The Gymbro
The package was waiting in his mailbox when he got home, wedged between unpaid bills and a flyer for a local pizza place. At 24 years old, Ryan was lost in his life. A degree in pharmaceutical sciences but no job in sight in his area. To be able to pay the bills he had to take several sides jobs like being a waiter, a manager for a small supermarket or even working in the entertainment. All those efforts for so many years to come back home in his shared apartment and being on the edge of not being able to pay for rent anymore. He was lost in his life, hated himself for not being able to find a proper job after hi diploma and had a pretty low self confidence at this point. His body was not to be ashamed. Going to the gym was the only thing that was able to clear his mind for a couple of hours but even that was not enough to bring joy in his life anymore.
Ryan frowned as he pulled it out. The box was heavy, sturdier than cardboard, with edges traced in faintly glowing gold patterns that seemed to shift if he looked too long. Intricate, almost hypnotic etchings danced across the surface, waves, spirals, mirrored shapes that melted into one another. It looked expensive, like something stolen from a museum or a collector’s shelf.
His name was written on the top in looping handwriting that didn’t look like anyone he knew. He turned it over, found no return address, no company name. Just the weight of it in his hand, oddly warm, like it had been sitting in sunlight though the rest of the mail was cool.
He carried it upstairs into his small apartment, shutting the door with his shoulder. His place was modest, borderline sterile, a bookshelf organized alphabetically, bed perfectly made, desk lined with notebooks where he’d once studied pharmaceutical sciences before life shoved him into dead-end gigs as a manager, waiter, whatever he could find. He set the box down on the desk and stared at it for a while, debating either to open it or not.
Finally, curiosity got the better of him. He unlatched the clasp.
Inside, folded neatly, was an outfit that looked like it had been pulled from a time capsule: shiny short shorts in electric blue, a tank top with neon trim, and a pair of thick white socks with colored stripes. Draped across it was a folded note, handwritten on thick parchment and on top of that, a golden coin with intricate carved details on it.
Ryan lifted the letter first. The handwriting was ornate, looping, almost Victorian, but the ink glowed faintly, like it was fresh.
“To Ryan Anderson,
You who were lost in an ocean of doubts and low self-confidence. This is my gift for you… If you have to ask, you'll never know. If you know, you need only ask. You’ve been looking for a sense, a purpose. You wanted to find yourself and to be your true self. Now don’t be afraid and listen to my voice because this gift will widen your possibilities. Every era has its spirits, and every soul its hidden hunger. You were not sent this gift by accident. I grant you the chance to shrug off your anxieties and burdens, to live as you once dreamed or feared. In this box lies an invitation to become what the mirror does not yet show you.
Clothe yourself in what you find within.
Worry not for tomorrow; in your new reflection, tomorrow will not matter at all.
Yours in amusement, —M”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “What the hell…?”
It read like some cultist nonsense. He almost crumpled it up, but the craftsmanship of the box, the outfit, the faintly metallic scent rising from the fabric, it gave him pause. He tugged the folded clothes out. They were spotless, perfectly pressed, smelling faintly of sweat and something musky, like a gym locker that had somehow aged into cologne.
At the bottom of the box sat a coin. He picked it up, and his breath caught.
The coin gleamed gold, heavy, etched with an emblem of a lion flexing its chest. When he turned it in the light, the mane rippled as though alive.
“Okay, this is either the weirdest prank… or…” He trailed off, staring.
Impulse took over. Maybe it was boredom, maybe it was something deeper. He stripped and tugged the outfit on. The shorts clung to his thighs; the tank fit snugly but left room to breathe. He laughed nervously at his reflection, he looked like he was about to star in a cheesy 80s workout video. Ryan looked at himself in the mirror and for a short second he thought he looked kind of good but as fast as this feeling appeared, it left his body, submerging in this old well-known feeling of self-hated.
He set the coin in his palm, watching it shine. It seemed to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat.
A shiver ran up his arm. He quickly slid it into his pocket, then walked in the bathroom to get a better full body view at the costume he was just sent. At first, nothing. Just Ryan: pale, slim but a little soft around the middle, faint dark circles under his eyes from too many late nights worrying about rent. His hair was short, brown but uninspired. His skin lacked color; his frame lacked presence. He looked like what he was: a smart guy with no clear path, too tired to fight anymore.
Just as Ryan was about to go back in his room and change back in his clothes, he saw the surface of the mirror in front of him ripple like a rock was thrown in still water. In the middle of it, he saw a faint cursive “M” appear in the mirror and suddenly everything calms back down. “The fuck?!” Ryan told to no one as he swears, he just had a hallucination due to sleep privation. Ok, time to go to bed…”
Ryan blinked. His reflection’s shoulders widened, just slightly, then more. The glass seemed to pulse with heat.
The first sensation hit his chest. It was like invisible hands were pressing out from the inside, bones creaking, pecs pushing forward, his tank straining as his flat torso ballooned outward. He gasped, gripping the sink. His nipples shifted outward as his chest swelled into rounded slabs, veins rising against tightening skin.
Then his arms. His biceps trembled, heat burning through them as they thickened, swelling into bulging curves. Veins traced down his forearms like rivers. His fingers stretched, knuckles cracking, nails squaring off, his grip on the sink suddenly strong enough to dent the porcelain.
Ryan groaned, the sound caught between pain and pleasure from this foreign feeling invading his body and reflecting in the mirror in front of him. With every change happening in his body, he felt a surge of heat invading his body and forcing a moan out of his gapped mouth, making completely forget about the pain of his bones breaking and reforming and his muscled shifting and growing.
His shoulders pushed wider, traps bulging, his neck thickening until the tank’s neckline tugged tight. His deltoids burned like firecrackers as they swelled, his arms hanging heavier, harder, perfectly rounded.
The heat slid down his spine. Vertebrae popped, his back broadening, lats flaring until his outline dwarfed the sink. His waist tightened, abs cutting through soft skin like they’d been carved from stone. The faint layer of fat he carried melted, revealing an eight-pack that flexed as if to announce itself.
Ryan’s breathing hitched. Every inhale drew in the smell of his own body, sharper now, masculine, tinged with salt and musk.
Then his legs ignited. Thighs ballooned, calves popping outward, hamstrings thick as ropes. The shorts stretched dangerously over his quads, leaving little to the imagination. His feet cramped, toes spreading, arches lengthening, heels grounding him with new weight. His toenails squared, thickened, manly.
Hair sprouted, first across his calves, then his thighs, curling dark and thick. A thin trail crawled up from his waistband, connecting to a sudden burst of dark, coarse curls at his groin looking like they never got shaved at all.
He gasped, clutching himself as his cock thickened while losing length, girth surging, balls swelling heavy and low, pumping with warmth, dragging against his thighs with obscene weight. He moaned without meaning to, the sound vibrating from a chest deeper and richer than before as his cock finished to lose its lengths only to become an extremely thick and uncut golden skinned, naturally tanned cock.
Hair burst inside his pits. Itching then exploding with thick tufts, the musky scent instantly stronger, sharp and erotic as he could feel drops of sweats running along his now muscled and carved obliques and V line.
Ryan staggered, gripping the counter, sweat pouring down his temples. His face shifted in the mirror, jawline squaring, cheekbones sharpening. His hair lengthened into a thick 80s swoop; sides short, top voluminous. Above his lip, stubble sprouted and then thickened into a full-blown pornstache, dark and unapologetic.
His eyes widened, greener, brighter, wilder. His skin tanned, gleaming with sweat and oil, stretched tight across his muscles.
Every nerve in his body was alight now, pleasure and pain blending into an overwhelming rush. His balls pulsed, throbbing, and his cock twitched, leaving a wet, sticky spot against the shorts. He gasped, moaned, doubled over as the climax hit, not just sexual, but total. His body locked, every new muscle flexing, every hair bristling, every pore sweating musk as a wave of pure bliss tore through him.
His cry echoed in the small bathroom, half scream, half roar, until he collapsed against the counter, chest heaving, cock twitching in aftershocks.
Ryan’s reflection flexed at him, unbidden, a cocky grin curling under the thick pornstache. His pecs bounced, hair catching the light as sweat dripped from his nipples. He couldn’t stop staring at the wide shoulders, the carved abs, the thick happy trail diving into shorts that looked seconds away from ripping apart.
He panted, trying to remember what life had felt like five minutes ago. Thin, pale, restless, that man was gone. In his place stood someone louder, brighter, heavier. Someone who smelled of sweat and musk and something sharper, almost like cologne made of iron and sex. For a moment, something clicked in the deep of his irises and he was unapologetically sexy and proud of himself. But the second after, his original body flashed in front of his eyes and he realized this was wrong.
Ryan groaned and stumbled back from the mirror in shock at what he just saw, running a hand through his new hair. It was thick, feathered, impossibly perfect, and damp with sweat. His pits reeked, earthy and strong, but instead of recoiling, he smirked and when his mouth opened to scream in fear, something else escaped way faster than he could hold them back. “FUCK YEAH!!”
The air in the apartment shifted with the echoes of his scream. The sterile quiet of his small one-bedroom suddenly pressed down, wrong. His nose twitched, nostrils flaring, and when he swung open his bedroom door, it was like stepping into a different life.
The once neatly made bed was a tangle of sheets, reeking faintly of sweat and sex. Empty protein shakes cups littered the nightstand. His bookshelf sagged with stacks of bodybuilding magazines instead of pharmaceutical texts. Posters of ripped men pumping iron hung crooked on the walls. The floor was scattered with dirty socks, shoes, shorts. The musk of it hit him in the chest like a memory he didn’t realize he had.
And it felt good. Right.
Unwillingly, Ryan laughed, a deep, easy sound. He scratched his chest then his hairy pubes, fingers combing through coarse curls before bringing them to his nostrils to smells his pheromones. His brain clouded a bit with this rush of hormones and he realizes his tender shoulders dropped a bit with every passing breathing. It was like he still knew this wasn’t normal but somehow accepted the situation for what it was. Worse, after another scratch in his pits and a deep one around his thick cock, he didn’t care anymore, he was even proud of his new style and body while still remembering this was temporary and he had to enjoy every second of it. Ryan then reached into the closet. Instead of button-down shirts and neat folded slacks, a cracked leather gym bag waited. He grabbed it, slinging it over his broad shoulder, and it thudded with the weight of straps, chalk, maybe even some dumbbells.
The mirror by the door showed him again, this time in full: the neon-striped tank straining over pecs, the shiny blue shorts hugging quads, white socks pulled high over hairy calves, sneakers loosely tied. A Walkman dangled from the bag strap, its foam headphones bouncing against his chest.
He slipped it on, the cassette whirring, synth beats flooding his head. His grin widened.
The old Ryan might have worried about what people thought, walking outside dressed like a cartoon from the 80s. This Ryan didn’t care. Why should he? His body was perfect. His stench was power. His tank stuck to his skin, still damp, still radiating that intoxicating gym musk that clung to him like a second skin.
He gave himself one last flex in the mirror, pecs bouncing, abs tightening, cock bulging obscenely, then swung the door shut behind him. On the step of his porch, he mechanically put his keys in his pocket only to realize the coin was still there, waiting for him. His fingers brushed the cold metal and he marked a stop as his face illuminated with a cocky smile while he took his hand out of his pocket and resumed his path to the gym.
The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and stale air, but his scent overpowered it instantly. His sneakers squeaked as he stomped down the stairs, the beat in his Walkman syncing with his pulse.
Neighbors peeked out as he passed, a couple in their pajamas, a girl with laundry, an old man fumbling with keys. All stared. How could they not? He was a relic made flesh, an 80s gym god swaggering down the hallway with self-confidence, musk and a cocky attitude made possible by his muscled body and thick mustache.
Ryan smirked, not breaking stride. Their stares didn’t embarrass him, they fed him.
His head spun for a second as he saw his reflection in the mirrors, not truly sure this was normal but at the same time so familiar, a faint echo of the changes he just, and then it cleared. He cracked his neck, adjusted his gym bag, and strode into the night.
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Hello everyone!
As I mentioned in a previous post, life has been hectic these past few days, and I had to take a step back from both the event and the computer in general. But the event is still ongoing, and I’ll be posting the stories as soon as possible to get back on track with daily updates. So, expect a couple of stories per day over the next few days!
With that said, here’s the story for @sleuthorpheus ! I hope you enjoy it—let me know what you think of your new life for this month. 😉 Hope you’re loving your costume, your hot mustache, and yes, even those sweaty pubes!
Wishing you all an amazing day, and I’ll see you soon with more stories for the rest of the month!
