#becoming his

[pressforwardsaints]

[iridescentxstars]

Incubus Jongin!! Everyone needs him so I need him as well

Lazily stretching out on the bed, Jongin’s eyes sparkle with delight as he’s picked. “You need me?” He licks his lips as he lifts a finger and entices you to come forward, “seems like I need you too, baby, why don’t we help each other out, hmm?”

[reformhim]

Cockswap: Andrew & The Twink

Andrew had always known he was the man other men wanted to be, or be with.

He earned it — hours at the gym, a strict grooming routine, an expensive tan, plenty of intoxicating body hair that drew stares, and that cocky swagger that made heads turn the second he entered a room. But above all, he was blessed... endowed.

Nine thick, tan inches. Uncut. Heavy. Hung like a god. His shaft sat above a dark, dense bush of pubes, framed by low-hanging balls that made noise when he walked naked across tile. He never wore underwear — not with a cock like that. He wanted people to stare.

And they always did.

But then came the curse...

A cute, boyish twink had flirted with him while they waited in line at a juice bar. Blonde. Maybe 22. Big blue eyes and a body like a dancer — toned but petite. He couldn’t stop staring at Andrew’s bulge.

"Is that real?" the twink asked, grinning up at him.

Andrew just smirked. “Want a closer look?”

The twink blushed, bit his lip.

That’s when it hit.

A surge of heat. Like a heartbeat in his balls. Then a suction, deep in his core.

Andrew gasped. The front of his shorts suddenly felt wrong. Too roomy.

He reached down instinctively, cupping — and felt something unfamiliar. Something... smaller. Foreign.

Panicked, he rushed into the bathroom, locked the stall, unzipped.

His cock was gone.

In its place: a cute, slim little dick. Pale pink. Cut. Barely five inches. Tight little balls. Smooth, like it had never seen a razor.

“What the f—”

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

“I think you forgot something... wanna swap back? 😘 -Eli”

He remembered the twink’s name now. Eli. The one from the juice bar. His stomach twisted.

---

That night, they met up at Eli’s apartment.

Eli answered the door in a white tank top and short shorts. His small frame was smooth and boyish, but there was a glint in his eyes — knowing, hungry.

Andrew didn’t bother with small talk. “Give it back.”

Eli smiled slowly. “Oh, I love how it feels. Heavy. Fills out my little briefs like I’ve got a monster down there.” He cupped himself — Andrew’s cock visibly outlined, thick and flopping beneath the fabric.

Andrew growled. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, I am too. But there’s only one way to reverse it” Eli stepped closer, voice low. “I fuck you… and you take every drop.”

Andrew’s jaw clenched. “Not gonna happen.”

Eli leaned up, licking his lips. “Then I guess it’s mine forever.”

He turned. The sight of Andrew’s cock swinging under that tiny twink ass nearly broke the alpha man’s brain. Seeing it from the outside, big and perfect… attached to someone else.

Andrew lasted three days.

Three humiliating, shriveled, awkwardly quiet days of trying to hook up with other men — only to be laughed at or pitied the moment his pants came off. His swagger crumbled. He stopped going out. He couldn’t even jerk off — nothing felt right.

So, he went back.

---

Eli had prepared.

He made Andrew shower. Lube. Kneel.

It was slow. Deep. Not painful… but humbling. Eli didn’t pound — he possessed. He whispered to Andrew the entire time.

“Mmmm... it's so nice having your cock... it looks so good on me... and it's overwhelming to fuck you with it..."

“You’re not so scary now, are you?”

“Moan for it. Show me how much you miss it.”

And Andrew did. Every groan was real. Every gasp was shame. When Eli finally came, flooding Andrew’s insides, it was like a switch had flipped.

That familiar weight returned. The heft between his thighs. The fullness. The power.

He looked down, and there it was.

His cock. His bush. His balls.

But something inside had changed.

Because Eli was still smirking, still lounging on the bed, still stroking himself — and even though Eli was smaller again, Andrew felt… submissive.

Eli owned something deeper now.

[reformhim]

A Changing Desire

It started subtly—barely noticeable at first.

Lucas was always proud of his smooth, lean body. His skin was soft, his muscles cut just enough to show definition, and not a single patch of hair interrupted his youthful glow. Every morning, he admired himself in the mirror, posing in skimpy briefs, capturing selfies that his followers adored. He looked like a sculpture—refined, polished, controlled.

But it never felt real. It felt like he was performing a soft version of manhood, not living the real thing, as he secretly desired yet seemed unable to achieve.

But, it was on his 22nd birthday when everything changed. He woke with a strange warmth coursing through his chest, a heaviness beneath his skin. He blinked slowly, disoriented, scratching at an itch between his pecs—and paused.

Hair.

Not just a few stray strands, but a soft tuft, curling defiantly on skin that had always been smooth as glass.

He gasped and rushed to the mirror. More curls were sprouting along his lower abdomen, thickening in a faint trail that led beneath the waistband of his briefs. The sight made his stomach twist with fear—and… something else.

Excitement?

The transformation came in waves over the next few days. His jaw ached as a shadow of a beard emerged, thicker each morning. His muscles swelled, subtly at first, then more noticeably—arms broadening, chest thickening, thighs becoming meatier, more powerful.

By the fourth day, Lucas hardly recognized the man in the mirror.

His once delicate features had sharpened with rugged masculinity. A thick patch of hair curled over his chest and spread up to his pecs, between them, down his torso, and into a rich forest between his legs. His armpits, once baby-smooth, were now damp with dark, masculine curls. His face—shadowed with scruff, full lips set in a more confident curve—looked older, but not aged. Mature. Commanding. Real.

And he felt different, too.

He no longer moved with the grace of a boy on display. Now, he carried himself with weight. With hunger. With power. He noticed how people looked at him differently now—longer stares, bolder eyes. They saw the man he’d become, the heat that radiated off his chest and the primal magnetism of his body hair.

And yet, in rare quiet moments, he missed the boy he was. The smoothness. The softness. The innocence of never knowing what he lacked.

But he didn’t want to go back.

Not when he could run his fingers through his own chest hair and feel pride swell in his gut. Not when he could see the effect he had on others—especially other men. The transformation had gifted him not just a new body, but a new identity. A new truth.

He was no longer hoping for manhood.

He was a man now.

Hairy. Hot-blooded. Unapologetically himself.

And once you become him—you never want to be anything else.

[reformhim]

His Boy

Carter had never met anyone like Maxwell.

They were both first-years in the political science department — bright, ambitious, and tall. Maxwell stood out, though. Always in clean, tailored suits, with sharp dark hair parted with precision and the gleam of polished eyeglasses perched on his nose. He was confident. No — cocky. Always correcting professors. Always charming the room. He spoke with precision and ease, like the world owed him attention.

Carter, usually dressed in a bright colored polo and pressed khakis, admired from a distance… until Maxwell started looking back.

What started as tension in group projects, lingering eye contact and smug smirks, turned into long conversations, shared coffees, shoulder touches that lingered, and one night — alone in Maxwell’s dorm — a kiss.

It was Carter who leaned in first, desperate to know what Maxwell’s lips tasted like. Maxwell kissed him back slowly, deeply, pulling Carter in with a hand to the back of his neck. Their bodies pressed together. Maxwell’s breath warm at his ear.

“Will you be my boy?” he whispered.

Carter moaned and nodded, breathless. “Yes…”

But Maxwell wasn’t done.

“If you're going to be mine,” he said, straightening his posture, his voice commanding now, “you need to make a few changes.”

Carter blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Maxwell stepped back. “Strip.”

There was something about the way he said it that left no room for argument. Carter’s hands moved on instinct. Soon he was standing naked in front of Maxwell, flushed with vulnerability.

Maxwell’s eyes traced over Carter’s body like he was inspecting property. “Grow more hair,” he said simply.

And Carter gasped.

It started at his pits, a dark thicket bursting forth. His chest bloomed with rich hair in patterns he’d only seen on men he envied. His stomach thickened with a dark treasure trail that raced down to his groin, where curls erupted over his balls and shaft. Arms, legs, ass, even the tops of his feet — all thickened with a dark, manly pelt. He could feel stubble rising along his jaw and cheeks, coarser than he’d ever been able to grow.

Carter moaned — God, it felt incredible. A dream. His skin tingled, alive. He ran his hands down his now-furry stomach, amazed.

But Maxwell wasn’t done.

He stepped in behind Carter, placed both hands on his bare buttocks, and gave a firm squeeze. “Let’s soften this up a bit, shall we?”

Carter groaned as a strange pressure bubbled in his backside. His cheeks swelled outward, thickening with pillowy mass, rounding out, jiggly and heavy. His ass had never been this big. It bounced now. He looked over his shoulder, wide-eyed.

“I—Maxwell…” Carter stammered, red-faced.

Maxwell only grinned wider. “I like my boys with a little bounce.”

Carter tried to laugh, nervously. “I guess that’s okay…”

But then Maxwell stepped around and cupped his cock and balls.

“No—no wait—” Carter yelped, suddenly panicked.

“Shh,” Maxwell said coolly. “A boy shouldn’t be so big down here. That’s for men. You agreed to this, remember?”

Carter screamed in his head as his manhood tingled and began to shrink. His thick cock thinned, shortened. His balls pulled upward, deflating like balloons. It was horrifying. He looked down and whimpered — he looked like a porn site bottom now. Small, neat, humiliating.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

“Max, please… this is too much—”

“Just a little more,” Maxwell said gently, placing a hand on Carter’s chest. “Tone up. Not bulky. Just... lean.”

Carter’s breath caught as his body tightened. His arms firmed, his stomach gained taut definition. His thighs and calves became cut, like a dancer’s, not a bodybuilder’s. Beautiful, strong, in a youthful sort of way.

Then came the final change.

Maxwell looked into Carter’s eyes and smiled darkly.

“I can’t have my boy eye-to-eye with me,” he whispered.

“No—no, please—” Carter begged, backing away.

But Maxwell held him still. His hands firm on Carter’s shoulders, he pushed downward.

Carter’s whole body began to compress. The room shifted. The world felt taller. His head dropped, inch by inch. Six-foot-two became six-flat. Then 5'10... then 5'8…

“Maxwell please!”

“You said yes, Carter. It’s done.”

By the time it stopped, Carter stood at 5'6". Barely chest height to Maxwell now.

Carter looked up at him, helpless. He looked down at himself — hairy, toned, bubble-butted, and humiliated, with a small cock and a shorter frame. He'd become the perfect version of Maxwell’s ideal.

Maxwell took a step back, folded his arms, and grinned with pride.

“Now that’s my boy,” he said, stepping closer and tilting Carter’s chin up. “You look perfect.”

Carter wanted to cry. Not because he hated the hair, or the body. But because he wasn’t ready for this. He hadn’t known Maxwell wanted this kind of control. That this would take away from who he was.

Maxwell licked his lips, leaned down to whisper again.

“You belong to me now. You’re less. My boy. My property. And you’ll learn to love it.”

Carter closed his eyes, breathing shallow, heart pounding. He didn’t know what he had agreed to.

But it was too late.

[reformhim]

Obey Your Man

Obey your man—not from fear or demand,

But from the place where trust takes your hand.

Where his voice is the anchor, his touch is the flame,

And giving yourself is a beautiful game.

Obey him when morning is quiet and still,

When he whispers his wants and you bend to his will.

Not because you're lesser, but because you are his,

And surrender becomes its own sacred bliss.

Let him lead you where shadows dare go,

Through silence, through tension, through pleasures that grow.

You offer your body, your heart, and your pride,

Not lost, but lifted, with him as your guide.

Obey your man when his eyes say kneel,

When his rough hands show you what’s real.

He shapes you, claims you, not with chains—

But with care, with presence, with earned reigns.

And when he says, “Good boy,” or “That’s mine,”

You glow from the inside, you ache by design.

For obeying your man is not being small—

It’s choosing to give him your all.

Serve Your Man

Serve your man—not just in gesture or chore,

But in the way your soul meets the floor.

In every glance, in every breath you take,

You exist for him—make no mistake.

You serve when you wait, naked and still,

Ready to answer, eager to fill

His hands, his hunger, his need, his day—

You give without question, in every way.

Serve him in silence, with pride in your chest,

Knowing your place is not second—it’s blessed.

He is your reason, your rhythm, your law,

And in pleasing him, you feel your awe.

You pour the wine, you bear the mark,

You light his world, you brave his dark.

A glance from him—your purpose ignites,

You serve in mornings, you serve in nights.

And when he says, “Come,” you rise to your knees,

Heart pounding, aching, aching to please.

For in that moment, there’s no higher plan

Than to be what you are—

To serve your man.

Worship Your Man

Worship your man—not just his flesh and bone,

But the storm in his voice, the way he’s grown.

Worship the weight of his gaze on your soul,

How he breaks you down and makes you whole.

Fall to your knees—not in shame, but in pride,

For in him, you’ve found where you belong, where you hide.

His scent, his sweat, the rough of his skin—

You crave it like breath, you welcome him in.

Worship his body—the thighs, the chest,

The curve of his cock when it’s thick and at rest.

The growl in his throat when he claims what is his,

The strength in his hands, the ache of his kiss.

He is not just man—he is god in your eyes,

And you tremble with joy when he hears your cries.

To serve is devotion, to obey is divine,

But to worship—to worship—is to give him all time.

You kiss every inch, you moan when he speaks,

You melt when he touches, you break when he peaks.

You worship your man—not because you must,

But because every part of you burns to trust.

So worship him fully. Worship him deep.

He owns you now—in body, in sleep.

He is your truth, your hunger, your span…

And you are complete

when you worship your man.

Submit to Your Man

Submit to your man—not out of fear,

But because it feels right when he draws near.

Because his voice makes you still,

And his touch bends your will.

Submit when he enters the room, and the air shifts,

When your chest tightens and your gaze drifts.

You lower your eyes—not because you're weak,

But because he knows you—knows what you seek.

Submit with your breath, your lips, your spine,

Let him take what’s his, let your body align.

He doesn’t need to demand or plead—

You want to give him everything he needs.

Your pride, your pose, your guard, your name,

Melt in his hands when he calls you claim.

Your mouth opens just for him to fill,

Your body his altar, your soul his will.

Submit in the dark, in the heat of the bed,

When your wrists are bound and your thoughts have fled.

He tells you what you are, and you know it’s true—

You’re his to command. That’s all you do.

And when he says, “Good boy,” in that low, rough tone,

You feel it deep, in marrow and bone.

For in his arms, you are undone—

Fully seen.

Fully owned.

Fully one.

So submit to your man—wholly and true.

There is no shame in giving what's due.

In surrender, you rise. In his hands, you stand.

You are not lost—

You’re simply

his man.

Always Be Ready for Your Man

Always be ready for your man—

Body waiting, breath held, open as you can.

Keep yourself soft, slick, wanting, warm,

A vessel prepared for the weight of his storm.

When he walks through the door, don’t ask—just know.

Let your knees find the floor, let your need show.

Because he doesn't beg, and he never pleads—

He takes. And you ache to meet his needs.

Be ready for him to fuck you deep,

To bend you, break you, steal your sleep.

To use your hole the way he must—

With rhythm, with hunger, with holy thrust.

No shame in moaning, in spreading wide.

This is your place, your joy, your pride.

To be taken, claimed, undone again—

Ruined by the one who calls you his man.

You don't flinch when his belt hits the floor.

You don't hesitate when he says more.

Your body exists to please, to serve,

To feel every inch he thinks you deserve.

So always be ready—don’t ask when.

Be his now, tomorrow, and again and again.

No words needed when he grips your thighs—

Just obedience, heat, and worship in your eyes.

[reformhim]

Prairie Hearts

They were men of the land. Strong hands, calloused and steady, shaped by years of toil—mending fences, driving cattle, coaxing life from the soil. Luke and Jesse were raised in nearby farms, baptized in the same creek, hardened by the same winds. They knew the ways of men, of work, of God, of sacrifice. They also knew the quiet ache of a love that dared not speak its name.

The prairie stretched golden and wide around them, waving grasses rustling like whispers of heaven. The late-day sun soaked the plains in honeyed light, clouds blushing pink and amber above. Jesse reclined in the grass, his white tank clinging to the lines of a lean, muscled frame. Luke sat beside him, shirt open and hanging loose, sweat-damp and sun-kissed, pointing up at the sky with a boyish wonder that never left him.

“Look there,” Luke said softly. “That one looks like a stallion.”

Jesse smirked. “I was gonna say a chicken.”

Luke laughed, low and rough, and dropped his hand to brush against Jesse’s chest. “You ruin every romantic moment I try to create.”

Jesse turned, met his gaze, and in that moment—warm, sunlit, and wrapped in open sky—it didn’t matter that the world would never understand. It didn’t matter that their fathers would cast them out, that neighbors would speak in hushed tones, or that their love had no place in town. Out here, where the earth was wild and God felt close, they could be who they were.

“I don’t wanna go back tonight,” Jesse whispered. “Not yet.”

Luke leaned down, lips brushing Jesse’s forehead. “Then we won’t.”

The kiss came like a prayer—gentle, reverent, filled with all the words they couldn’t say aloud. It deepened, slow and hungry, years of longing poured into the space between them. Hands explored familiar landscapes: a chest they had watched rise and fall over campfires, a neck damp with sweat from bailing hay, hips they’d only dared to dream of touching until now.

Shirts were peeled away, belts undone. The prairie became their cathedral, the tall grass their walls, the sky their only witness. They moved together in a rhythm older than language, a rhythm shaped by longing, tenderness, and need.

Afterward, tangled in each other’s arms, Luke traced a circle on Jesse’s bare chest. “Wish we could stay here forever. Like this. You and me. Nothing else.”

Jesse smiled up at the sky. “Then let’s pretend time stopped. Right now. This is forever.”

And in a way, it was. For as long as the prairie wind blows and the sun sets over golden fields, their love would echo through the land—hidden from the world, but etched into the soil, the sky, and each other.

Out here, like this, all was well. All was right.