero interest in Greek culture. Ares' godly vision spotted one of the teens in the back, tripping a smaller classmate on the ground. Now that was worthy of the god of war. The teen was a jock, perfectly built, muscles showing through his clothes. A tight black shirt that read ‘Just let me do you.’ with a white check under it. A sexual innuendo no doubt even if Ares couldn’t decipher the cultural meaning. The kid he had put on the ground got up limping his way to the front. The limping student looked a bit younger than his peers, as if he’d skipped a few grades. It mattered not; Ares knew his time was coming. The class passed him by, but he knew he’d see the jock again.

20 minutes later the students had broken out into groups to explore the museum, no one was coming by the Ancient Greek section, just as Ares had intended, subtly compelling them away.

“So cool,” He heard a high pitch voice whisper out. The student who had been knocked to the ground earlier had come back. No muscles, no height. This was a boy, not a man. Ares couldn’t believe how muted his power was, unable to keep such a weak individual away. The student approached him, eyes locked on his form, studying him with interests beyond aesthetics.

“There you are you little shit.” The jock had his arms on either side of the door frame. His biceps were bulging, ready to pounce, he cracked his finger with a smirk on his face. Ares couldn't believe it. The boy had led the jock here like a fly to honey. The jock came charging in, a blitz to get to the boy before the teacher could know. The boy ducked, swerving past the jock more limber than the young man expected. Speed over power Ares could respect that. But thinking was for Athena. Ares had what he wanted. He summoned all his power and raged against the tricksters’ spell, it fought well to hold him in, but he was the god of war and just needed a crack. The spell gave ever so slightly and Ares stuck. A facsimile of his helmet appeared over the jocks face as Ares began to pour his divinity into it.

“What the?” The jock tried to pull it off, but Ares wasn’t letting go. He wanted out! The tiniest sliver of his divinity poured into the jock. Ares was immediately infused; he could sense the struggle to get the helmet off. Divine power flowed into the bicep feeding them a diet of Ares’ aggression. The jock’s body eagerly sapped it up, as Ares divinity went to reclaim his soul. The young man’s body stretched to a taller height. His biceps inflated. Ares’ best gift was flooding into the jock’s cock, stretching it further and swelling his testicles. A strained gurgle came from the jock’s stomach. Ares sensed it. The jock wasn’t processing the divinity correctly. The young man couldn’t handle even a fraction of Ares. The six pack abs the jock had earned bowled out into one unified belly. Divinity, converting into layers of fat on the muscled body. His jeans split open as thighs quaked out. His shirt no longer existed from his upper body’s savagery upon emerging. A split red fabric appeared over him, a mockery of Ares’ own uniform and not properly hiding the gift Ares had bestowed, very evident in the shrinking green briefs.

This wasn’t his soul.

And fate was punishing him for trying to forge an escape. Especially one so ungraceful.

The smaller student hadn’t left the room when Ares made his move. He watched the whole thing happen. He ran back up to his enlarged bullying trying to assist with the helmet. Ares could not believe how foolish the small student was. If even the jock’s arms couldn’t remove it, how would he.

“Matt, I think it’s the statue!” the small student stated.

“Please, just help me, Harland.” A husky voice asked as the student nodded. With a strange look of determination, Harland seized the statue in his hand. Ares felt the flare of his soul. The god had no chance to pour his divinity into the boy because his divinity was being sucked out. Harland, the fucking smallest attendee, was manipulating, Ares’ divinity with ease. That was Ares' soul alright. Harland forced Ares’ divinity into his body, even taking it from Matt’s though his new form remained. Filled to the brim, a light erupted from Harland.

The young body bulked with divine life; it depended on it. Ares' power stamped his strength into the form by making Harland’s musculature rise to that of warriors. His pecs became powerful slates, hair covering them and swirling around his nipples. Down it flowed into the gutters being carved to form his abs. Markings appeared across his body, he was the man of a new age. His boyish features melted with the aid of Ares’ divinity, revealing the fighter buried underneath. Follicles traversed his face to give him a proper beard, sealing his new manly form into place. He pulled his sword from the ether as a stephanos formed on his head. His beloved blood lust red wrapped around his nude waist perfectly.

Ares, the god of war, was back.

#age progression #muscle growth #teen to man #mental change #transformation #Gods Reborn

maningup

SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: Laundry Day

He had stepped into his living room to find a muscled ass hanging out of the washer machine.

Mr. Hill had woken up from the noise outside his bedroom door. Groggy, he stood up wondering what trouble his son had gotten into. He really hadn’t expected anything too crazy; it was his own personal laundry day in the suburbs after all. A quiet weekend to get all the clothes in the house clean. It was his responsibility: his duty. He was the man of the house after all and what was more manly than taking care of things. There was joy and tranquility to be found in the easy way of life out in the suburbs. He had really let it settle in from the hustle and bustle of city life.

If only he had known the golden rule in the suburbs for which he lived. People talked, whispered, but he never paid it much mind. In the suburbs, Laundry Day was a staple in adult male living. In the store. Passing conversations on the street. Men reminisced about the first time they did their own laundry like it was a milestone in life. They acted like it was more dangerous than sneaking out, more freeing than getting a car, and better than sex.

Mr. Hill had been invited to a cookout, with some of the single fathers in his neighborhood. His son Noah got to meet the other kids but. Mr. Hill was pulled into a spirited discussion. He thought it was about sports, but no the men of the neighborhood were arguing about laundry detergent, which was better, got the clothes cleaner, smelled great etc.

“What do you think?” someone asked.

“What do I think?” Mr. Hill repeated back, caught off guard. “I usually just go with what smells good and doesn't cost much.”

“See a reasonable man.” Someone tipped their beer to him.

“No, no you guys are both wrong, that's a young person’s way of thinking, you have got to be more intentional.” Another guy said.

And the conversation continued for hours as if laundry was the hottest topic in the world. Mr. Hill sat back and listened, nodding his head, not speaking, running his hands through his blond hair. The performance of listening but not actually engaging. Mr. Hill did chores, housework, yard work but at the end of the day he was a dedicated gym kind of guy. This talk was even beyond other househusband level speak. Deeper than a skill they had learned during adolescence, this was a pure rite of passage.

#age progression #muscle growth #boy to man #father and son #transformation #mental change #reality change #SUBURBAN LEGENDZ

maningup

Neighborly Things

#1 Be Kind

Mr. Cook was always of the belief that neighbors should help each other out. So when he was working on his house that afternoon and Manuel Ramirez came out to complain about the noise, the older man was stunned. Apparently, the young man was doing something called ‘streaming’ and the machines were too loud. Now the older man had no idea how all that streaming nonsense worked, but Ramirez had a point: the noise had been happening for a while. Mr. Cook had to face facts, he wasn’t the young buck he used to be. A simple job was harder to accomplish with one man. But Manuel on the other hand? There was potential there.

“I agree with ya, neighbor. Can’t move like I used to. Why don’t you help me out?” Mr. Cook stated, rubbing the back of his neck, defeated.

“Wha?” Manuel barely got out as a nailing gun was shoved into his hands. He stumbled back, almost falling over before slamming a solid foot down. The teen’s body rumbled. Then the growth started. He was taller in minutes and his body came in perfect; two heavy pecs with six abs situated under it. Luckily the clothes on his lower body stayed. Mr. Cook wasn’t sure what he’d have done if his neighbor ended up naked.

Manuel matured into the exact type of man Mr. Cook needed for this project. The man got straight to work without even being asked. Mr. Cook laughed as the new man was about to make some real money in the home improvement department around the block…and possibly ruin some marriages. It made Mr. Cook think back to his younger days, wooing the rich married couples was half the fun.

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#age progression #muscle growth #teen to man #mental change #reality change #transformation #strangers #vignettes

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