KIROKAZE
sheepfilms
Claire Keane
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YOU ARE THE REASON
The Bowery Presents
Andulka
Origami Around
Cosimo Galluzzi
Today's Document
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Game of Thrones Daily
Not today Justin
Misplaced Lens Cap
EXPECTATIONS
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Mike Driver
cherry valley forever
tannertan36
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@saturno7777
RP Wanted
Hey there! I'm looking for brave guys to rp as the hunk, the jock, the bodybuilder or the alpha they have always wanted to be.
So this is the deal: just go to my DMs and be the guy you have always wanted! Let's have some fun! 😏
We can always continue at Discord (far more active there)
Too Much Manliness
my boyfriend and I are trying to spice things up a bit. We ordered these dice that are supposed to give us role play characters. I thought there would be things like “firefighter” or “teacher” or “soldier” but reading through the dice we saw stuff like “closeted jock” and “curious straight bro” and “size queen twink”, etc. I said we shouldn’t role but my boyfriend kind of laughed and said we should give it a try.
You and Ethan thought tonight would be fun. Something different. The sex had gotten a little routine—comfortable, safe. Too safe. So when that sketchy website promised “Roleplay Dice of Desire™,” you clicked buy after a couple of beers. The ad showed clean, playful examples—firefighter, professor, cop. Corny shit, but harmless.
The package arrived in a plain black box with no return address. Inside: two heavy dice, black like obsidian, carved with glowing letters that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dark. Not printed. Burned in.
You laughed nervously. “These don’t say, like… firefighter. Look.”
Ethan snorted. “Jesus. Someone’s idea of a joke?”
“This is gross,” you muttered. “We’re not doing this.”
But Ethan was already grinning, drunk enough to find it funny. “C’mon, it’ll be stupid fun. What’s the worst that happens? We fake some dumb frat-boy routine and then fuck?”
You shook your head. “No, seriously. It feels… off.”
Ethan held your gaze, mischievous, lips curled in that crooked smirk you always loved—and hated. Then, without asking, he tossed the dice across the bedspread.
They clattered, heavy like stone, and rolled in sickening slow motion. Both stopped dead, as if magnetized.
The words CLOSETED JOCK pulsed bright red, burning into the dark. Then—vanished.
Ethan laughed. “Guess I’m the jock. Better start practicing my touchdown dance—”
His voice broke. He winced, clutching his stomach. His arms spasmed. His veins bulged.
“Ethan? Hey—stop. What the fuck—”
His shirt tore at the seams as shoulders ballooned outward, slabs of meat forcing fabric apart. A wet crack echoed as his collarbones restructured, chest swelling into a grotesque barrel. You watched in horror as tendons writhed under his skin like worms, pumping him bigger, hotter, monstrous.
“F-fuck…” he groaned, grabbing his crotch. His jaw unhinged, reshaping wider, more brutish, teeth grinding audibly. The smell of sweat filled the room, sharp and sour, like a locker room left to rot.
His eyes—Ethan’s warm, laughing eyes—hardened into cold, hateful slits.
When he looked up, it wasn’t your boyfriend anymore. It was some twenty-year-old frat brute with a cruel smirk, veins crawling up his thick bull neck.
“What’re you lookin’ at, faggot?” the thing spat, voice lower, crueler. “Bet you’re just begging to choke on this cock.”
He lunged across the bed, pinning you down with arms twice the size they were seconds ago. His breath stank of beer and musk, his chest hair bristling coarse against your cheek.
“No—Ethan, please—this isn’t funny!” you shouted, thrashing.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, grinding against you, already hard, already dripping. “Closeted jock don’t kiss no dudes… he just uses ‘em.”
Tears blurred your vision as your head slammed back against something sharp—the dice. They tumbled once more.
Your skull rang from the impact as the dice pulsed again. You blinked hard, but the glowing letters carved themselves behind your eyelids:
THICK STRAIGHT REDNECK, THICK DICK.
“No—no no no, stop—” you croaked, pushing at the meathead crushing you.
But the words didn’t stop. They drilled down into your bones, your gut, your cock. And then it began.
First came the weight. Not fat, not muscle—just mass. Your arms went heavy, slumping uselessly before jerking, veins bulging thick as cords. You watched your knuckles swell, skin stretching ruddy and raw, nails crusting with grime. Calluses erupted across your palms as if you’d swung a thousand hammers.
Your belly churned. You gagged as it pressed outward, tightening into a stubborn gut, soft but solid. The taste of grease slicked your tongue—burnt bacon, stale beer, ash from cigarettes.
“Fuck… no—don’t—”
But the sounds out of your mouth weren’t yours. They slurred, vowels flattening, twisting ugly, dumb. “Dun’… wanna… aw fuck, mah fuckin’… dick—”
Your jeans split as your cock lurched fat and angry between your thighs, meat stretching, twitching, drooling precum through frayed denim.
Ethan—the jock that wasn’t Ethan—pulled back to watch. His smirk faltered as your chest heaved, pecs swelling uneven, fur sprouting wiry and coarse. Your neck thickened into a roll of sinew and fat, face puffing red and raw. You could smell yourself, acrid and sour, the stink of a man who spent his life in gas stations and cheap bars.
“F-fuckin’ hell,” the jock muttered, eyes flashing uncertain. “You turnin’ into some fuckin’—”
He didn’t finish, because the dice rolled again.
This time, the glow seared him.
SIZE QUEEN TWINK.
The frat brute’s grin collapsed into a gasp. His bulk shuddered, shrinking. The iron slabs of his chest melted to smooth skin, ribs narrowing. His shoulders caved, arms slendering into pale twigs. He shrieked, high and reedy, as his jaw softened, cheekbones cutting sharp, lips plumping wet and pink.
“No—no, I ain’t—fuck—” His voice cracked, shooting high into a desperate whine.
His cock—monstrous seconds ago—deflated, twitching pathetically small against trembling thighs. He clawed at it, sobbing, until his eyes met yours.
And something snapped.
The brute was gone. In his place, a skinny, quivering boy with wide, hungry eyes, hair falling in soft bangs, mouth already open like he needed something in it.
“Holy shit,” he panted, voice breathless, filthy. “Y-you’re so hung.”
He crawled toward you on shaking arms, gaze locked on the obscene bulge throbbing in your torn jeans.
Your gut dropped. Your skin crawled. But the redneck in you—thick, dumb, growing louder in your skull—liked it.
“Back tha fuck up,” you growled, shoving him away. Your hand was huge, paw-like, reeking of sweat and dirt.
He gasped, pupils blown wide, lips slick with spit. “No—please—I need it. You’re… fuck, you’re perfect.”
Your head pounded. Your old self screamed, begging you to stop, begging you to remember Ethan, but the redneck’s voice drowned it out—dumb, horny, cruel.
And when you looked at the dice trembling on the sheets again, you knew they weren’t done with either of you.
The dice shivered between you, as if it knew you were both cornered. You tried to swat it off the bed with your meaty paw, but the thing rolled itself, clicking heavy against the sheets.
The letters burned again.
HORNY BISEXUAL FRAT BRO.
You barely had time to curse before your body lurched forward, seizing.
“F-fuckin’ hell—”
Your gut collapsed inward, thick paunch re-knitting into muscle carved crude and sloppy, a nineteen-year-old’s body fresh from beer pong and half-assed gym lifts. Pecs rounded firm, abs clumsily sculpted, veins popping out thick and angry. Your jeans shredded at the thighs as they ballooned into meaty trunks, quads stretching the skin shiny.
Your voice cracked down into something low and dumb, syrup-thick with horny drawl. “Brooo… fuuuck, I’m like… so hard right now.”
You grabbed yourself shamelessly, palming your obscene cock like you were alone, groaning, drunk on the sight of your own sweaty chest.
Every trace of your boyfriend, your old life, your queerness—it all fuzzed out into horny static. You still felt the pull toward the twink in front of you, but just as strong came filthy daydreams of pussy, tits, sloppy handjobs behind sorority houses.
Your brain rotted sweet and fast. You couldn’t string thoughts together—just images, urges, heat. Need to fuck. Need hole. Any hole.
“B-bro…” Ethan’s voice cracked, shrill.
You blinked at him. He was shivering, still the frail twink the dice had forced him into. But the dice wasn’t done. It rattled again, as if sniffing him out.
The glow slammed into his body.
STRAIGHT BRUTE MORON.
“Wait, no—don’t—!” Ethan squealed. His body convulsed, back arching so hard you thought his spine would snap.
Then came the tearing.
Flesh ripped as muscle swelled uncontrollably, pumping grotesque with every heaving breath. His neck corded, shoulders jutting like slabs of beef. His twink jaw crunched, bone splintering outward into a brutish square, teeth gritting through a spray of spit.
“GHHHHH—F-FUCK!—” he screamed, but it wasn’t his voice anymore. It was deep, brutish, hateful.
His face twisted, eyes going cold and empty. The twink’s hunger, the Ethan you knew—gone.
He flexed uncontrollably, veins bulging thick across his chest and arms, as his cock swung heavy and angry, leaking down his thighs.
He looked at you like you were something disgusting.
“Fuckin’—what the fuck—get the fuck off me, faggot!” he roared, shoving you so hard you flew into the wall. Your ribs rattled.
You gasped, clutching your side, still leaking precum into ruined jeans, still so horny you could barely breathe.
“No—Ethan, it’s me, it’s—”
But he wasn’t Ethan anymore. Just a brute, a slab of straight rage, spitting slurs, nostrils flaring with hate.
And the dice… it wasn’t finished.
Only one side left.
It rattled once more, rolling straight toward you.
The dice stopped rolling.
It sat there, pulsing on the filthy sheets, each glow like a heartbeat syncing with your own. You tried to look away, but your eyes locked onto the letters burning across its face:
ARAB STRAIGHT STUD.
The words didn’t just shine—they crawled inside you. They dug into your temples, scraping across your thoughts, branding themselves into the marrow of your bones.
“No—no, I’m not—” you choked out, clutching at your throat as if you could pull the voice out of it.
Your skin boiled. Patches of pink turned tan, then darker, bronzed, oily with a sheen of sweat that reeked sharp and acrid. You clawed at your arms, at your chest, but the changes slipped under your nails, deeper than flesh. Your hair darkened, thickened, curling across your chest, up your jawline into a heavy, coarse beard. The scent of your own musk filled the room—feral, heady, suffocating.
“Stop—this isn’t me—I don’t—” Your voice cracked, but the vowels were wrong. Harder. Thicker. Slurring with a rhythm that felt alien but flowed too easily from your tongue.
Inside, your old self screamed. The decent gay man who’d come here to “spice things up” was pounding on the walls of your skull, begging, bargaining, sobbing. Please—I don’t want this. I love men. I love—
The dice pulsed again. The scream in your head faltered.
Your pecs swelled outward, slabs of meat glistening with sweat. Your shoulders rounded, boulders of brutal flesh locking into place. Veins snaked across your arms as your biceps blew up, heavy and veined, cords of muscle stretching your skin. Your gut ripped tight into a cobbled, greasy eight-pack. Your thighs ballooned, tree trunks squeezing together, reeking of salt and musk.
Your cock—already swollen—exploded thicker, darker, veins wrapping it like cables. A constant drip of precum ran down your thigh. Your balls sagged heavy and full, a breeder’s load.
“Fuuuck…” you groaned, flexing in the cracked mirror, the word guttural, alien, dripping with pride. “Dis… dis is me, bro.”
No—it’s not you! That’s not your voice, that’s not your accent—you’re not straight, you’re not Arab, you’re—
The thought broke off as your reflection smirked at you. A cocky, hungry grin spreading across a face you didn’t recognize. Thick brows. Dark eyes. A heavy, square jaw bristling with beard.
And the worst part—you liked it.
“Yeaah… I’m a stud.” You flexed an arm, spit hanging from your lip. “Fuckin’ stallion, bro. Ain’t no faggot shit. Pussy only.”
Inside, the old you pounded the walls of your mind harder, screaming names—your boyfriend, your friends, your parents, your own name.
But the dice pulsed again. And each name slipped through your fingers, dissolving like mist.
Instead, new memories shoved in: locker room laughs with the boys, reeking of sweat and Axe; nights grinding pills and railing lines before smashing some drunk white bitch raw; fist bumps, cheap cologne, girls moaning your name.
“Faris,” one moaned, voice echoing in your skull.
Your cock throbbed. You grinned at the mirror. “Yeah, I’m Faris, baby. Faris da stud.”
The last shreds of your old self screamed—but muffled, weaker now. Your new thoughts were too loud, too hungry, too fucking horny.
You grabbed your phone. Tinder lit up.
A profile: blonde, white, pouty lips, “into roleplay, free tonight ;)”
Your grin widened, teeth flashing under the harsh light.
“Yeaah, dat’s what I need. Some lil’ Barbie bitch to ride dis cock,” you muttered, voice thick, dripping arrogance.
Inside, your old self whimpered, one last time. Please, don’t do this—don’t—
But you swiped right.
And the voice went silent.
Only Faris remained. Arab straight stud. Alpha. Horny. Homophobic. Thick with meat and sweat and cock.
And ready to fuck.
Makeover - AI transformation sequence - Femboy tf
Allen took a double take as he walked with his girlfriend Felicity down the street, at first he thought it was a very curvy and voluptuous woman standing looking at her phone but as he looked back his face turned to disgust as he saw that it was in fact a man.
Allen couldn't believe what he was looking at as he grimaced at the pretty, lean, blonde man with an obscene bubble butt. Allen felt a mixture of confusion, anger and betrayal, he was all to happy to leer and stare when he thought it was a woman, but now he felt tricked! Allen and Felicity had barely taken two steps before Allen could not contain his discomfort and disgust any longer.
Shisha of destiny
I am not sure this beard suits me. Aaron does not like it. Maybe, I should shave it off ... Mmh, this shisha tastes funny
"What is going on here? This beard growth is CRAZY!!"
What ... I mean ... WHAT???
I am a bald, bearded muscle freak!! This must be a dream, it surely is!
Yeni kıyafetler güzel, değil mi? Wait, what?
Wallah, I swear, this is the shit! Shisha tastes great.
"Who are you??? And what did you do to my boyfriend??"
"But, brother, it is me. I am your Aşıklar!"
"No, way ..."
Woooah ...
What have you done to me???
Oh my god, wallah, I am a monster, Bu inanılmaz!
Ne oldu bana?
Daddy by Midnight
Mike noticed the word before he noticed anything else.
“Daddy.”
Vincent said it casually, almost lazily, while leaning against the doorway of the private lounge. He wore black from throat to shoes, his shirt open just far enough to suggest that buttons were optional rather than necessary. The smile on his face was amused, confident—and unmistakably pleased with what he saw.
Mike stopped in front of him.
“Excuse me?”
Vincent’s gaze travelled slowly over the broad shoulders straining Mike’s white shirt, down the powerful chest and narrow waist, then back to his face.
“I said you look even better in person, Daddy.”
Mike gave a disbelieving laugh. “I heard what you said.”
“Good.”
“I’m forty.”
“Congratulations.”
“That’s not daddy.”
Vincent tilted his head. “You’re older than me.”
“By seven years.”
“You’re huge, dark, handsome, slightly intimidating—”
“Slightly?”
“—and you arrived smoking a cigar.”
Mike took the cigar from his mouth and glanced at it as though it had somehow betrayed him.
“It was offered to me at the entrance.”
“And you accepted it beautifully.”
Mike shook his head, but he was smiling. Vincent was irritating in a way that was difficult not to enjoy. They had spent nearly three weeks exchanging messages, and Vincent had been flirtatious from the beginning, but Mike had assumed the repeated Daddy comments were simply part of his online persona.
Apparently not.
They walked through the candlelit rooms of the old villa, then out into a garden illuminated by lanterns hung from the trees. A fountain murmured somewhere beyond the hedges. The moon hung over the roof like part of the décor.
Vincent moved closer until their shoulders nearly touched.
“You really don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You keep objecting.”
“Because it’s inaccurate.”
Vincent laughed. “You sound like you’re correcting a tax form.”
“I’m not old.”
“I never called you old.”
“Daddy implies old.”
“No. Daddy implies…” Vincent looked him over again. “Authority. Presence. Experience. The kind of man people notice when he enters a room.”
Mike tried not to look pleased.
“And grey hair?” he asked.
“Optional.”
“A receding hairline?”
“Potentially distinguished.”
“A belly?”
Vincent’s smile widened. “Highly negotiable.”
Mike stared at him.
Vincent burst out laughing.
“You’ve thought about this far too much,” Mike said.
“I know what I like.”
They returned inside after midnight and settled on a deep burgundy sofa in a room lined with heavy curtains and gilt mirrors. Vincent sat close enough that his thigh pressed against Mike’s. He rested one arm along the back of the sofa, openly admiring him.
A server arrived carrying two wide cocktail glasses.
The liquid inside was an impossible electric blue.
Mike frowned. “What is that?”
“The house speciality.”
“It’s glowing.”
“That’s presentation.”
“It is producing light.”
“Modern mixology.”
Mike lifted the glass but did not drink. The blue liquid cast a faint glow over his fingers.
Vincent watched him with barely concealed anticipation.
“You’re looking suspiciously cheerful.”
“I’m on a date with a beautiful man.”
“A beautiful man who is not a daddy.”
“Not yet.”
Mike turned his head slowly.
Vincent’s expression remained innocent.
Mike gave him a warning look, then brought the drink to his lips.
It tasted unexpectedly mild—citrus, herbs and something warm that lingered at the back of his throat. He swallowed a second mouthful.
Heat spread through his chest.
Mike lowered the glass.
“That’s strong.”
“Is it?”
“You haven’t tasted yours.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
Mike intended to answer, but a peculiar wave passed through him. It began behind his eyes and rolled down his neck, leaving a warm heaviness in its wake.
He blinked.
Vincent’s face seemed momentarily too bright.
“Everything all right?”
“Just a little dizzy.”
“Perhaps the cigar.”
“I smoke cigars.”
“Perhaps the drink.”
Mike glanced into the glowing glass. “What exactly is in this?”
Vincent leaned closer. “Potential.”
Before Mike could ask what that meant, the heat returned.
This time it reached his scalp.
A prickling sensation moved through his thick black hair, beginning at the temples and spreading rapidly over the sides. Mike rubbed one hand above his ear.
His fingers came away clean, but Vincent’s eyes widened with delight.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Vincent.”
“Your temples.”
Mike turned toward the mirror opposite the sofa.
Silver had appeared in his hair.
Not a few isolated strands. Both temples were now streaked with dense, metallic grey, the colour spreading visibly through the dark curls.
Mike stared.
“What the hell?”
His beard tingled next. Dark hairs faded from black to charcoal and then to silver along his jaw. Fine lines appeared beside his eyes, subtle at first, then deep enough to remain even when his expression relaxed.
He looked perhaps forty-five.
Then fifty.
Mike shot to his feet.
The room tilted.
He gripped the sofa as his powerful body shuddered. His shoulders remained enormous, but something was changing beneath the fitted white shirt. His chest grew heavier, thickening against the fabric. His waist, once sharply tapered, softened.
A button strained across his stomach.
Mike looked down.
“No.”
Vincent covered his mouth, failing completely to hide his laughter.
“You think this is funny?”
“You look incredible.”
“I’m ageing!”
“Beautifully.”
Mike’s stomach pushed outward another inch, firm muscle disappearing beneath a layer of comfortable weight. The next button pulled tight. His black trousers remained fitted around his powerful thighs, but the belt now cut into a noticeably heavier waist.
He pressed a hand against the new curve.
It was real.
Warm, solid and unmistakably his.
His hairline began retreating.
Mike watched in horror as the silver-dark curls pulled back from his forehead. His temples deepened dramatically, then the hair across the front thinned until the shape of his scalp showed beneath it.
“Oh, come on.”
Vincent laughed openly now.
“You specifically mentioned the receding hairline.”
“I was making a point!”
“The drink may have interpreted it as a request.”
“The drink?”
Mike turned toward him.
Vincent’s grin vanished just enough to become guilty.
“What did you give me?”
“A little enhancement.”
“A little—”
Mike’s voice dropped into a deeper, rougher register.
The sound stopped him.
He touched his throat.
Vincent’s eyes brightened. “Say something else.”
“I am going to throw you into that fountain.”
“Again.”
Mike glared.
Vincent laughed so hard that he leaned against the sofa.
Another pulse travelled through Mike’s body. His arms thickened, not with the sharply defined muscle of a younger athlete but with the dense strength of a mature heavyweight. His forearms grew broader. His hands became rougher and heavier. Dark hair spread across the backs of them.
His chest expanded once more, tugging the shirt apart at the collar. Grey hair appeared through the opening, spreading over his broad chest.
At the same time, his middle continued to grow.
The white shirt rounded over a substantial belly now. Not enormous, but undeniably present: heavy, mature and completely incompatible with the sleek physique Mike had arrived with.
He studied his reflection.
The man in the mirror looked close to sixty.
His remaining hair was short, silver and thinning heavily at the front. His beard had become neatly grey. His face was older, broader and weathered, with deep lines across his forehead. Yet his body remained immensely powerful—huge shoulders, thick arms, a heavy chest and the commanding build of a man who had spent decades becoming impossible to ignore.
Vincent rose and approached him slowly.
Mike remained transfixed by the mirror.
“I look like someone’s father.”
Vincent stopped behind him. “You look like everyone’s fantasy of one.”
“I have a belly.”
“A magnificent one.”
“My hair is disappearing.”
“It makes you look distinguished.”
“I’m at least twenty years older.”
Vincent slipped an arm around his waist, though it did not reach far around Mike’s enlarged body.
“And still the most attractive man here.”
Mike glanced down at him.
Vincent’s expression had changed. The teasing remained, but beneath it was genuine fascination. He looked at Mike as though the transformation had not diminished him in any way—only completed something Vincent had seen before Mike could.
“You planned this,” Mike said.
“I hoped.”
“You called me Daddy before I drank it.”
“I recognised potential.”
Mike attempted to remain angry.
Unfortunately, Vincent looked far too pleased with himself.
Mike placed one huge hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
Vincent glanced at it, then back into his face.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yes.”
“You turned a forty-year-old man into…”
Mike searched for the right word.
Vincent supplied it quietly.
“Daddy.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed.
Vincent began laughing again.
Mike tried to hold onto his outrage, but the sound became infectious. A reluctant chuckle escaped him. In his transformed chest, it became a deep, booming laugh that filled the room.
Vincent laughed harder.
Mike looked once more into the mirror. The silver beard. The deeply receded hairline. The huge mature body. The broad belly pressing proudly against his shirt.
It was absurd.
And, he had to admit, not entirely terrible.
“Does it wear off?” he asked.
Vincent hesitated half a second too long.
Mike turned.
“Vincent.”
“You should see yourself in daylight before making any decisions.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It was an optimistic redirection.”
Mike stared at him.
Vincent reached up and ran his fingers through the thinning silver hair above Mike’s temple.
“You’re beautiful.”
Mike sighed heavily.
The sound had the weary authority of a man who had been tolerating foolish younger men for decades.
Vincent’s grin widened.
“There,” he said. “That sound. Perfect.”
Mike wrapped one massive arm around him and pulled him close.
“You realise,” he murmured, “that if I’m Daddy now, there are going to be rules.”
Vincent looked delighted.
“I was counting on it.”
The next morning, they walked through the sunlit garden together.
Mike’s transformation had settled completely. In daylight, his hair appeared even thinner, silver curls surviving mainly along the sides and back. His beard was closely trimmed and grey. His white shirt stretched around his heavy chest and rounded stomach, while his arms remained almost comically powerful.
Every few steps, Mike glanced down at himself as though expecting to wake up.
Vincent did not stop smiling once.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Mike said.
“Daddy, you have no idea.”
Mike stopped walking.
Vincent took two more steps before turning around.
“What?”
Mike pointed toward the distant fountain.
Vincent laughed and ran.
Strong-Thong
Your holding the Box in your Hands. You always felt attracted to cheesy underwear but too shy to really buy one... not to think of wearing it. But since you've seen the commercial fir this 'Strong-Thong' in your Instagram feed for quite some time, you decided to purchase it.
You ripped open the carton, pulling out the small piece of fabric.
Huh, it was quite small and looked like it was out of a women's collection for pyjamas but nevertheless you stripped down your clothes and put it on.
The Jacuzzi
By: YoungHunk69
Jordan and I were the hottest guys on the block, and everyone knew it. We were best bros, and there was no disguising it. We went everywhere together, did everything together, and even wore matching outfits sometimes.
We were both on the swim team, and Jordan even had a pool in his backyard. But the one thing we really wanted more than anything was a jacuzzi. So when we heard the neighbors had installed one only two doors down, we had to try it.
”Hey!” Jordan said, “I just got the greatest idea! What if we snuck into the neighbor’s backyard tonight and try out their jacuzzi? I heard they’re gonna be out of town!”
”Fuck yeah bro!” I agreed excitedly. “Let’s do it!”
Later that night, we silently climbed the neighbor’s fence and crept stealthily over to the jacuzzi. I turned it on with the flick of a switch, and turned the setting to “Extra Hot”
Jordan and I stripped down to our speedos, and slid into the steaming hot water.
“Ahhhhhhh…” I groaned in satisfaction, feeling the hot bubbles popping against my skin.
”Fuuuucccccckkk…” echoed Jordan, his face contorted in pleasure.
“Hey, bro,” I said, feeling a slight tingle all over my body, “do you feel weird, or is it just me?”
“Wait yeah…” Jordan replied uneasily, “I feel a little weird too.” He grunted quietly. “But it feels kinda… good.”
”Yeahhhh…” I grunted, shifting my weight in the steaming water.
“Your voice, bro,” Jordan added, “it sounds… deeper…”
“Ughhh…” I moaned, “yours too…”
Jordan’s face looked hotter. Fuck. When did he start looking like such a kissable guy?
“Broooo… your face…” Jordan grunted. “You look so handsome…”
“You too…” I said, gazing in his piercing blue eyes. His chin was chiseled and a beard that I’d never seen before was blossoming from it.
The hot water pushed up tightly against me, and I had the strangest sensation that it was starting to fill up my body. Everything felt heavier and loftier, and it took effort just to shift my arms.
Jordan’s shoulders seemed a whole lot broader, and his traps seemed to be rising up his expanding neck.
“Damn bro…” said Jordan with a smile, “you look like a fucking supermodel…”
“Well you look like a fucking quarterback…” I said back slowly, my eyes fixed on his pecs, which I hadn’t noticed being so full and round before. His nipples were poking out of them like party hats. I kinda wanted to play with them a little.
Our knees were touching, which I’m pretty sure they weren’t doing when we first got in. I moved my hand under the water onto his leg, feeling how thick and muscular it was, tracing the toned bumps up to his waist.
Suddenly I felt Jordan’s hand on my waist, and we began to mirror each other, moving our hands over each other’s toned, shredded abs.
“Broooo…” I moaned, “your body is so fucking hot…” I felt his muscles stretching and tightening with my hand, his skin bulging out to accommodate the muscle that was growing underneath it.
“Fuckkkk bro…” Jordan said, “I think you’re growing…” His hand reached my nipple and began to knead it gently in his fingers.
“Bro… that feels so fucking good…” I groaned, and I started to play with his big hard muscle tits as well. The water seemed to keep filling us up, inflating us like water balloons of muscle.
I moved closer to Jordan, so that my huge muscle chest was pressed tightly up against his like the wrong puzzle pieces being forced together. Our bodies were expanding toward each other in an ecstasy of muscle. The closer we got, the more of him I could feel.
“Ahhhhhh…. Fuckkk!” I roared loudly as I felt his massive, elongating, thickening cock press against mine. Our speedos were ripped and floating on the surface.
”Your cock…” Jordan bellowed in a rich bass voice, “it’s fucking enormous… You’re so hung, bro…” I felt his already huge hand struggling to fit around the girth of my monster cock.
“Holy shit, bro…” I said, trying to grapple my hand around Jordan’s cock, “your fucking cock is gigantic!”
We took turns sucking each other off, the cocks still elongating and expanding in our mouths.
Our muscles pressed against each other, flesh straining against flesh, vein popping against vein. The hot and steamy water kept our blood pumping, and we hoped our muscles would never stop growing.
It was a challenge to do a “gay to straight” TF without including any pics of women.
Unburdened - Muscle growth and weight gain AI sequence
Thank you for everyone who voted in the poll! Here is the one you voted for and I will work on Risk it all episode 2 next. I hope you all enjoy.
The Trickster grinned as he floated invisibly around the pool, a holiday resort was always rich in insecurity, jealousy and regret. A perfect place to grant wishes and make mischief. The Trickster then saw him, Myles standing and flexing as women giggled and swooned behind him, the tall, handsome man was bulging with muscles, his pecs like swollen balloons and biceps like boulders. He was smiling but there was also exhaustion behind his expression as sweat dripped down him, many would have mistaken him as someone how had recently got out of the pool but instead he found the heat difficult to cope with. His body would overcompensate and drench him in sweat and still that did little to cool him down. The Trickster grinned as he felt a wish brewing but his green demon eyes then spotted someone else. There was Ahmed dangling his feet in the pool, his eyes drifting to Myles and then looking away painfully. The obese, hairy Arabic man had managed to escape his family for 10 minutes of peace only for him to feel self-conscious and inadequate as Myles flexed near him. Ahmed squirmed as he tried to hide his flabby body from the people behind him and the flexing jock as a wish appeared in his head.
Deal - Muscle growth AI sequence
Milo let out a pathetic yelp as he dropped the weights to the floor, each barely 15 pounds and still they were a struggle to hold up. Milo almost felt like crying, he had been going to the gym for a couple of months now and while he had lost a little bit of weight he had gained no muscle at all. He was still weak, scrawny and completely over looked, women wouldn't even notice him not in a gym full of real muscle men. Milo looked around embarrassed, hoping no one has seen his poor attempt at lifting the light weights, when he caught the eyes of Tobias the most arrogant jock at the gym.
Milo quickly looked away but it was too late, the 6'2 jacked, tanned stud which the thick bulge in his tiny pink shorts has seen him. Tobias walked with a swagger, his pectorals bouncing with each step as they were barely contained by his tank top. Tobias oozed confidence and his handsome face, chiselled jaw line and effortless gym style made him the most desirable man at the gym. Tobias towered over Milo as he walked over to the pale, weak, ginger nerd. Milo was expecting some kind of nasty comment or a joke at his expense, he had flashbacks to wedgies, swirlies and nipple twisters he received from the jocks at school and hoped he wasn't going to relive some of his worst memories. As Milo tensed up and looked at the floor, Tobias grinned and spoke but his tone wasn't vicious or cruel instead it was one of concern "Yo little dude, looks like you need some help?"
Milo looked up meekly still expecting this to be some kind of mockery at his expense, but Tobias's expression was warm. "Yeah, I'm just no good at this gym stuff" Milo said awkwardly.
"No stress bro, its hard starting from the beginning. It takes a while to get use to training and eating right." Tobias then flexed his chest whether consciously or unconsciously it was unclear. "Do you want me to help you?"
