Salmonskinroll’s TFs @salmonskinrolltf - Tumblr Blog

Story Index

Original Stories

Alumni Relations - a gay couple has an intimate moment interrupted by a life-changing fundraising call from a local frat Anniversary Present Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 - a squabbling gay couple fall under the thrall of a time-traveling watch Ben Gay Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 - frat boys in a snowed-in cabin discover a mysterious ointment that makes any body part irresistibly ache for the touch of male flesh The Breeder Curse Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - gay men are cursed to become were-straights Don't Read This! - a Tumblr curse turns a straight man into the last celebrity saved on his phone Emilio Bedilio - A genie that means well has trouble understanding instructions sometimes The Grind - While working from home, Todd finds himself drawn to the sounds of the skaters in the alley Grindr Roulette - A gay couple selects random Tribes for their profiles on Grindr to create a transformative hookup Happy Hour - A preppy couple celebrating their anniversary is annoyed by the partying frat bros at the bar Indian and in Love - Kyle becomes the perfect partner for his stoner friend Jack's New Roommate Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - Jack's slobby roommate is improved upon Like a Light Switch - Charlie Puth becomes more like the slobby, lazy straight man he should be The Method - an influencer looking to prove himself as an actor gets cast as Marlon Brando in a biopic Nerdflix Phase 1 | Phase 2 | Phase 3 - an athlete and his nerdy roommate swap lifestyles Putting On Airs - A stranger interrupts a couple's date at a hipster coffee shop, but who's the true interloper? Shower Scene - Scream 2022's Wes Hicks is offered an unusual way to escape Ghostface Soulmates - Two boyfriends try to make each other perfect, one by changing the past and one by changing the future Soulmates 2 - Two roommates use the same method to try and make each other perfect Spicing Things Up - A gay couple who are in a rut use TF dice to spice up their love life and get more than they bargained for Third - a couple has a threesome for their tenth anniversary, but which two of the three is the real couple? Withering - A shy professor's wish to fit in is granted, but he doesn't end up fitting in exactly where he expected

Original Shorts

The Comments Section - a young man has a hairy experience on OnlyFans Flipped - a house-flipper with a perfect life finds that everything he touches turns slobby and gross Heat Conservation - a magic beanie changes a young man's life Mean Streak - a gay man uses the Chronivac to make his former bully obsessed with him Only a Fan - a man's Zoom sex with his boyfriend goes swiftly awry Wrong Era - a guy who was “born in the wrong era” tries to use a birthday wish to fix that Roll the Die Shorts - Readers requested transformations and rolled the die. Roll a 6? Get exactly what you want. Roll a 1? Get the opposite. Everything in between? Well, we'll see.

Be Kind Rewind Shorts - New Roll the Die stories where readers get pulled into a movie/TV universe of their choice

Commissioned Stories

The American Way - a gay Frenchman becomes a conservative American El Bailarin - a gay ballet dancer discovers a passion for Latin dance and machismo Con-fidence - an office worker wishes to be more intimidating and gets exactly what he asks for Joining the Team Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 - an athletic training student ends up with baseball skills (and a fetish for facial hair) Light a Candle - a young man who fantasizes about swapping with a middle-aged daddy should be careful what he wishes for Magic Mustache Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 - a high school graduate buys a fake mustache to look older before college, and it might work too well Sir - an alpha jock applying for a job gets an unexpected offer that he can't refuse Under Construction - a smart college grad can't get a job at a tech company, but the construction department might have an opening Walk a Mile - a xenophobic Russian gets what's coming to him

*A note on gay-to-straight-stories*

#tf index

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Weird,” said Thomas.

“Weird,” Eddie agreed.

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

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

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

“It sucks when that happens,” Eddie said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, that girl looked… beautiful. Gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#gay to straight tf #quick and dirty tf

I'm a little confused about the usage of ai in your work. Could you clarify what that process looks like?

I don’t use AI at all in my work! My recent series of Quick and Dirty stories is intended to repurpose prompts that were sent to AI into fun, quick, human-written stories that aren’t perfect, but have texture that a machine can’t deliver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is how it turns out.

At least my armpits aren’t out.

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

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

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

#quick and dirty tf #dumber tf #influencer tf

Write something triggering based on being hacked and installing the goon virus from bro to bro. Each of their transformations are different, a reflection of their deepest inner desires.

For this one, I think I took a real left turn from the actual prompt, so I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly what you were looking for, anon! Oh, and thank you to @dumberswitch for providing the third image. (He has brought it to my attention that the man in said image is Australian, not English, which is actually quite obvious, but y’all, I only had 20 minutes 😵 please roll with it)]

Clayton was hanging out with his three best friends, who had just helped him move into his new apartment. They had all met the year before, during their freshman year of college, and they had bonded quickly over a shared taste in women, movies, sports, and well… everything.

They were relaxing after a tiring day, but Clayton could feel their palpable boredom, so he decided to come up with something fun to do.

“How about we each go around and say something we’re thankful for?” he asked.

Roderick sighed and said, “I’ll bite,” lowering the speed on his exercise bike so he could speak more easily. “I’m thankful I never gained the freshman 15.”

“I’m thankful for England,” said Chris, who was lying on the bed re-reading a Douglas Adams book and not really paying attention.

“I’m thankful for my pickup truck,” said John, who was peering out the window making sure his new truck was still there. It had just proven its usefulness in helping Clayton move all of his shit.

“And I’m thankful for my friends,” said Clayton. “Thanks again for helping me out today. I really owe you one.”

“Well, that was fun” said John, sarcastically. “Now what?”

Clayton racked his brains. “Oh! Why don’t I download that new app everyone’s been trying out!”

“Goonr?” asked Roderick. “The joke one that tells you your gooning style or whatever? I don’t really get it.”

“My friend Des tried it and he really got a kick out of it,” said Clayton, shrugging.

“Des is a perv,” said Chris. “But sure, why the hell not?”

Within minutes, the app was downloaded on Clayton’s phone and they all huddled around it. The loading icon finally cleared and what was revealed were the words “Friends.”

“Is that it?” asked John.

Clayton shrugged. “Guess so. At least it was free.”

Suddenly, all three of his friends’ phones pinged. They opened them to find that the Goonr app had spontaneously downloaded itself onto all of their phones.

“Is this some sort of promotion?” asked Chris. “Like that shitty U2 album that Apple put on everybody’s phones?”

One by one, the loading icons cleared.  Roderick’s phone said “Fitness.”

Chris’ phone said “England.”

And John’s phone said “Truck.”

Simultaneously, all of their phones starting glowing white, momentarily blinding them all. When Roderick’s eyes cleared, he found that he was still sitting on the bike, blinking dazedly. “What the…” he said, before catching sight of himself in the mirror on the wall in front of him.

“Damn, I’m looking yoked,” he said, appreciatively.

He flexed his bicep. It looked big. He flexed his other bicep. It looked… bigger. Were they mismatched? He frowned and flexed the other one again. OK, it must have been a trick of the light. It bulged out properly, matching the other one.

He felt his dick stiffen in his pants. Fuck, was he making himself hard? That was embarrassing. But he was hot… He flexed his quads. Bam, bam! They bulged and grew. Fuck… He was such a stud. He lifted his shirt, admiring the six-pack abs that were bulging and growing from his flat stomach.

His dick got harder and harder. It felt like it was practically squirming. He touched it and his mind went white.

Chris’ eyes cleared next. The first thing he saw was his friend Roddy, feverishly pumping his meat while rubbing his abs and pedaling on the exercise bike. His hair looked a bit disheveled, and he had a short beard, as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Chris was about to panic when his attention was caught by his book, still lying open on the bed. He loved Douglas Adams so much. He loved everything English.

English literature, English culture, English food. English rugby. English beer. English girls. He even dressed English. He looked down to see his grey clothes shimmering and becoming bright yellow rugby kit.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell mate, what’s going on?” he asked. Hell, he even sounded English. Just hearing his voice turned him on so fucking much. He pulled down his shorts and started rubbing his cock, thinking about his favorite Page 3 models.

John’s eyes cleared next, revealing Roddy whacking off (again? He never stopped) and John lying on the bed, grinning.

He winked at John and pulled out his cock, beginning to wank himself off. His eyes crossed with sheer pleasure.

John averted his gaze, looking outside to see his truck. His pristine new truck, with that lovely moon roof and those Truck Nuts and all the mud on the bottom and the dents and… John felt dizzy. Was it dirtier than it was supposed to be? Was he dirtier than he was supposed to be? His hair suddenly felt greasy, as it began to lengthen and slide down his neck. He jammed his trucker cap over it to keep it contained, just as his trash stash grew in on his upper lip, nice and thick. He looked back out at his truck and thought about all the country babes he had wanted to plow out in the cornfield when he was growing up in Arkansas. His cock got hard in his pants. Would anybody mind if he…

Clayton’s eyes finally cleared, and he could see his friends. There was Roddy, feeling himself up. Pre-cum beaded at the tip of his red cock as his other hand furiously slid up and down his shaft.

There was Chris, going “oi” and “bruv” every few seconds as his spit-slick hand wanked his member. There was Jonno, shirtless (as usual) and sticking his tongue out as he beat his meat furiously.

God, they were all so hot. His friends, jerking their hogs, not a care in the world. This was all he wanted to see, all he wanted to think about, ever.

So that’s what he did. He stopped thinking about the job interview he had in the morning, or what he wanted to get for dinner, or even the fact that none of the four of them had looked quite like this a few minutes ago. All he could think about was his masturbating friends. He wanted to join them so bad. He whipped off his clothes, leaned over on the desk, and started going to town on himself, drooling as he stared intensely at the three hunks beating their meat in front of him. God, he was so thankful for his friends.

#gooner tf #friend group tf #quick and dirty tf #redneck tf #jock tf #chav tf

When Collin brings his boyfriend, Ben, to their college’s wrestling tournament, it’s meant to be a fun bit of foreplay watching hot, sweaty buff dudes fighting in skin tight clothes. But when one of the wrestlers calls out sick and jeopardizes the match, the coach is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure his victory streak. That includes hand-picking Ben from the crowd and making some adjustments to ensure he has a tank of a jock that will bring the gold home. Collin will still get to watch hot sweaty dudes wrestling, he’ll just be doing it alone and with no one to come home to. Please include a before and after image of Ben.

Going to the wrestling tournament was only meant to be a bit of fun. Collin (left) and Ben (right) were hardcore members of their college’s GSA, so they knew that not all gay men were averse to sports. But they themselves were definitely the types to prefer marathoning Britney Spears videos to sitting down to watch a football game on TV.

Wrestling was a bit of an exception, though. At least for Collin. He couldn’t care less about the rules or how to get points or whatever. All he cared about was watching the hot college jocks writhing around with one another, getting sweaty. Ben cared so little about sports that he even got bored watching that after five minutes or so, but it turned Collin on so much that his efforts to attend these matches were always well worth the sacrifice.

Tonight’s tournament wasn’t meant to be any different. Ben and Collin had fun watching the early rounds. Collin snuck a few rubs of his cock when he figured nobody was watching him. And Ben amused himself by imagining what each wrestler's innermost fears might be and envisioning a wrestling-themed soap opera where they all stomped around behind-the-scenes throwing wine glasses of Gatorade on one another’s faces. To each his own.

Collin was clearly about ready to pounce, and Ben hoped the tournament would end soon. so he and his boyfriend could get home and get busy. He checked his phone and breathed a sigh of relief when he learned that this last round would end the night. The only thing was, the round wasn’t starting. They kept sitting there, and nobody took the stage. Or the ring or whatever.

Ben checked the time on his phone, bobbing his knee up and down impatiently. Why wasn’t the round starting? A big coach-looking guy was angrily whispering with a bigger, coachier-looking guy and they were looking around in every corner of the room. Clearly they needed something and they couldn’t find it. Ben hoped that meant they could just go home early.

That’s when the smaller guy caught his eye and locked on. Ben figured it was just a trick of the light or something, but the coach pointed straight at him and beckoned him to come talk to him.

Collin said, “I think that coach guy wants to talk to you.”

“Well, that’s his problem,” said Ben, not moving.

“Go talk to him! Give him what he wants. Maybe he’ll invite us to meet some of the wrestlers after.”

Ben heaved a sigh and said “sure,” before walking up to the coach, who turned out to be about a foot taller than him. He was only short compared to the other guy, it turned out.

The coach barked at him, “boy, we need you in the ring, pronto. Come with me to get changed.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked toward the locker rooms, Ben tripping in his haste to follow him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Ben, “but I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“I couldn’t care less who you are, boy,” said the coach, gruffly. “Griffin called in sick at the last minute. I need a wrestler, so you’re going to wrestle.”

The coach waved his hand in the air, gesticulating weirdly. Ben was about to insist that he wasn’t a wrestler when the coach’s hand closed on something he couldn’t see. Confused, Ben shut the hell up.

“There are a lot of ways for men to become wrestlers,” said the coach. “For you, this’ll be easiest.”

He held out his hand, which wasn’t actually empty. Ben could just make out a shimmering, glowing blue blob that seemed to be connected to his chest with a similarly transparent umbilical cord.

The coach said, “This is your sexuality. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything to it. I’m just going to move it from the outside… to the inside. Then everything else will follow.” With that, he pushed his closed fist directly into Ben’s chest and through it, like he was an X-Man or something.

When the coach pulled his fist out again, Ben felt dizzy. He wished Collin was there to help him. Collin was better about dealing with weird situations. Ben thought about Collin and smiled. He loved him so much… That love was what kept him- It was what- It was shameful. And he had to keep hiding it from the world. He couldn’t let people know about his secret lustful urges for other men, it would ruin his entire career.

He just needed to keep bottling it up, so he pushed Collin out of his mind. Collin. His love for him. And every memory ever associated with him. By the time he was done, it was almost like he’d never had a boyfriend at all. Hell, he couldn’t even remember ever having one.

Ben’ss memories warped. Instead of his memories of meeting Collin in high school and conspiring to go to the same college so they could share a dorm in freshman year, he could remember jerking off to old Brent Corrigan videos and instantly deleting his browser history afterward. He remembered fearing that his older brother would find out that he was gay, and channeling those feelings toward becoming an even greater jock than his brother was. To prove his masculinity.

As that memory blossomed, so did his body. Muscle exploded from him. Bulging pecs, enormous biceps and corded forearms. His thighs thickened into Christmas hams and his glutes ballooned, squashing themselves against his jeans. His jaw also broadened, and he inwardly thanked those looksmaxxing videos for helping him get the ideal masculine jaw. It was perfect camouflage.

His hair also degayed itself, falling flat over his forehead in a careless, just-rolled-out-of-bed style that screamed “I don’t care” loud enough that even he could believe it sometimes.

He rubbed a hand through it nervously, hoping it didn’t look too styled. He checked himself out in the mirror before throwing on his singlet and heading back out into the arena to show that other guy who was boss. That guy that he secretly fantasized about at night, rubbing himself before screaming into his pillow and punching it. He’d show that guy who was the true man around here. When he pinned him to the mat.

As he walked out of the door, he noticed a weird, twinky looking dude sitting alone, watching the wrestlers milling around while biting his lip. It sent a shiver down Ben’s spine. God, imagine being so open with your lust. It was weak. What must everybody else be thinking about that guy? They’d all know he was different. He really should learn to hide it better. Like Ben had.

#wrestling tf #jock tf #gay to closeted tf #quick and dirty tf #cuck tf

A shy gay nerd watching a Pride parade from the sidelines sees the hot gogo boys dancing on the floats, and wishes he could be as confident as them. And it works: he finds himself up on the floats dancing with them, clothes vanishing as he gets big, buff, and cocky... because like the other gogos, he becomes a gay-for-pay straight bro, just queerbaiting at the parade for some extra cash.

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

Carter was draped in all the gay paraphernalia that the beautiful drag queens had handed him at the gate after scanning his VIP ticket. He had a lot of extra money from his coding gigs, so he figured he’d splash out. He never felt particularly proud at Pride, and he figured he should try and get to the bottom of it.

It was probably just that he was too shy. All the bright colors and loud music and dancing at Pride felt very attention-grabby. Which he supposed was the point. But Carter was a wallflower who always had trouble making friends, and the idea of being the center of attention made him itch.

He gazed longingly at the leather pup go-go boys who were slowly making their way up the parade route toward where he was standing. They were all so incredibly hot. He had chubbed up in his pants in seconds from just looking at them. He looked down at his skinny frame and sighed. The dancers really seemed to have everything. The pups and the go-go boys and the twinks and bears all seemed to have found their lanes, but none of those lanes seemed to be wide enough to fit a loser who’d prefer to spend time at a three-day Dungeons & Dragons tournament rather than the bar.

He stared at the dancers and mumbled to himself, “I wish I was could be confident like them.” A drunk otter stumbled by wearing fairy wings and an Andrew Christian drawstring bag with a cheap plastic wand sticking out of it. The sunlight caught the wand so that it almost looked like it was glowing.

As the leather pups passed, they beckoned to the crowd. Again. And again. They were looking really insistent. And pointing at… him? They were beckoning him to join them.

His instincts were screaming in the back of his head that he should turn and run. He was so afraid of being the center of attention that he felt paralyzed by it. But then he realized that all of the pups’ gesturing meant that the majority of the members of the crowd on his side of the street already were already looking at him. He could feel their hot, inquisitive gazes sizzling his skin. And it felt… great.

Maybe he could do this? Gingerly, he stepped over the caution tape separating the crowd from the parade and walked up to the pups, waving awkwardly at them.

One of them spoke to him, his voice slightly muffled behind the mask: “Just dance. It’ll be OK.”

Carter felt weirdly energized by the crowd’s curious attention, and he found it surprisingly easy to start shimmying his hips. He was awkward and clumsy, like a baby deer, but he was doing it. Cheers erupted from the crowd. He felt a warm glow in his chest and tried a few more moves. He wiggled his arms, trying to mimic the go-go boys he had seen before.

It didn’t feel right. His movements were too noodly. How had they done it? They were flexing a lot, he remembered. He decided to try that. Fuck it, why not? He flexed, feeling his arms grow taut. Corded muscle exploded from them, turning his biceps into rock-hard mountains and his forearms into tightly wound stretches of muscle.

What the fuck? He had no idea what drugs he had been slipped, but he felt good, so he just went with it, his arms suddenly feeling the rhythm and perfectly matching the moves he had seen the go-go boys perform earlier.

He was a little top-heavy, though. His mimicry wasn’t perfect yet. He tried flexing his legs. His calves became rock hard as his quads plumped up. He flexed his stomach. He could feel his abs firm up, making his flat stomach stick out slightly. His chest. His pecs doubled in size instantly as his entire body was taken over by the rhythm. In a moment of sheer euphoria, he ripped his shirt off, revealing his newly muscular torso.

He started dancing his gay little heart out, running a hand down his torso to show it off. As his fingers trailed down his flesh, dark hair emerged on his chest and in a luscious trail leading down from his belly button into his pants, which were fading into battered jeans that sunk low on his hips, revealing sexy yellow underwear he couldn’t remember putting on that morning.

His mind suddenly snapped into focus. His wish had been granted! He thanked whatever gay gods had been listening to him and felt up his own pecs as blingy jewelry materialized around his neck, making it thicken to compensate for the new weight. He could feel a bandana wrapping around his forehead and a backwards hat settle over it as a septum ring flipped out from his nostrils as if it had just been nestled inside his nose and was dislodged by his dancing.

He felt up his own pec and heard the crowd cheer. The dancing became so easy that it was almost like background noise. He could think about other things while he was teasing and tantalizing the men he passed.

He took stock of his body as sexy tattoos blossomed across his chest and down his arms. This was his fantasy. He looked exactly like the men he fantasized about when he jerked off. But… he wasn’t hard when looking at his own, lightly furred torso.

Was this a “you can’t tickle yourself” thing? He was a total stud. Shouldn’t that be moving the needle? He made his pecs bounce, eliciting another cheer from the crowd. But even if he imagined those pecs being on some other man, it didn’t stir any interest in him.

He thought back to that porn and tried to connect the dots. When he was watching that busty lady get railed, he had… Wait, what video was that? His memory suddenly flooded with images. Making out with hot bartenders with huge racks, flirting with his female professors in college and making them blush… What had he been thinking about again? Oh yeah, how he was a total stud. No woman could resist him.

He was so proud. So fucking proud. Of his body. And the sheer amount of money he was gonna drain from these suckers when he manned his station at the dance tent later that day.

#gay to straight tf #quick and dirty tf

Putting On Airs

[Thank you to @axeeglitter for donating the first image!]

God, isn’t my boyfriend Kevin hot?

Like, maybe TOO hot? I constantly worry he’s going to be stolen away from me by some jacked-up jock who’s more his speed. I don’t really get what he sees in me. Especially considering how much I see in him.

Like, look at how I’m looking at him right now.

This is how my face looks every time he’s in front of me. I can’t even focus on the totally Instagram-worthy coffee shop café thing he’s dragged me to. I couldn’t care less about coffee, really, but Kevin wanted to come (“they have coffee sommeliers that come right up to your table, Andrew,” he said, as if that wasn’t what regular waiters did at regular restaurants).

Anyway, I don’t know why I get so worked up about how hot he is. He adores me. He always tells me so. He doesn’t care that I don’t play basketball or go to the gym as much as he does. He says he likes having a respite from all of that when he comes home.

He says everyone at the gym is stupid and boring. He even called them “pretentious,” which made me laugh. You can’t be pretentious about macros. They’re not, like, fine art. But it’s just Kevin being Kevin. He just calls anything he hates “pretentious.”

That’s because what Kevin really hates is pretentious people. He hates when people put on airs and pretend to be cooler than they are.

That sure isn’t how I operate. And he loves me. He’s proven that time and again. So I gotta accept it. That’s what my therapist says.

And I believe every word of his constant “I love yous,” for so many reasons. Like, this schmoopy across-the-table gaze thing is a two-way street. If you could see the way he’s looking at me right now… Puppy dog eyes, I swear. He’s toying with my hand and picks it up to kiss it gently. This sweet gesture earns us a snort of derision from this jacked guy walking past our table.

He is exactly who I’ve always secretly feared is Kevin’s type. Expensive fitted clothes that are made to look like they’re off-the-rack. Tattoos that highlight how thick his neck is and how burly his bicep is. I hate him already.

He’s clearly about to say something, but Kevin shoots him a glare and says “keep walking, pal.”

And the guy does keep walking. If only every problem in life had such a simple solution.

As soon as my food shows up, I need to pee. I can’t explain how this always happens to me. But it’s like clockwork. While I’m peeing, I type a reply to my sister Julia’s latest text. It takes longer than I anticipated, and I eventually snap out of my phone trance, realizing that a few minutes have passed since I left our table.

I wash my hands and dry them in a rush, pushing the restroom door open with my hip and hurrying back to my seat…which is currently being occupied by a big, burly man. The guy who scoffed at us earlier. Douchebag stole my seat! I storm up to the table, preparing to eloquently tell him off, but - finding myself unprepared - all I can say is, “what the fuck?” The stranger looks at me like I’m the dirt underneath his shoe.

“What’s up, little man?” he says in a casual voice laced with condescension.

“You’re in my seat,” I say though gritted teeth.

“No, I’m in my seat,” he says.

I change tacks and turn to my boyfriend. “Kevin, tell him that’s my seat.”

Kevin just shrugs and says, “He’s been sitting here the whole time, pal, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Is this some sort of prank? Is this some friend of Kevin’s from the gym that he got to help him mess with me or something? I start to say something else when I see Kevin rest his hand on the interloper’s thigh. He’s squeezing the bulky muscle and sliding his hand too close to his crotch for comfort. I don’t think Kevin would do that just to prank me. It’s too cruel.

“Jesus, Kevin,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. “Right in front of me? That’s rich. After all the times you said my worries were unfounded. That you loved me for me.”

“Why would I tell you I loved you?” Kevin asks. He has a quizzical expression that seems genuine, and I’m lost for words yet again.

“Yeah, you’re really not his type,” says the other guy, who needs to stay out of this.

“Of course I’m his type,” I spit out.

“No offense,” says Kevin, looking me up and down, “but you’re really not. Honestly, I’m sure a lot of guys dig your vibe, but it’s a bit pretentious for me. I much prefer my big oaf here.” He accompanies that last statement by grabbing the stranger’s shoulder and giving it an affectionate little rub with his thumb.

I feel like he’s just dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. “Pretentious? Pretentious? How can you call me pretentious when this guy is wearing designer sunglasses and has a neck tattoo?”

“It’s called style, man,” says the stranger.

“Shut up, I’m not talking to you,” I spit back.

“Hey, hey,” says Kevin. “Let’s not be rude to my boyfriend.”

Hearing him say the word “boyfriend” practically made my brain implode. I gaped at him mutely, like a fish who was just unexpectedly pulled from the water onto dry land.

I can feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “You told me you loved me not 12 minutes ago. Now you’re feeling up some other guy in front of me and calling me pretentious. What gives?”

Kevin narrows his eyes. “What aren’t you getting? I have no reason to love you. And why wouldn’t I call you pretentious? How else would you describe that outfit?”

My sweater? I look down, confused, only to see the thick woven fibers of my top blending together into a smooth texture. As the uniform green-blue color begins to turn mottled and patchy, fading into a design of autumn leaves, the collar droops, the opening getting looser and looser to reveal first my clavicle, and then my entire bare torso as the entire sweater splits in half down the front. Buttons sprout from one side and I hastily do them up, blushing, but not quite registering that my hands stop just halfway up, leaving half my hairless chest on display. A chest that looks a bit skinner, a bit more hollow than I remember.

I feel a breeze around my ankles and look down to see that my blue jeans have become baggy, tan capris that flutter around my knees. It looks like a garment that an extra in an Indiana Jones movie would wear.

I reach out hesitantly to touch the soft fabric, light glinting off a pair of chunky rings that now adorn my hand. I feel overwhelmed by the sudden shift in my clothes. I feel dizzy… I feel-

Kevin clears his throat and I realize I have been letting his question hang in the air.

“My outfit’s not pretentious,” I say, jerking my chin toward the stranger. “Like he said, it’s called style.”

“But what about your hair? Don’t tell me that’s not pretentious.”

My hair? What about my hair? I reach up to pat it and my fingers get tangled up as the strands start growing around them, flowing around my knuckles like a river current making way for a set of boulders. My hair extends down past my nose and past my chin, eventually settling atop my shoulders in wild waves that tickle my exposed neck.

The tickling increases as my clean-shaven face suddenly explodes with bristles. I untangle my fingers from my hair to poke at my cheeks in shock as prickly stubble gives way to patchy growth, eventually becoming a soft and downy beard that feels heavenly to touch. I do use a good conditioner, after all.

I grab a hair tie from around my wrist and do up my hair in a messy bun, then return to answering Kevin’s questions. I’m still angry with him, because of… Because of why again? Oh yeah, he called me pretentious.

“For your information, I happen to look hot like this. Haven’t you noticed?” I ask. “It’s not pretentious to want to look your best.”

“OK, sure,” said Kevin, “But it’s more about the way you think. The way you carry yourself. The way you think your opinion matters more than anybody else’s.”

That statement sends me reeling. Kevin knows everything about the way I think, and he knows I’m not like that. I would never… listen to the opinions of just anyone.

I mean, if I only watched what the mainstream watched, I’d have wasted my time watching those Transformers movies in high school instead of exploring New Queer Cinema classics. Was I better than my classmates because I was watching The Watermelon Woman and The Living End? Well, yes. Yes I was.

If I only listened to what the mainstream listened to, my lovely, beat-up, vintage record player would only ever be used to play the latest Taylor Swift releases. I shudder at the thought.

If I only drank what the mainstream drank, I’d be imbibing that burnt swill that Starbucks serves up on every street corner.

But still… pretentious? I open my mouth to speak again when the big guy cuts me off.

“OK, look…” he says, squinting squints at my name tag “Andrew, is it?”

“Actually, it’s Anders,” I say, rolling my eyes. People are always getting my name wrong. It annoys the shit out of me.

“Anders. Why are you standing here arguing with my boyfriend and I? Don’t you have something you should be doing?”

I briefly think that what I should be doing is correcting his grammar. It’s “my boyfriend and me.” But then I snap out of it. Of course I have something I should be doing.

“Yes, of course. Sorry about that, sir. Well, you indicated on your digital menu that you prefer more bitterness in your coffee, so I think you’re going to want to start with this new blend we just got in, using beans from South Africa. The soil there really…”

———

After my shift ends, I brew a cup of coffee just for myself, which is my favorite part of the day. It's so nice to remind myself that my tastes are perfect. In spite of my expertise as a coffee sommelier, people always chose the safe, boring options instead of the exuberant, rich beverage experiences that they could have had if they actually listened to me.

Like that couple earlier. The buff dude didn’t even smell the South African beans I recommended. He and his boyfriend just went for the regular Americano. And get this… they asked if we had milk for them to put into it. For crying out loud!

They called me pretentious, but that’s only because they wouldn’t know taste if it bit them on the ass. I shake my head and take another sip, letting the deliciously bitter taste wash the memory of those shitty customers away.

#hipster tf #cuck tf #manbun tf #beard tf

(Speculative scenario) A confident, athletic gay man runs afoul of his boyfriend’s sister, a witch who uses her power to transform him, body and mind, into her twinky submissive straight sub.

[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts! Thank you to @rowdy317 for submitting the first image a few months back. Also, this story contains gay-to-straight themes. Read my ethos on G2S stories here.]

“Ugh, why are you always dragging me to your sister’s place?” I ask my boyfriend, Van. “She gives me the creeps.”

“Nessa’s my twin sister, Ethan,” said Van, rolling his eyes. “I’m not gonna cut her off just because you have a bone to pick with how often she talks about crystals.”

“Crystals don’t do shit, though.” I grumbled. It’s true. You don’t get to look like me (below) by manifesting on a mood board or wishing on a star or whatever. It takes hard goddamn work.

I spent about an hour holding my tongue while Van and Nessa chattered about this and that, but by the time they were drawing up birth charts for two of their high school friends to see if they were going to get together soon, I’d had enough.

“Sorry, Nessa,” I said, scraping my chair as I stood up. “Van and I have to go. I forgot. We have an appointment.”

Nessa glared at me. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Just be honest with me. Why do you want to leave?”

I sighed. She wanted honesty, she was gonna get it, Van be damned.

“All this stuff is bullshit, Nessa. You’re wasting my time with it. And you’re wasting Van’s time. He’s so smart, but every time he comes home from hanging out with you, I feel like he’s dropped 10 IQ points.”

I heard a huff as Van stormed out of the room. Fuck. I was trying to hurt Nessa, not my boyfriend.

Nessa ran after Van. I could hear her whispering something to him, but I couldn’t make out the words. All I could hear was him whispering back, “do it.”

Nessa came back into the room, alone. Her face was bright red. She was holding what looked like a Cabbage Patch doll with abs drawn on in Sharpie. Without saying a word, she walked up to me, snipped a lock of my hair with a pair of scissors I didn’t know she had been carrying, used those scissors to rip a hole in the back of the doll, and stuffed in the hair.

“Um, Nessa, what the fuck are you-“

“You will not speak unless spoken to,” she spit out. My jaw snapped shut. I tried to say something in my defense, but the words died in my throat before they could reach my tongue. Shit. Something bad was happening. I couldn’t tell what it was, exactly, but it had something to do with the doll. I needed to get it away from her.

I made a move to bum rush her and knock it out of her hands when she spoke again. “You will not move until I say you can. You don’t want to hurt me.”

She was right. My anger hadn’t dissipated at all, but her safety was my top priority. She was my boyfriend’s twin sister, after all. I couldn’t hurt a hair on her head. Speaking of heads, mine was itching something fierce. I tried to scratch it, but found that I couldn’t move my arms.

“I know where I’m going, but how exactly do I get there…” she muttered to herself, cryptically. After a moment of thought, her jaw set.

“You’re cute,” is the first thing she said next, which weirded me out. That’s definitely not where I thought she was going with all this. Was she doing this to… flirt with me?

I noticed movement in the mirror behind her head. I looked up, hoping to see Van. Maybe he could save me.

But the movement was… me. More specifically, it was my head. My bristly, short beard was fading away to nothingness as my hair was surging from my follicles, outward and upward, losing its coarse texture and fading to a bright blond as a messy fringe descended over my forehead.

As this happened, my jaw softened. My nose got rounder. My lips plumped up. And all of a sudden… I was cute. I used to thrill in my sheer, raw masculinity, but now my face was just… cute. My body hair also shrank away, leaving me completely hairless except for my armpits and my crotch. I could still feel gravity pulling on the hair in those areas.

At least I still had my muscles.

As if she could read my mind, what Nessa said next was “You only go to the gym a couple times a week.”

Fuck. This was bad. This was bad, bad, not good. I tried to run. I couldn’t. All I could do was stare in the mirror as the majority of my muscles drained away. I was still muscular once it stopped, but more toned. Boyish, even.

Nessa spoke again before I could even process this latest change. “You’re straight,” she said.

OK, she had done a lot of creepy shit already, but there was no way she could erase my memories of Van. Of… defending him in high school, trying to beat up anybody who called him a slur. I was an ally, after all. Then again, I should have been less hot-headed, because I lost those fights more often than I won them.

I looked back up at Nessa, suddenly noticing how her breasts pushed against her shirt. My dick got hard in my pants. Fuck, how had I never noticed how alluring she was?

“You love me,” she said.

She was right. Dopamine flooded my system and I smiled at her like a goof.

“You’re dumb and you will do everything I say,” she said, as if that wasn’t true already. I loved her so goddamn much that I trusted her way more than myself when it came to making decisions.

———

The doorbell rang just as I finished cleaning up after a marathon fuck session with Nessa. I wrapped a towel around myself and opened the door to see Van on the porch with his new boyfriend, Dylan.

They were carrying supplies to make vision boards. I stared at them hard, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do next.

“Let them in, dumbfuck,” Nessa said, walking up behind me.

“Oh. Yes, Nessa. Yes, of course.” I stepped out of the way, beckoning them in. “Come on in, you two. Sorry, something slipped my mind. That’s been happening a lot lately.”

#gay to straight tf #jock tf #cuck tf #quick and dirty tf

Write a story where an attractive twentysomething gay couple is spending the day at the beach. One of them realizes that every time he burps, the nearest gay person transforms into a stereotypical straight guy. Nobody else notices. The curse eventually effects his boyfriend and, when there are no more gay people on the beach, himself.

Also, I realized I can get to the good stuff even quicker if I don’t have to describe the main characters in detail at the beginning of the story. So I used the first few seconds of my time to pull the kickoff image from the stash on my hard drive.

Also, this story (obviously) contains gay-to-straight themes. Read my ethos on G2S stories here.]

Hi, I’m Brad (right). I don’t know if this is a specifically Spanish thing or not, but my boyfriend Javier (left) is so prudish when it comes to me burping in front of him that I do like to make fun of him for how posh and European it is. Making fun of him, alas, does not always make up for my discomfort in trying to keep any gas down when he is in the room.

Thankfully, he has just left our beach blanket to go to the bathroom. I know he’ll be spending a good 15 minutes hovering around the toilet not trying to touch anything gross (good luck), so I breathe a sigh of relief. Really, I burp a sigh of relief. That soda I had earlier has been acting up, and I’ve been holding it in all day.

I feel a bit better now, so I look back at the blanket to our right, hoping to catch a glimpse of that sexy twunk who’s been tanning there all morning. But I guess he left, or something. There’s a new guy there now. A real conservative-looking businessman guy with a tight slickback who’s typing furiously on his phone. Why’d he even come to the beach, if he was just going to work the whole time?

I pop in my earbuds and cue up my Kim Petras playlist before picking back up with my people-watching. I spy two men splashing each other playfully in the surf. They’re both skinny, white, and a bit sunburned. One has long hair that reaches all the way to his ass, while the other has a bleach blond buzz cut. They share a kiss, and I feel my insides go all gooey. Aww, I love love.

No, wait. The gooey feeling inside me is another burp struggling to break free. I make sure Javier isn’t around and let one rip, then turn back to the couple in the surf. Something has changed since I first looked away, though.

The buzz cut guy is still there, but he’s standing next to some frat guy with dark black hair that swoops over his forehead. He has bulging biceps and a Delta Lambda tattoo on his thick quad. They don’t seem to know each other. They’re just standing around. The frat guy whistles at a lady in a bikini who is emerging from the surf, while the buzzcut guy seems to be trying to stop himself from checking out his guns. He doesn’t seem worried about where his boyfriend went. Well, then I guess I shouldn’t be, either.

It isn’t until my third burp that I notice what’s happening. It comes in quick succession after the second, so I know that Javier couldn’t possibly be nearby, and I just let it go while watching the pair of strangers in the surf.

But as soon as my burp explodes from my mouth, reality seems to… ripple, somehow. The buzz cut guy clutches his head. His hair darkens from blond to chestnut brown, growing rapidly and seeming to bounce as it rises into the air, forming a stiff, gelled quiff. Muscles explode across his frame, tearing his shirt off. The fabric falls, seeming to catch on his short shorts and extend them somehow, transforming them into blue and green board shorts. A Delta Lamba tattoo quickly etches itself across his newly mountainous pec, and all of a sudden, he pulls a NERF football out of nowhere. He and the black-haired guy toss it back and forth, guffawing like they’re best friends.

What the fuck just happened? What should I do? Should I… call a doctor? They don’t seem to be in pain. But a guy just transformed!

I yelp as Javier’s hand descends on my shoulder in greeting. I wasn’t expecting him, and I let out an involuntary burp in my surprise. His grip on my shoulder tightens and I turn to face him. His face is screwed up, but then it relaxes. His long hair has fallen over his face, but it begins to retract. Only at the front. The sun-bleached overtones of his hair fade to a neutral brown as his bangs recede into a short, conservative cut. All business. Unlike the party that’s now in the back.

Curly chest hair sprays out from around his nipples and in the center of his pecs, eradicating the waxed look I am used to him sporting. His speedo transforms into a pair of American flag board shorts, and he turns to me, grinning. “Thanks for inviting me to the beach, Brad. So many hot chicas out today. Would you mind if I took one of them home with me? Sorry, I know it’s not proper couch-crashing etiquette, but… damn!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Javier?” I ask.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Fancypants. The name is Jake. Has been since we met in college, pal. Whatcha talking about with this foreign nonsense?”

He scratches his ass, lets out a burp, and plops onto the towel next to me, scrupulously leaving a foot or so between us while lowering his sunglasses to check out a pair of women who are walking by.

I’m about to say something else, but what comes out instead is another burp. I feel the pressure in my gut finally loosen. Actually, my entire gut loosens. My abs are eaten up by a beer belly that has emerged from my formerly flat abdomen. My pecs deflate slightly and settle on top of it, as dark blond hair rushes across my entire torso. I can feel it fluffing up in my armpits and rushing down my legs, too. It tickles my face as a full beard sprouts, standing out against my otherwise bald head.

“So whaddya say, Bubba? Do we take some ladies home at our earliest convenience?” asks Jake.

I think about that for a second. I was definitely just worrying about something, but it seems to have slipped my mind. No use trying to figure out what it was. Life’s a breeze if you let go of the stupid shit.

I guess I am a little disgruntled because I had wanted to spend some time working on my bike with Jake when he was in town, but it has been a few weeks since I’ve gotten some action. I shrug. Why the hell not? We pick up our stuff and head to the nearest bar to see who would be down to let a couple good ol’ boys buy them some shots.

#gay to straight tf #frat tf #redneck tf #quick and dirty tf

I've also added an image, just for vibes, but the story wasn't written to it, so it doesn't exactly match the characters.]

Prompt (from @scorpionofredsand): Write me a story where two handsome Indian gay guys in their 20s are madly in love one is adventurous and the other is a textbook nice guy.

He is kind and caring, but too much, he likes to play by the book and is clean-shaven. And the other guy loves him but wants to experience more with him especially roleplay. But the other guy is too vanilla for it.

So, he looks around on the internet and finds a potion that can bring out the hidden wild animal in even timid people. This potion he buys is named " Badass Greaser ".

He knows his boyfriend will not agree to this so he spikes his drink that night. As they are done with dinner and he drinks the last of his spiked wine.

He starts to behave differently. Horny and doesn't give a damn attitude. His clothes start to morph into a Greaser's, and he starts to grow a short beard in the blink of an eye. Finally, his hair starts to get really greasy like he used a whole tub of pomade, then it starts to slick back, straight back, with no volume in his hair due to being heavy with oily pomade, on its own as if a comb is running through them making deep comb lines. His boyfriend lights a cigar. And calls himself a different name. They have a wild night.

——

Ranbir wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t sure if he should be spiking Vinod’s drink like this. It felt… wrong. Vinod’s voice was in the back of his head, scolding him.

But… Vinod’s voice was always there. Inside his head and outside of it. Vinod was lovely. Handsome, intelligent, super funny. But he was such a stick in the mud sometimes. Ranbir wanted adventure, he wanted risk!

Vinod was perfectly happy being safe and vanilla, both in the bedroom and with the way he looked. Ranbir wanted to role-play, but whenever Vinod tried, he broke character immediately and started laughing like goddamn Jimmy Fallon, and then they’d be back to nice old missionary sex. And Ranbir knew Vinod would look so good with more hair on his face, but Vinod worried that ingrown hairs would throw a wrench in his skincare routine. His golden-brown skin was gorgeous, but Ranbir thought a beard was well worth the risk.

Honestly, Ranbir was lucky that Vinod even let him keep his own mustache. Ranbir wanted to just let the stubble flow, but the stern looks from his boyfriend constantly nipped that in the bud.

You know what? The “Badass Greaser” potion probably didn’t work, anyway. The Internet ad had promised it would bring out the wild animal in Vinod, but he had only bought it because he’d been on a tipsy online shopping binge while sneaking a few extra beers in the middle of the night. He didn’t actually think it would work. Not really. Not in his heart of hearts. It was probably just water with food coloring. Fuck it. He dumped it into Vinod’s wine and stirred it thoroughly.

He gave it a sniff. It smelled like a normal glass of wine. Perfect. Vinod gratefully took the glass when Ranbir returned to the dining room with it.

“What took you so long, hun?” he asked.

“Um… Trouble with the cork,” Ranbir lied.

They continued their lovely anniversary dinner as Vinod nursed the wine. Always so careful. Everything in moderation. But as he tipped the last drops down his throat, a full body shudder overtook him.

He grabbed a chicken leg from the platter and began to gnaw on it feverishly, like he’d forgotten every table manner he’d ever scolded Ranbir about. Juice was splattering everywhere, staining Vinod’s nice burgundy button-down. Vinod hated stains even more than he hated bad manners, but when he looked down, he just laughed. He unbuttoned the shirt and removed it, revealing his tight white undershirt. His dark armpit hair bristled from the too-tight sleeves. Had it shrunk in the wash?

He stood up to throw his shirt through the door into the bedroom, yelling “three-pointer!” and pretending there was a cheering crowd around him. Ranbir was so shocked by his boyfriend’s uncouth behavior that it was a while before his eyes tracked downward and he noticed something odd. Had Vinod worn leather pants to dinner?

Vinod returned to the chicken leg, gnawing voraciously. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and as it swiped across his face, a shadow seemed to follow it. Black hairs surged out of the follicles on his cheeks, billowing around his mouth from left to right. They grew longer and longer, curling slightly as they surged into a full-on short beard, making his jaw look dashing and manly, like Ranbir had always pictured.

Ranbir felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. Vinod noticed the look his boyfriend was giving him and he winked. “See anything you like, babydoll?” he asked.

All Ranbir could do was nod. Vinod got back up, adjusted his leather jacket (When had he put that on? Did he even own that?) and walked around the table to sit in Ranbir’s lap, facing him.

“You want to stroke it, don’t you, babydoll? Do it.”

Ranbir stroked the beard with shaking hands, wondering if he was hallucinating. He wasn’t. The soft hairs caressed the pads of his fingers and he grew hard in his trousers. Vinod helped him along by grinding his ass into his crotch. This was… so unlike him.

So was his hair. His short, conservative business cut had become disheveled, but his bangs were dangling lower than they ever had before. They grew and grew, falling from eyebrow height down over his eyes and nose.

As if blown by an invisible gale, his hair was suddenly swept back of his own accord. It was puffy at first, but an invisible comb seemed to be running thick lines through it. Again. And again. Like crop circles in a field of corn. The lines got deeper and deeper as the invisible comb swept back again and again. His hair became slicker and shinier each time the grooves deepened. Eventually, his hair was completely plastered to his head, shiny with what must have been pomade. Pomade that had come from thin air.

Vinod lit a cigar. That was the last straw. Vinod hated cigars. Ranbir said, “Vinod, baby, what’s going on?”

Vinod shook his head. “I’m not Vinod anymore. Call me Vinny.” He stuck his tongue into Ranbir’s mouth and slipped his hand down his pants, roughly shoving first one finger, then two, into his boyfriend. Ranbir quivered. This was going to be a great night.

#greaser tf #couple tf

A shy, nerdy college student gets invited to a legendary fraternity party. The longer he stays inside the packed house, the more he changes. His body rapidly grows larger and more muscular, transforming into a massive superheavyweight bodybuilder with broad shoulders, huge arms, and an imposing presence. His clothes shift into stereotypical jock fashion—tank tops, athletic shorts, a backwards cap, and flashy accessories. His hair, attitude, and mannerisms change as well, becoming increasingly cocky, outgoing, and frat-oriented. As the night goes on, his academic interests and complex thoughts fade away, replaced by a simpler, more carefree mindset. By sunrise, he's become the fraternity's biggest and most popular jock, and nobody remembers he was ever anyone else.

Melvin tugged at his collar. Damn, it was muggy in the frat house. He suddenly understood why the Delta Chi boys wore tank tops all the time. He wondered how much longer he had to stay in order to fulfill his promise to his roommate that he’d “have fun.”

As if. “Fun” wasn’t a kegger with a bunch of bros he barely knew. “Fun” was a Star Trek marathon. “Fun” was making a spreadsheet of the different morphs that each Animorphs character had, and assessing which character had the most morphs of certain genuses.

Speak of the devil, his roommate, Cole, appeared from the crowd of sweaty bodies like Moses parting the Red Solo Cup sea. He had two beers in his hand and offered one to Melvin, who took it gingerly after Cole popped the cap open with his bicep.

Melvin planned to just politely hold it until Cole went away. He didn’t drink. Cole nudged him and whispered, at the top of his lungs. “Don’t worry, it’s non-alcoholic! Just drink it, bro! Loosen up!”

With that, he patted Melvin on the shoulder and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Melvin took a sip. Alcoholic or not, he usually wasn’t into hoppy flavors, but this one went down smoothly. He shrugged and took another sip.

He instantly felt dizzy, but not from the drink. The floor had suddenly zoomed away from him, like he’d been picked up by a crane or something. But no, his feet were still touching the ground. He was just… taller. He did some quick calculations based on triangulating the height of the nearest doorway with the empty beer bottle that was standing upright on the carpet and assessed that he must be well over six feet.

Was he dreaming? That was the only way to explain the sudden change in altitude. And the only way to explain what happened next, which was that he inflated like somebody had plugged his brother’s old bicycle pump into his ass. His shoulders spread apart like magnets on opposing poles. His chest rose to fill the gap, giving him mountainous pecs that burst open the top few buttons of his shirt. He could barely see over them, but as he craned his neck, he noticed the fabric of his button-down, which was straining at the top, ripple as his slight gut receded, no longer pressing against his shirt as it was converted into a set of abs. His legs ballooned. His quadriceps first. And then one gastrocnemius after the other.

His arms kept inflating even after the rest of the movement had settled, making him full-on Johnny Bravo top-heavy. He dizzily tipped left and right. He hoped the dream would end soon. He worried that maybe the beer had contained alcohol and he had passed out. He fretted that this dream dizziness would ultimately result in him choking on his own vomit.

He tugged at his shirt collar again, but it slipped away from his grasp like a bar of soap in the shower. He grabbed at it, but it wasn’t there anymore. From what he could see around his pecs, the button-down had morphed into a bright pink stringer tank, over a pair of neon yellow shorts. And he was… barefoot? Disgusting! A musky, funky smell tickled his nostrils. Even though his increased height should make the possibility unlikely, considering how well-groomed he was, he worried that the stench was coming from his feet.

A sudden weight fell upon his head. A cap. Of course. But why was it all wonky? It was facing forward. That didn’t feel right. He twisted it around backward, and all his nerves were instantly quelled.

Whatever was going on, he finally looked like all the other guys at a party he was attending. This was his first time, and he was gonna enjoy it.

He decided to join the beer pong game, but first he adjusted the brown hair that stuck out of his cap, pushing it upward into a gravity-defying quiff and enjoying how it shimmered as it faded to a bright blond.

He crowded around the beer pong table, bragging that “I’m a one man team! Brain and Brawn all in one!”

He scored shot after shot on the other team, alternately flexing his newfound muscles and bragging about his academic accomplishments. He was about to pull out his phone and show the video of him answering the final question at the academic decathlon, but he got distracted by a video of him doing deadlifts in the gym. He chubbed up in his pants. God, he looked so hot.

While he was distracted, the other team had dumped all their ping pong balls into his cups. He drank cup after cup, not noticing that as the beer filled up his stomach, it also drained his brain. By the end of his final chug, he couldn’t even remember how to pronounce “decathlon,” let alone remember what his correct answer was. But as he shrugged off his tank to wipe beer foam from his lips, the stares from guys and girls alike were more than worth the things he had forgotten. Whatever they were.

#frat tf #quick and dirty tf #muscle growth tf #brain drain tf

I have a few friends right now who are trying to wean off of using AI for TF role-playing and stories, and it has me thinking.

I get why AI is tempting. It seems like a quick-and-dirty solution for getting personalized TF stories. But any of the AI output I’ve read is just quick, without the dirty. The stories are ALMOST something, but never quite satisfying.

So I want to do an experiment. A bit of a competition with our future robot overlords. I can’t generate five paragraphs in a few seconds like AI can. But I AM a human, with human thoughts and feelings and turn-ons. I want to take on a few AI writing prompts and see what I can turn them into, given a strict time limit.

So, if you an AI dabbler, I’d love if you’d use my asks to send me a short story prompt you’ve submitted to a generative AI bot recently.

I’m going to even the playing field a bit by giving myself a little more time, while still operating in a fast-paced, immediate-turnaround style. I will give myself exactly 20 minutes of no-prep, stream-of-consciousness writing time and see what comes out.

I cant promise it’ll actually be any good. And I definitely can’t promise I’ll use all the prompts, or even that many of them. But my hope is to do at least one today. If I like writing it, and especially if YOU like reading it, hopefully I can do a few more in the coming weeks.

The Method

“Jeremy, we’ll be ready for you in five.”

“For the last time, call me Marlon,” I said.

The PA rolled her eyes and said, “Marlon, we’ll be ready for you in five,” before ducking her head back out from the door to my dressing room.

My dressing room. I couldn’t believe it. I had always dreamed of being an actor, and I had finally earned a big enough platform as an influencer that Hollywood came a-knocking. Well, knocking just loud enough to get me a bit part in an Elia Kazan biopic, playing Marlon Brando in a scene set during the filming of A Streetcar Named Desire.

Still, I wanted to take this as seriously as possible. Marlon Brando was a method actor. He got into the headspace of his characters by embodying them both on and off camera, and I decided to do the same thing when it came to portraying Brando himself.

I had used the money from one of my latest sponsored posts to furnish my dressing room entirely with furniture and decorations from 1950 and before. I had also bought a white tank top and hat from eBay that Brando had supposedly worn on set, which cost a pretty penny, let me tell you.

I swiped through my phone, picking the best image from the photoshoot I did while wearing the tank top on the way to set. I picked the best one to post later and sighed.

I didn’t really look like Brando. And because of that, I didn’t feel like Brando. I figured that maybe, even with the decor, having my modern phone with me was too distracting, preventing me from getting in character. I put it on silent and hid it in a drawer. I jammed the Brando hat onto my head, accidentally giving myself a nasty static shock in the process, and considered myself in the mirror.

I still looked like an influencer cosplaying as Brando, not Brando. I pursed my lips, trying to look moody. Hey, that kinda worked... If I squinted my eyes just right…

I pursed my lips even more. Yeah, that was almost the look. I squinted again and imagined Brando’s face in the mirror. I guess my imagination must have been pretty powerful, because I could have sworn I saw my lips swell to twice their size, becoming plump, sultry. I quirked them in a half smile that looked exactly like Brando. I was getting the hang of this!

I squinted again, trying to manifest Brando even more. As I envisioned his thick, straight eyebrows, my own meticulously plucked brows seemed to lose their arch and darken with new growth. Wow, was I getting the hang of The Method or what? I imagined his nose and my nostrils flared. His eyes. Mine grew darker and sparkled soulfully. His hair. The color lightened to Brando’s exact shade, and it even gained the slight wave that the hairdresser had tried and failed to force my trendy textured cut to adopt.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw Marlon Brando’s head on top of my skinny body. I believed in that head, so it was real. I just needed to believe in everything else, too. I needed to get in my body. I thought about what Brando might have been doing to prepare to play Stanley, his brutish, animalistic, character from Streetcar.

Maybe he… grunted and pounded his chest? I tried that, feeling more and more resistance against my fists as my slim chest perked up into meaty pecs, more solid bulk than gym-honed muscle. Maybe he fucked with the furniture? I tipped over the couch in a faux rage, and it felt easier than it should have as my biceps inflated to become similarly meaty. Lamplight reflected off my forearms, which flexed into corded muscular appendages that were increasingly flecked with light brown hair.

I started to get really into it. I thrashed about, tugging at my tank top as a solid set of abs rose from my flat stomach and a smattering of brown hairs curled across my chest. I started breathing heavily, trying to breathe in as Jeremy and out as Brando.

In. Out. I wondered if I should have gotten out my phone so I could film my preparation. It could have made a good BTS video.

In. Out. I pondered the curious thought that had previously popped into my head. How could the rotary telephone in my dressing room have a camera in it? I had just seen on set how big modern cameras were. There’s no way one of those could fit into that thing.

In. Out. Wait, was something weird going on? Was I hallucinating? I wondered if should get out my phone and look up my symptoms on WebMD.

In. Out. Yeah, something didn’t feel right. I decided that I should definitely call the operator to find me the number of the nearest doctor.

I started sweating severely, so I stopped my breathing exercise. I also felt a little muddled and confused. What had I just been thinking about? All I could remember was thinking that I needed to get out a thing that I had just put away in a drawer. I opened the drawer to find a bottle of beer. Of course! My prop bottle. Couldn’t go on set without that. I took a hearty swig.

I whipped off my tank top and put on the shirt I was meant to wear for the next scene.

“Marlon, we’re ready for you,” the PA said, poking her head back in the door.

“For the last time, call me Stanley,” I said.

People didn’t get what I was going for with The Method. Yet. I knew that I had just one chance to prove myself with this movie, and I was going to make the most of it. When it came out, people were going to see what I was capable of.

1951 was going to be my year.

#celebrity tf #historical tf

Short: Only a Fan

[Quick mental TF. Content Warning for mild gay-to-straight themes. Read my ethos on G2S stories here. Thank you to @twistedtfs for the second gif and @misctf for the final image.]

Not to brag, but sometimes I can’t believe how hot my boyfriend, Nick, is. And it’s so sweet, because he treats me like I’m completely out of his league! Look at him nervously adjusting his hair as we prepare for a bit of Zoom sex while he’s on his business trip.

He greets me in his oh-so soft voice, we catch up about our days for a bit, and then we get down to business. He loves it when I tell him what to do. I tell him to tweak his left nipple, and he does, moaning with pleasure. I tell him to run his hand through that forest of delicious chest hair and he does. I slow my stroking down, because I’m already dangerously close and I haven’t even seen his dick yet.

I tell him to grab it, tantalizingly out of frame, and he does. His face lights up, awash with erotic ecstasy, as if this is the first time he’s ever felt this good. It turns me on so much that I’m doing this to him. I tell him to stroke it, slowly, and he does, his eyes going heavy-lidded.

He starts getting into it, stroking faster. I don’t want him to get too ahead of himself, so I tell him to slow back down, and he… doesn’t. “Baby?” I say. “Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t respond, but as I’m testing out my audio settings, I turn up the volume on my headphones and I can hear faint female moaning in the background. And a man grunting. Is Nick watching porn in another window? I feel hurt at first, but I'm sure I'm just imagining things.

I try calling his name again, but he clearly can’t hear me, so I open the Zoom chat.

Baby, can you hear me? Why aren’t you responding?, I type with one hand, my stroking growing even slower.

He just keeps jerking his cock. He starts to grunt, the noise sounding deeper than it usually does.

I go to type in the chat again, but I notice that there are more messages there than before. Did he respond?

No, he didn’t. But it seems like Zoom is glitching. My own message is being repeated, in a bunch of random permutations. Is it just regurgitating everything I’ve ever typed to him? The messages are popping up, almost too fast to read.

Nick, why aren’t you responding to me?

Baby, read my messages!

Darling, you’re looking so hot tonight, you should run your fingers through your chest hair.

Nick, we should collab sometime!

What? That last one seems weird. I've definitely never said that. I look closer and realize that it was a message from a completely different user. Had other people hacked our private Zoom? I force quit the Zoom app, but Nick still fills my screen, jerking and grunting even faster now.

I realize that somebody must have hacked our call, because his feed is being pumped directly into some camboy chat site that has automatically opened on my computer. That probably explains the hetero porn noises I was hearing. I guess that was coming from some pop-up or something on my end.

It dawns on me what all those other messages are. They're from people watching my boyfriend jerk off! What the fuck? I feel a surge of jealousy and start typing furiously.

Baby, you need to call me right now.

He doesn’t seem to notice my message among the deluge of commenters. I try again.

Baby, I love you. Please stop ignoring me, this is serious.

Nothing. One more try.

Baby, why aren’t you responding to my messages?

That seems to catch his attention. His gaze slowly lifts from his dick. Thank goodness. He had been caught up in the moment, but now his attention is returning to me. He would end the feed, call me, and we would laugh about this embarrassing hack.

His sweet, doleful eyes look directly at me.

I let go of my now limp cock, suddenly realizing I was still holding it. Nick opens his mouth and says, “Dude, you know I only respond to messages if you tip. 10 tokens per message. 100 tokens gets you a pic. And 1000 tokens gets you a private show.”

What the hell? Does he not recognize my username or something? I type again.

Baby, it’s me, Garrett. Please talk to me.

He looks at the message with absolutely no recognition in his eyes. “Garrett, being annoying will only get you banned. If I chatted with everybody who asked me to without tipping, I’d be on here all day every day. And I’ve got a date with my girlfriend tonight, so…”

He gives another few quick grunts. Cum splatters all over his chest, twinkling in the mat of hair I love to run my tongue through. The feed goes dead, leaving me sitting alone, naked, in my dark bedroom.

Fuck, that Nick guy is so hot. I hate when he cums before I do, forcing me to find some other feed to get off to. I start stroking my cock again and click through the other feeds, finding a hot cub lounging in his underwear.

My half-mast dick turns rock hard. That’ll do.

With one hand, I type.

Baby, you’re so sexy.

Baby, I love you.

Baby, why aren’t you responding to my messages?

#tf story #mental tf #boyfriend tf #cuck tf

Short: Flipped

[Thank you to @mindyourbod for contributing the first image, @occamstfs for contributing the second, and @rowdy317 for contributing the third.]

Greg Andews had the Midas touch. Every property he flipped turned to gold. He had the perfect body, the perfect job, and the perfect home. And why wouldn’t his home be perfect? He flipped it himself.

His day off started out great. After a nice, relaxing six-mile run and a long shower, he went to wipe the fog off the mirror so he could admire himself. But with every swipe, the glass grew grubbier and harder to see into. Weird.

Without looking, he grabbed a washcloth to clean the mirror, but as he raised it to the glass, he noticed the fabric was grimy and threadbare. Had an old cleaning rag made its way into his washcloth basket by mistake? Whatever.

He decided to just let the weird moment pass and start his post-shower routine. He grabbed his facial scrub and turned on the sink, but the second his hand touched the tap, the metal became battered and worn. The basin of the sink faded from a greenish marble pattern to a yellowish off-white hue, flecked with hairs and calcified globs of toothpaste.

And his facial scrub was nowhere to be found. In his hand was an empty bottle of generic-brand 3-in-1 shampoo with goo crusted on the lid. He threw it into the wastebasket with a look of disgust.

What the fuck was going on? He decided to forego his normal post-shower routine and get as far away as possible from whatever the hell was going on in the bathroom.

Whatever the hell it was, it followed him. When he opened the door, the pristine paint cracked and peeled as it swung. When he grabbed a pair of Calvin Klein underwear, it transformed into black briefs that were riddled with holes. Same with the next pair. When even his laundry day Hanes transformed into baggy, wrinkled, red-orange briefs, he gave up and put them on. At least they were clean.  The same wasn’t true of his socks. No matter what pair he grabbed, the second he touched them, they became grubby, smelly abominations in an unappealing spectrum of colors ranging from dark grey to full-on black (they had all clearly started off as white). He put on the least disgusting pair and decided not to touch any of his other clothes. This… situation would probably stop just as quickly as it started. Right?

It didn’t. He spent the rest of the afternoon confined to the living room, trying not to panic as everything he touched turned into something foul and slovenly. Like his framed Ansel Adams photograph, which became a battered image of the MTV logo that was clearly printed out from the Internet. Or his leather sectional sofa, which was now a dirty, folded-out futon. Even his light switch was not immune. When he touched it, his lovely chandelier became a set of string lights that had been haphazardly hung up on the wall.

He became so overwhelmed by all the changes, by all the exhausting effort that it took in order to not touch things, that he decided to just sit as still as possible while he waited for the situation to subside. He wanted to make sure not to accidentally touch his suit, which was still hanging up. He needed that for a meeting tomorrow, and this curse would definitely be fixed by tomorrow. Definitely.

He put on the news, so he could occupy his mind while he waited. It didn’t work. He threw on some old episodes of Family Guy instead. That enthralled him for several hours. It enthralled him so much that he didn’t notice his abs slowly but noticeably getting less rigid as he absent-mindedly drummed his fingers on them. Or his thighs inflating ever so slightly whenever he scratched an itch. Or the fact that he had forgotten to put on deodorant was causing him to gently reek.

Eventually, hours passed. Evening fell. He didn’t notice. He was first alerted to the time when his perfect boyfriend, Fredo, showed up at the front door, having stopped by on his way home from the gym after his shift at the fire station.

He was so excited to see Fredo that he hugged him. That was the wrong move. But as he clutched his head, staring in horror at the man his lover had become, new thoughts began to blossom in his head. Maybe a new, lower-effort life wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Greg Andrews had the Midas touch. And his life would never be golden again.

#slob tf

Short: Mean Streak

[Thank you to tarabileo for contributing the first image and @warping-realities for contributing the second. This short story is a little more intense than what I usually write, so I’m gonna slap on a big ol' content warning here for nonconsensual transformation and light BDSM.]

In hindsight, maybe I should have read the Chronivac’s instructions more carefully.

But look. If you 1) were a skinny gay guy like me (see above) who’s a recovering comic book geek and 2) discovered your high school bully on Instagram and found out that he had gotten even hotter in the past 10 years, wouldn’t you turn him gay and make him obsessed with you?

Anyway, that’s how I woke up on the couch a day or so later with Eric standing above me.

But here’s the thing: I made him obsessed with me, but I forgot to remove his mean streak. I also forgot to password-lock the Chronivac. Which he then pulled out of his back pocket. Oops.

“I’ve always wanted to fuck you, Camden,” he whispered gruffly (say what you will about the Chronivac’s security system, but the transformation protocols obviously work), “but you’re still a loser, and I can’t let you forget that.”

He punched a few buttons on the handheld device. I tried to make a grab for it, but I was instantly frozen in place. He wagged a finger at me, puckishly.

“I see you’ve been working out lately, Camden. Let’s reset all that progress. If you can even call it that.” He swiped a slider all the way to the left, and the growing biceps I had been unreasonably proud of shrank, leaving me with two toothpicks poking out of my sleeves. The small amount of muscle that I had accumulated on my chest and stomach also drained away.

Eric ripped off my shirt to inspect his work, and I shivered uncontrollably thanks to no longer having any bodily insulation.

“I want you to be my little slut, and I want everything about you to advertise that fact.” As he fiddled with the machine, my lips plumped into perfect DSLs, the seat of my jeans grew tight as my ass ballooned out into perfect bubble, my hair color faded to a crisp bleach blond, and tattoos blossomed on my shoulders that exactly matched the ones on Eric’s thighs.

“Eric,” I said in a voice that I hoped sounded calm and reasonable. “There’s no reason t-”

“Shut it, hole,” said Eric. You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.” He tapped a button and my mouth snapped shut.

“The first step toward utter devotion is lust,” he said, tapping a button. While Eric was obviously hot, him torturing me was - to put it lightly - a real turn-off, so I wasn’t hard at the time. That… changed. All of a sudden, my eyes couldn’t help drinking in every detail. I was drooling over his thick shoulders, imagining the way his stubbly goatee would feel scraping my skin, and desiring nothing more than to press my tongue to the spot of precum on his sweats. My boner was suddenly there in full force, screaming to be set free from my jeans.

“The second step is dependence,” said Eric. With a flourish, he tapped another button and everything began to drain out of me at once. Everything I learned in college was gone instantly. All the knowledge of how to do my job, too. Then went the knowledge that I had a job at all. He didn’t replace the lost knowledge with anything, so the lust surged even more, to fill in the gaps. All I could think of was his body, his face, his thick, pink cock.

I didn’t even notice Eric had allowed me to move again until I started unbuttoning my pants and cupping my bulge.

Eric spoke up, saying, “No, no! You don’t get yourself off anymore. You don’t even touch your dick anymore. You cum when I tell you to cum, and that’s only when my dick is buried in your ass and I’m done with you. So stop right there.”

I obeyed instantly. Of course I did. The happier I made him, the quicker he’d press his beautiful body against mine.

Eric smiled. “That’s more like it, hole.”

I shivered again, but this time with anticipation.

#bully #bdsm #twink #master

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