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zanzi2040

100 NSFW Questions Ask Meme

Hey. This blog’s now a year old. And we hit 3,000 followers on the same day, so we figured we’d do something fun. Here’s 100 NSFW questions we’ve come up with. Send in some numbers and you get your answer.

First kiss?

First time masturbating?

First sex toy?

First kink tried?

First time doing oral?

First time having sex? Turn Ons

Biggest turn on?

Biggest turn off?

Quickest way to get horny?

Weirdest thing that ever turned you on?

Top 3 places to be touched?

Ultimate fantasy?

Do you like the idea of a three or moresome?

Do you send nudes? Do you like receiving them? Preferences

Sex or masturbation?

Spit or swallow?

Cut or uncut dicks?

Rough or sensual sex?

Oldest person you’d sleep with?

Loud or quiet partners?

How much foreplay do you like?

How much teasing do you like?

What is too big for you to take?

Do you do hookups or only sleep with a partner?

How much kissing do you like during sex?

What’s the most attractive part of the body? Location

Favourite place to have sex?

Would you have sex in public?

Last place you had sex?

Where would you most like to have sex?

Do you like spontaneous sex, or do you need to be in the mood?

Could you go through with a hookup at a strangers house? Kinks

What’s your biggest kink?

What’s your limit?

Are you okay with name calling in bed?

Would you do any BDSM?

Do you prefer to tie somebody up or be tied up?

Favourite type of bondage?

Do you like orgasm denial/forced orgasm?

Do you like overstimulation?

Do you like having pain involved?

Do you like biting/being bitten?

Have you ever been made to/made somebody beg for it?

Do you have any strange or extreme kinks?

Have any roleplaying preferences?

Send a kink with this number. Do you have that kink? Masturbation

Do you own sex toys? How many?

Favourite Sex Toy?

What do you masturbate to?

How often do you masturbate?

How often do you use sex toys to masturbate?

Do you masturbate with penetration?

Do you go for multiple rounds or settle at one or no orgasms? Oral

Do you enjoy giving oral?

Do you prefer giving or receiving oral?

What makes you orgasm the fastest when receiving oral?

Do you have a preferred technique for giving oral?

Can you deepthroat? For people with dicks…

How long and how thick is it?

Do you do anal? Top or bottom?

Are you circumcised?

Do you like your balls being played with?

Do you enjoy prostate stimulation? Ever came from it?

Where do you like to finish? For people with vaginas…

Do you like playing with your clit?

How do you prefer to do it?

What’s your breast size?

How often do you go braless?

Do you finger yourself?

How familiar are you with your g-spot?

Do you squirt? Sex

Favourite position?

How often do you do unprotected sex?

How loud are you in bed?

Do you enjoy having nipples played with?

Do you like/dislike/love/hate cum?

How good are you at dirty talk?

Do you get sleepy after an orgasm? Other

Do you like wearing/seeing people in lingerie?

Do you masturbate or have sex with clothes on?

What’s your favourite style of underwear?

Are stockings/thigh highs a turn on?

Ever had somebody say no to a kink you suggested trying?

Do you trim, shave or leave pubic hair untouched? How do you prefer partners?

How many orgasms can you have in a day?

How many other people know your dick/bra size?

What do you wear to bed?

Do you eat ass? Do you like having your ass eaten?

Try to describe how orgasm feels for you.

Have you ever been to a strip club? How was it? If not, would you? Fun questions!

Do you name your genitalia?

What would be your stripper name?

Any funny sex stories?

What food if any would you use during sex?

Would you give somebody a sex toy as a gift?

What’s the weirdest porn you’ve ever seen?

Do you often get horny in public?

Ever used something that isn’t made for sex in the bedroom?

Have you ever walked in on somebody or been walked in on?

Do you have any friends you’d sleep with?

enms-world

Well, since we’re getting closer to 900 Followers, I figured I’d give this another shot! ASK AWAY MY BEAUTIFUL HORNY PEOPLE! I AM AN OPEN BOOK! 😅🤭☺️😏

ae-boxers

The ultimate preppy boy

succc888

enms-world

That’s right, ball sniffing loser. That’s a good little bitch boy.

Keep sniffing, licking and worshipping every inch of Alpha bro’s bulge, no matter how dirty and sweaty I am from today’s practice!

Take in every tear-jerking, gag inducing scent fuming off my swampy, hairy ass and musky crotch. Hehehe and guess what?

Your going to lick every inch of me until I’m squeaky clean, you cock loving bitch boy!

And if you miss a spot or refuse to clean an area on me? I’ll make sure that your disobeying mouth and sweet virgin-tight bussy of yours get stuffed and stretched by every single player on our team. Understand?

Good.

Then keep sniffing and cleaning me, bitch boy. Bwahahaha

libraryofnes

LORD I JUST FUCKING FAINTED. OMGGGG!!!!!!

Connor Storrie for Cultured Megazine 2025✨

verus-veritas

The Mogui's Curse: Mask of Marcus

(AI Generated - For my good friend @malebodysuittf)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bondagelad90

Me tape gagged 🤐 Reblog if your still active and love bondage!

jassibearsblog

zachghost770

FINALE: STRETCHS FOOTBALL STUD

Ai generated story. FINAL PART... for now

The frat house was alive with noise—deep bass vibrating through the walls, the smell of cheap beer and Axe body spray thick in the air. It was a temple to testosterone, a breeding ground for overconfident meatheads who thought they were kings of the world.

Stretch loved it.

Floating through the dark hallway, his long, spectral form twisted like a wisp of smoke, his grin widening as he peered into open rooms. A couple of drunken bros arm-wrestling, one dude passed out with a Sharpie dick drawn on his forehead. But then—he saw him.

A perfect specimen of dumb jock energy.

The guy was sprawled out on his bed, lazily thumbing through his phone, wearing nothing but some black, skintight boxer briefs that clung to his thick thighs and showed off the curve of his muscular ass. His powerful frame stretched out across the mattress, broad shoulders leading down to carved abs, his big chest rising and falling as he absentmindedly rubbed his fat cock through the fabric. The boxers were already darkened at the tip with precum.

His face? That was the best part—slack and dopey, lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded in that perfect, brain-empty way that made Stretch itch to corrupt him further.

“Wouldja look at this guy?” Stretch snickered, cracking his long, spectral fingers. “A prime cut of beefcake, and what’s he doin’ with it? Mindlessly scrolling while half-assin’ a stroke? Nah, nah, nah, buddy boy… Ya don’t know how to really goon, do ya?”

He floated closer, tilting his head as he watched the jock’s thick fingers lazily knead his hardening cock.

The dude let out a deep, slow sigh, his face slack with pleasure, totally unaware of the ghost hovering over him.

Stretch’s grin turned wicked.

“Lemme show ya how it’s done, champ.”

His spectral form stretched and warped, coiling around the jock’s head like mist. Then, with a sinister chuckle, he thrust his ectoplasmic cock straight into the guy’s skull.

The jock jerked like he’d been electrocuted.

“HUHHH—!”

His eyes rolled back instantly, thick lids fluttering as his pupils vanished into white. His whole body spasmed—thick thighs flexing, his toes curling in his slides. His jaw went completely slack, his tongue slipping out of his mouth, a long string of drool spilling down his chin and onto his pecs.

“Yeahhh, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Stretch taunted, swirling his ghostly essence deeper into the jock’s mind. “Feels good, don’t it, kid?”

The jock’s lips trembled, his fingers twitching against his phone screen before it slipped out of his grasp, landing on the bed with a dull thud.

“Hhhhurrrhhh…”

Stretch chuckled, rolling his ectoplasmic hips, literally fucking the guy’s brains. “Heh, wouldja listen to that? Kid’s already talkin’ like a real gooner. What’s the matter, stud? Thought you were in control, huh? Thought you knew how to jerk off like a man?”

The jock’s cock throbbed inside his tight boxers, staining them even further with a growing wet patch. His body convulsed, hands weakly attempting to grip the sheets as another thick drool trail dripped from his lips. His handsome, chiseled face had completely goonified—slack-jawed, dopey, utterly wrecked by Stretch’s ghostly influence.

“You ain’t never felt anything like this before, huh, buddy?” Stretch teased, swirling his cock deeper into the jock’s mind. “This right here is peak goonin’. None of that weak-ass, casual strokin’—nah, nah, nah. You commit to the bliss, ya hear me? Ya let it take ya. And what do ya do when you’re a good lil’ gooner, huh?”

The jock let out a desperate, needy whimper, his fingers twitching like he was trying to answer, but his brain was too melted.

Stretch laughed. “Awww, ya too stupid to talk now? You love this, don’tcha? Bein’ turned into a dumb lil’ strokin’ puppet?”

The jock’s tongue lolled out further, his lips struggling to form words.

“G-Gggooon…”

“That’s right, champ,” Stretch cooed, thrusting into his mind even harder. “Say it for me.”

“G-Goon… g-gooon… guhhh… fuhhhh…” The jock’s big chest heaved, pecs glistening with sweat as his hands frantically grabbed at his dick, stroking through his boxers like a desperate animal.

Stretch cackled. “There ya go! See? Now you’re gettin’ it! But ya still got too much fight left in ya, buddy. We gotta fix that.”

The jock’s cock throbbed, his breath hitching, hips bucking upward as his gooned-out brain teetered on the edge of total submission.

Stretch sneered. “Time to finish the job.”

His spectral form twisted, elongating once more before he dove—straight down the jock’s open mouth.

“GUHHHH—!”

The jock’s entire body arched off the bed, every muscle tensing as Stretch invaded him completely, shoving himself deep into the jock’s core, stretching into every inch of his thick, sculpted frame. His throat bulged for a second before the ghost fully merged, the last of his spectral form vanishing into his new meatsuit.

Then—

SHLURRRT!

The jock’s back arched violently, his whole body convulsing as a thick, explosive load shot across his shredded abs and sculpted pecs.

For a moment, everything went still.

Then his eyes snapped open—and a huge grin spread across his dumb, handsome face.

“Heh-heh… Ohhhh, yeah.”

He sat up slowly, rolling his new broad shoulders, cracking his thick fingers. His big, sweaty thighs flexed as he spread his legs, wiggling his toes inside his slides. He smirked down at his cum-soaked pecs, running his hands over them with a slow, deliberate grope.

“Damn, kid,” he purred, flexing his biceps, twisting his thick neck from side to side. “You got one helluva body.”

He licked his lips, tasting the last remnants of his own ghostly essence. “But ya weren’t usin’ it right. Nah, ya needed me to take the wheel.”

His cock twitched inside his boxers, still hard, still aching for more. His fingers twitched. His whole body buzzed with pleasure.

Stretch—now in full control of his new jock host—threw his head back and laughed.

He lifted a shaky, post-orgasmic hand, dragging it through the hot mess on his abs, scooping up some of the thick, white ropes before lifting his fingers to his lips and sucking it clean.

"Fuck yeah, bro. That’s the good shit."

His half-lidded, gooned-out eyes flickered to the mirror across the room, catching sight of himself. His big, golden, cum-splattered body, his open-mouthed, braindead smile, his dumb, goony face still twitching in the aftermath of pleasure.

“Ohhh, we’re gonna have some fun with this one.”

“…And we’re just gettin’ started.”

Stretch—now fully locked into his new, thick-jocked-up meatsuit—still wasn’t satisfied.

The possession had been delicious, his takeover of the dumb football stud’s body perfect. The way his host had twitched and drooled when he’d mind-fucked him, the way his fat cock had exploded the second he fully shoved himself down the guy’s throat and took over… it was almost too much fun.

But Stretch? He was a greedy bastard.

And right now? He wanted more.

His thick, muscular chest rose and fell, still slick with the ghost-powered load he’d dumped across his shredded abs. He ran a slow, lazy hand over the mess, feeling the warm cum smear against his fingertips. His host’s cock—his cock now—twitched slightly, still half-hard.

Stretch let out a slow, cocky chuckle.

“Aww, c’mon, champ… ya ain’t tired already, are ya?”

He flexed his powerful arms, rolling his thick shoulders. Every muscle in this stolen body was perfect. The broad pecs. The tight, shredded core. The beefy thighs that looked built for power. It was a body made to dominate. To win.

And right now? It was a body built to goon.

His sharp, spectral eyes flickered toward the open closet, where his host’s full football gear hung neatly, waiting.

And that’s when he got an idea.

“Ohhhh yeah,” he muttered, licking his lips. His voice—his voice now, using this stud’s deep, masculine tone—rumbled through the room. “Time to suit up, big guy.”

"Game Time, Baby"

With a heavy stomp, Stretch strutted over to the closet, his thick, nude frame moving with effortless swagger. His fat cock bobbed slightly as he walked, still dripping slightly from the previous mind-shattering orgasm.

Didn’t matter. He was gearing up now.

First—the jockstrap.

He hooked his thumbs into the elastic, pulling it up tight around his hips, letting the snug fabric push his cock forward, making his heavy bulge strain in the pouch.

“Ooooh yeah, that’s the stuff.”

Next—the compression leggings.

Tight as hell. Thick, black fabric hugging his muscled legs, clinging to his quads and calves like a second skin.

Then—the football pants.

Stretch grinned, yanking them up over his massive thighs, feeling the thick padding settle just right against his frame. He bounced on his feet, feeling the weight of the gear, how powerful it made him feel.

“Goddamn, kid,” he muttered, flexing his massive thighs, slapping a hand against his thick, padded ass. “No wonder ya played ball. This is a body made to hit hard.”

His breath hitched slightly at the thought, his cock throbbing in the jockstrap. But he wasn’t done yet.

Next—the jersey.

Stretch grabbed it and pulled it over his head, letting it stretch tight over his massive pecs, the team logo sitting proudly over his broad chest. The sleeves clung to his thick, sculpted arms, the fabric barely containing his muscular frame.

He laughed, rolling his shoulders, adjusting the fit.

“Heh… oh man, I look fuckin’ unstoppable.”

The shoulder pads came next. He strapped them in place, feeling even bigger, even more powerful. His new body looked and felt like a walking tank.

And finally—the helmet.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid it over his head, the familiar click locking it into place.

And that was it.

Fully suited. Fully transformed.

A dominant, unstoppable, gooned-out football god.

Stretch turned toward the full-length mirror, his chest heaving slightly, his breath coming out hot behind the helmet visor. His new, huge, powerful form stared back at him, broad and imposing, completely decked out in his host’s football gear.

He flexed, admiring the way his biceps bulged beneath the jersey.

“Ohhh yeah,” he rumbled, voice deep, distorted slightly behind the helmet. “Coach, I’m ready for the big game.”

He shifted his stance, spreading his massive legs, gripping his thick, gloved fingers into fists.

“I’M GIVIN’ IT 110%, BABY! WE GOTTA HUSTLE! NO PAIN, NO GAIN, BABY! FULL CONTACT!”

He laughed, the sound deep and cocky, bouncing on his feet like he was hyping himself up before a big play.

And then—he felt it.

That slow, creeping heat.

That pulse of pure, unfiltered gooner energy buzzing inside him.

That aching, throbbing need building again.

“Oooohhh fuck,” he moaned, licking his lips. His breath fogged up the inside of the helmet, his cock straining in his jockstrap.

He was already getting hard again.

"Goonin' on the Gridiron"

Stretch staggered toward the bed, spreading his massive, padded legs wide as he collapsed onto the mattress. His heavy cleats hit the sheets with a dull thud, his thick, muscled frame sinking into the bed.

His gloved hands shook as he palmed his bulge.

“Hhhhnnnnnnn… fuuuuhhhhhhck…”

His hips bucked, his cock throbbing in the jockstrap, the fabric already soaked with precum.

It wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

With a deep, desperate groan, Stretch reached down and—

RRRRRRIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP!!

Tore the front of his football pants wide open.

His massive, ghost-fueled cock flopped out, slapping up against his sweat-slicked jersey with a wet, sticky THWACK.

And just like that—his eyes rolled back.

“GUHHHHH—OOOOHHHHH—FFFUUUUUUHHH—”

His helmet clunked against the headboard, his body arching off the bed as pure pleasure shot through him.

His mouth hung open, his tongue slipping out, drool gushing from his lips, trickling down the chin strap.

His big, gloved hands gripped his fat, dripping cock, stroking it like a man possessed.

“Ooooohhh… gggggooooooooonnnnnn…”

His thick, muscular thighs trembled, his cleats kicking against the mattress as he mindlessly thrust up into his grip.

His huge, geared-up chest heaved, the jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched, cum-slicked pecs, the fabric pulling tight over his massive frame.

His eyes fluttered, his mouth forming a perfect, goonified ‘O’ shape, his brows scrunching in pure, stupid bliss.

“Fuuuuhhh… fuhh… b-buhhh… g-goo… gooooonnn…”

His mind was gone.

His brain was mush.

He was just a body now. Just a throbbing, sweating, jerking football goon.

And then—

His hips locked.

His cock pulsed.

And—

BBBBBBHHHHUUUUUHHHHHHNNNNGGGGHHH!!!

His entire body seized, and a massive, hot, sticky load EXPLODED across his shredded abs and pecs, dripping down the fabric of his jersey, coating his gloves, his thighs, his helmet visor.

For a long, long moment, Stretch just twitched, drooled, and whimpered, his goon-drunk, cock-dumb face locked in a perfect, stupid expression of pure, wrecked pleasure.

Then—he exhaled.

“Ghhhuuuuuhhhhh… fffffuck yeah…”

And grinned.

“Damn, coach,” he muttered, licking his lips. “I think I’m ready for another round.”

The Delta Theta frat house was in full swing. Music pounded through the walls, bass shaking the floor as beer pong balls bounced off tables, and the air was thick with the reek of booze, sweat, and testosterone.

A perfect hunting ground.

And Stretch was loving every second of it.

He was locked in, fully in control of his new jock body—a broad, muscular football stud he’d decided to call Logan. Big, beefy, built like a machine, the kind of guy whose whole life revolved around the gym, the field, and acting like the biggest bro in the room.

And now? Stretch was parading around in him like he owned the place.

“Eyyyyy, what’s up, ya meatheads?” he barked, slapping backs, knocking into guys with his massive footballer frame, sloshing beer in his red Solo cup.

His deep, manly voice—now his voice—rumbled over the music. The other frat bros greeted him like he was one of them, oblivious to the fact that their biggest, baddest teammate wasn’t even home in his own body anymore.

He was gone.

And Stretch? He was just getting started.

He took another swig of his beer, licking his lips, his eyes scanning the crowd for his next victim.

Then—he saw him.

Something Stinks…

Against the wall, lounging like he owned the place, was a hot brown hair curled dude.

A swimmer’s build, all lean muscle and tanned skin, barely hidden under a tight, sweaty tank top. His arms glistened, his blue eyes were a little too glassy, and there was something off about the way he was just… sitting there.

Then—

The dude lifted his arm and took a deep, shameless sniff of his pit.

And moaned.

Stretch nearly choked on his beer.

Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me.

The guy scratched his stomach lazily, shifting slightly. Then—

PPPPRRRRRFFFTTTTT

A loud, nasty, wet fart ripped through the air.

Stretch’s eyes narrowed.

No way.

No frat bro would just… let one rip in the middle of a party like that.

Not unless he was possessed.

Stretch grinned.

“Well, well, well…”

He swaggered over, plopping down beside the guy and slapping a heavy, meaty hand on his sweaty shoulder.

“Yo, buddy, ya lookin’ a little too comfy over here.”

The swimmer dude blinked at him. Then—

His lips curled into a grin.

“Eh, what can I say?” he muttered, voice just a little off—a little deeper, a little filthier. “Feeling real nice today, man. Feels good gettin’ a lil’ ripe, ya know?”

Stretch’s grin widened.

“Well, well, well. If it ain’t Stinky.”

Jace—no, Stinky—chuckled, lifting his arm again for another long, slow sniff.

“Took ya long enough,” he snickered, scratching his chiseled abs, which were slightly shiny with sweat.

Stretch barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Aw, this is rich. You mean to tell me, we BOTH ended up possessin’ frat bros from the same house?”

Stinky grinned wider, wiggling his toes in his flip-flops.

“C’mon, man, these guys are prime real estate. Stupid, cocky, horny as hell?” He leaned in, smirking. “Tell me you didn’t pick yours for the same reason.”

Stretch snorted, rolling his thick, muscled shoulders. “You know it.”

They clinked their beers together, both snickering.

Stretch leaned back, eyeing the party. “Alright, alright… that just leaves—”

His eyes swept the crowd.

And then—

He saw him.

Where’s Fatso?

Standing by the beer pong table, Ethan was looking hot as hell.

Broad. Built. Perfectly tanned, with short, messy frat bro hair and that face—that goony, empty-headed, dumb-himbo look just waiting to come out.

Stretch elbowed Stinky. “Bingo.”

Stinky smirked. “That’s definitely Fatso’s old host.”

As if on cue, one of the other frat bros stumbled up to them.

“Yo, man,” the dude slurred, sipping his beer. “Ethan’s been, like, acting weird lately.”

Stretch and Stinky exchanged looks.

“Yeah?” Stretch prompted.

The frat bro nodded. “Like, last week? He disappeared after a party. Then suddenly his dad shows up—”

Stretch and Stinky froze.

The frat bro kept talking. “Dude was apparently a brother back in the day and he was a full party animal. One of the pledges was actin’ all weird after his dad took him aside and then, like, randomly Ethan disappeared. And Ethan? He came back but had no memory of anything. Like where he'd been or that his dad had come by”

Stretch and Stinky grinned at each other.

“Ohhh shit,” Stinky muttered. “Fatso was tellin’ me about some frat kid he had a blast inside.”

Stretch snickered. “I knew it. That big lug possessed him, turned himself into his daddy version of himself, and had his fun before bailing.”

They both turned back to Ethan.

Stretch cracked his knuckles. “Guess it’s time to bring him home.”

The Trap

They moved fast.

Before Ethan could even react, they flanked him, each throwing a beefy arm around his shoulders.

“Yo, what’s up, bros?” Ethan laughed, clueless, shifting his weight. “I got next game—”

“Nah, nah,” Stretch interrupted, steering him toward the stairs. “We just wanna talk real quick.”

The second the door clicked shut behind them, Ethan turned, confused.

“Yo, what—?”

They pounced.

“B-BRO?!!”

Stretch and Stinky tackled him to the bed, their big, meaty frat bro bodies pinning his thick, muscular frame down.

Ethan struggled, kicking his bare feet, his sexy toes curling.

“BRO—WHAT THE F—MMMPPHHH!!!”

Stinky slapped a hand over his mouth.

Stretch chuckled. “Alright, big guy… let’s bring your buddy home.”

The lights flickered.

The air grew heavy.

And then—

A massive, ghostly figure appeared above them.

Fatso’s grinning, hungry face loomed over them, eyes locked onto Ethan’s body.

“OHHHHH YEAAAHHHH,” he rumbled. “I told ya, kid—I’d be back for this sexy body.”

Ethan’s eyes went wide.

Fatso lunged.

With a wet, slurping sound, he shoved himself straight down Ethan’s throat.

Ethan’s body arched, his eyes rolling back, his toes curling tight.

And then—

“GUUUHHH—!!”

Ethan twitched.

Then grinned.

“Ohhh hell yeah, boys,” Fatso rumbled, flexing his thick, veiny hands.

Stretch smirked. “Well, boys… looks like we got the whole crew back together.”

Fatso licked his lips.

“So… who’s ready to goon?”

The frat house was still in full swing.

Music pounded through the walls, beer pong balls bounced off tables, and the heavy stench of sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled beer filled the air.

But upstairs?

Behind the locked door of Stretch’s room, the real party was just beginning.

Three ghosts. Three stolen frat bro bodies. One mission.

To completely and utterly goon out.

The Descent Into Goon Madness

Stretch lounged back on the bed, his huge footballer frame taking up nearly the entire mattress.

His broad chest heaved as he ran his hands down his shredded abs, feeling every inch of his new, stolen body.

His pecs flexed, his fingers rubbing lazy circles over his nipples, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine.

“Oooohhhh fuuuuuuck yeah,” he groaned, rolling his thick neck, letting his head loll back. His eyes fluttered, his thick lips parting in a dumb, open-mouthed expression of pure cock-drunk bliss.

To his right, Ethan—now fully possessed by Fatso—was sprawled out on the couch, legs spread wide, his thick, muscled thighs trembling as he lazily stroked his fat frat bro cock through his gym shorts.

His bare feet rested on the armrest, his sexy toes curling and flexing as he sniffed the inside of his own slides with a slow, shuddering inhale.

“Mmmmmmmmmhhhhhpppphhhh…”

His whole body trembled as he took another deep sniff, his cock twitching, precum soaking through his shorts.

One of his big, veiny hands was shoving pizza into his mouth, the grease dribbling down his chin, mixing with his own spit, his throat working as he moaned into the food.

“Fuhhhhckkk,” he slurred around a mouthful of stale pizza, his lips glossy with grease. “Dis… dis is da best body everrrr, bro…”

His chest rose and fell, his nipples hard, his muscles twitching as he gobbled down another bite, eyes fluttering back into his skull in pure, gooned-out bliss.

Stretch grinned, his own cock throbbing at the sight of Fatso losing himself in Ethan’s hot frat bro body.

To his left, Stinky was sprawled out on the floor, completely shirtless, his swimmer’s body drenched in sweat.

His hand was shoved deep into his armpit, fingers slick with musk, rubbing his own pit sweat all over his face.

“Oooohhh yeeeeaaaaaahhh,” he groaned, rubbing the filth against his lips, his tongue darting out to lick the salt from his fingertips.

His other hand was gripping a pair of crusty, unwashed boxer briefs, bringing them up to his face, rubbing the stained fabric against his nose.

“Hhhuuuuuuuhhhhh fuuuuckkk,” he moaned, taking a long, deep inhale.

His cock twitched, leaking through his compression shorts, his eyes fluttering back, his dumb, gooned-out grin widening.

Stretch watched, his own hips bucking slightly, his big, strong hands gripping his thick cock, already oozing precum.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he muttered, his goon brain slipping deeper, his muscles flexing as he squeezed his pecs, watching them bounce.

“You boys really know how to fucking lose it, huh?”

Fatso slurped a thick glob of drool back into his mouth, chewing lazily, his feet kicking slightly as he let out a deep, satisfied moan.

“Uhhhhhhuuuuhhh… I f-fucking… l-love this body, bro…”

Stinky snickered, taking another long sniff of his own pit, grinding his hips against the floor, his dumb, cock-drunk face completely wrecked.

“Bro, y-you ever just… m-melt?” he slurred, his hips jerking, his lips quivering as his brain emptied out even further.

Stretch laughed, throwing his head back, his heavy, meaty thighs flexing as he bucked into his own grip.

“Ooooohhh fuuuuckk, boys,” he grunted, rolling his shoulders, his pecs bouncing with every shuddering breath.

“We’re gonna f-fucking cum so hard.”

The Ultimate Goon Blowout

The three possessed frat bros lost themselves completely.

Stretch arched up off the bed, his massive, broad chest heaving, his big, strong hands gripping his own cock as he bounced his pecs, his eyes fluttering back in pure, cock-drunk bliss.

Stinky was fucking his own fist, panting, his hips rolling, his nose buried deep in his own armpit, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat pooling in the crevice.

Fatso was moaning through a mouthful of pizza, his toes curling, his other hand jacking his thick cock through his gym shorts, his breath hot and heavy as he sniffed his own slides, completely drowning in goon pleasure.

Then—

It hit them all at once.

Their throbbing frat bro cocks pulsed.

Their bodies locked up.

And—

BBBBBBHHHHUUUUUUHHHHHHNNNNGGGGHHHHH!!!

Thick, steaming ropes of cum exploded from all three of them, coating each other in hot, musky frat seed.

Stretch’s massive pecs got splattered with Stinky’s load, while Fatso’s cock twitched, unleashing thick ropes across his own abs and the greasy pizza box sitting beside him.

Stinky moaned through the aftershocks, his chest still heaving, his lips still shiny with pit sweat, as he scooped up a glob of cum from Stretch’s chest… and licked it clean.

Stretch chuckled, watching Stinky lap it up like a fucking animal, before he swiped a thick glob from his abs and sucked it off his fingers, moaning at the taste.

Fatso?

He just grinned, grabbing a slice of cum-covered pizza, shoving it into his sloppy, drooling mouth, chewing slowly as his toes curled in bliss.

“Ffffuuuuuhhhh,” he slurred, his head lolling back, his whole body twitching.

For a long moment, the room was silent, aside from their heavy, cock-drunk breathing.

Then—

Stretch licked his lips.

“Aight, boys,” he muttered, standing up, stretching his huge, cum-covered arms.

“Let’s get dressed.”

They cleaned up, threw on their frat gear, and stepped out into the party—three hot, cocky, possessed frat bros, blending right back in like nothing happened.

But inside?

They were still riding the goon high.

And the night?

Was far from over.

The End? ;)