Ethan Maddox was the sort of boy who never looked like he belonged anywhere.
At twenty-one, in his third year of university, he spent more time hunched in library corners than he did out with friends. His body had that awkward skinny-fat shape he hated: his chest soft without being round, his stomach neither flat nor truly large, his arms thin but without definition. When he caught sight of himself in a bathroom mirror, all he saw was pale skin stretched over bones in the wrong
proportions, a body too timid even to announce itself.
And so perhaps it was no coincidence that Mister Melorius found him.
Few spoke of the shop aloud, and those who did could never say where it was. It appeared only in October, always where you weren’t expecting it: a gap between buildings where no gap had been yesterday, a crooked little storefront painted midnight blue, with a sign etched in curling gold: Melorius Curiosities. The windows were filled with objects that seemed half-alive: masks that followed you with their eyes, swords that hummed faintly in the air, leather-bound books whose pages fluttered though no wind blew.
It was said no one ever found the shop on purpose.
If you have to ask, you'll never know. If you know, you need only ask.
And only in the season when veils were thinnest, when hunger and fantasy pressed hardest at the human heart.
Ethan had walked past such a shop two weeks before Halloween, arms full of groceries, and blinked at it. He couldn’t remember what had been in that narrow alley before. Just shadows, maybe. But now there was glass, wood, brass handles polished like the moon. He hadn’t gone in; his courage wasn’t built for doorways that seemed to breathe with anticipation. But when he glanced over his shoulder, he thought he saw a man within, tall and skeletal, watching him with eyes like polished coal.
He had hurried home, groceries clutched tight, and forced himself to forget. Only the name stood on hi side like a distanced call in the lonely nights: Melorius…
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It was waiting in his mailbox one chilly October afternoon, heavy enough to make the metal slot sag. An envelope of thick parchment, sealed in wax the color of dried blood. His apartment number had been written across it in a hand sharp and deliberate, almost elegant. His stomach fluttered as he carried it upstairs.
He broke the seal with trembling fingers.
The letter inside was long, curling script in black ink that shimmered strangely as he moved it:
“To Ethan Maddox, who hides in the corners of his own life:
The world has seen your shrinking. You dream of another skin, yet you wear only shadows. It need not be so. In this box lies the costume your heart is craving. Soaked with, command, and authority. A garment of power.
Within the pocket you will find a coin. At midnight on the 31 of October, when the veil is the finest and the dreams are reachable, you will toss the coin once and only once.
Consider this as the universe blinking at you. The timid falter, the fearful hide, but the chosen stride forward.
And remember: If you have to ask, you'll never know. If you know, you need only ask.
And you, Ethan Maddox, knew where to ask.
— M ”
He set the letter down, heart hammering. Beneath it lay a uniform folded with soldierly precision: a deep green military jacket heavy with stiff fabric, pressed trousers, leather boots polished to a gleam, and a peaked cap. Their weight seemed greater than cloth alone, as though history clung to them. At the bottom, nestled against the box’s lining, gleamed the coin.
Ethan stared at it all, chest rising and falling too fast. Part of him wanted to laugh, to throw it away, to crawl back into his old, safe shell. But another part, hungry, trembling, desperate, ached to believe.
That part won.
He stripped nervously, skin goose bumping in the cool air, pale and unimpressive in the half-light of his room. His chest curved slightly inward; ribs faintly visible. His stomach was soft, a pouch of shame he always tucked under hoodies. His thighs were slim without strength. He knew every flaw, every inch of himself that failed to measure up.
He pulled on the trousers first. They were far too long, the fabric sagging around his ankles. The jacket hung on him like a borrowed coat from a father’s closet. He buttoned it anyway, hands shaking, fabric swallowing his narrow chest. Boots clomped heavy around his feet, far too roomy. The peaked cap slid low over his brow. He looked absurd.
He reached into the jacket pocket. The coin was warm already, pulsing faintly as though alive. Eagle on one side, skull on the other. His heart pounded. He flicked it into the air, watched it spin silver-bright, and slapped it into his palm.
Suddenly, Ethan felt like something was off. His breath cut short and he had troubles keeping his balance. He took a step, then another one, and almost fell on the ground if he didn’t catch himself on the stair pillar. He threw himself in his bathroom and snap the door closed with strength he didn’t know he had.
All around, the air thickened, pressing against him. The mirror across from his bed shimmered like water. He stumbled closer, gasping, and then the unannounced pain hit his hands.
His fingers stiffened, knuckles burning as though gripped in a vice. Bones popped one after another, lengthening, thickening. His palms widened, delicate skin pulling tight, nails squaring off into strong masculine edges. Veins surged to the surface, crawling blue and then darkening, pulsing with power. He cried out, clutching at the dresser, but even that sound was deeper, rougher. The gloves of the jacket bit into his hands, straining against their sudden size.
The change crawled up his arms like fire. Forearms corded, sinew knotting, every nerve alive with stabbing pain that melted into hot, dizzy pleasure. His biceps surged outward, fabric straining, seams creaking. Triceps ridged like cables. His shoulders cracked wide, collarbones splitting further apart, deltoids ballooning into rounded caps. His sleeves no longer hung loose, they clung, every fiber stretched across new mass.
Then his chest exploded outward. Ribs cracked audibly; sternum thrust forward. Pecs rose heavy and square, nipples pushing hard against the fabric, sensitive and electric. His lungs expanded with them, each breath deeper, heavier, filling him with an intoxicating musk that poured from his pores, salt, sweat, leather, something virile and hot. He swayed, drunk on his own scent, groaning as pleasure blurred the edges of pain.
His stomach clenched, doubled him over. The softness melted under the skin, shrinking, hardening. Lines carved themselves like knives across his abdomen. He gritted his teeth, sweat running down his temples, as a ridged six-pack forced itself into place. Obliques carved sharp lines down his sides, the V of muscle angling toward his groin. He touched them with shaking fingers and nearly moaned, they were like stone, hot under his skin.
The transformation surged lower. His thighs swelled thick, trousers tightening brutally. Quadriceps rose in ridges, muscle bulging outward until seams cut into them. Hamstrings stretched tight against the cloth. His calves knotted, carving into perfect diamonds, boots squeaking as his feet lengthened inside them. Toes spread wider, nails hardening, arches rising, feet that once slipped clumsy into shoes now filled leather with commanding weight. He could feel heat radiating from them, a masculine musk thickening the air.
Height rushed through him, bones stretching. His spine cracked up and up, every vertebra lengthening, his skull lifting higher. He staggered, caught between agony and a strange euphoria, head light with the surge. The ceiling seemed closer. His reflection loomed.
Hair prickled across his body next. Fine pale strands darkened, thickened, coarser now. His chest sprouted a dusting of dark hair over rock-hard pecs, down the ridges of his abs. His armpits flared hot, prickling as dense tufts grew, damp with sweat already, the scent sharp and intoxicating. A trail crawled down his stomach, disappearing beneath his tightening trousers, which now outlined far more than they ever had.
His face was the last to change. The reflection blurred, bones shifting beneath the skin. Jawline sharpened brutally, cheekbones cutting shadows. His lips thickened, curling into a smirk he didn’t choose. His nose straightened, stronger, his brow heavier. Dark stubble sprouted fast under his skin, giving him the shadow of a beard neatly trimmed every morning. His hair receded into a severe military cut, sides sharp, top short and commanding. His eyes burned, still Ethan’s green, but sharper, cockier, manlier.
Ethan gasped as his sweaty reflection only to be met with a different voice echoing back to his transformed ears. It was deep and resonant, a sound that belonged to someone who demanded obedience.
Ethan screamed in horror realizing that he couldn’t recognize his own reflection. He tried to get rid of the costume but it clung to his newly crafted muscled like a second skin due his expending muscles in the suit and his sweat gluing them in place.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” he screaming in his booming voice as his hands reached for his fly with the hope to get the pants down, but as his hands approached it, Ethan felt something shifting around his unchanged dick.
Heat pooled in his groin, sharp enough to make his knees buckle. The trousers bulged forward, straining as something inside thickened, heavy and urgent. His cock grew with each heartbeat, stretching, pulsing, the fabric imprinting its shape in obscene detail. His balls swelled beneath, full, weighty, pressing against the seams. He could feel the heat of them, the raw power of sperm production already humming, precum slicking against the thick non stretchy fabric. The scent of it mingled with his sweat, thick and undeniable, filling the air with musk. He groaned, half in agony, half in delight, as he cupped himself instinctively not to get rid of the pants but to free his monster from its cage. Ethan stood there, gasped at his reflection as his cock was stretching his jockstrap to its limit, pouring precum with every breath he took. He couldn’t move anymore; every movement of his body made his dick bounce in his jockstrap which resulted in a new wave of precum being poured of his way too sensitive cock.
“How… “Ethan could only say in his booming voice before a new stream of precum poured from his tip, leaking out of the saturated fabric and now leaking in a clear viscous tear from its tip.
Ethan was left trembling, sweat shining across his skin, every inch of him alive. The shy boy was gone.
The man in the mirror was a soldier, broad, muscled, commanding, read to give and take orders but most importantly, unashamed of his body and of his potential. His body hair glistened dark against skin stretched perfectly over muscle. His armpits damp, feet solid, chest proud. His cock heavy, outlined in trousers that now fit like a second skin. His expression cocky, eyes gleaming with arrogance.
Deep in his left pocket, the coin pulsed, warm against his thigh. Ethan had forgot about it at this point. For the first time in forever, he was not afraid anymore. He grabbed his phone and flexed in the mirror as he took a pic himself. Once it was done, he went to the app store and downloaded grindr where he uploaded his pic. In a couple of minutes, he had a few messages from twinks all around him wanting for him to deploy his forces in their asses.
Ethan, no, not Ethan anymore, smirked at his reflection, squared his massive shoulders, and adjusted his jacket. His scent clung to the air like victory. He strode toward the door with a swagger he had never known before, boots heavy, musk thick, the coin burning with promise.
Tonight, the party would not recognize the shy boy who once hid in corners. They would see only the soldier.
Welcome to the first story of the Melorius 2025 event!
Our lucky first custumer is @bigmuscle!
I hope you enjoy it, and be sure to come back on October 31st for a little trick-or-treat surprise...
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'll see you tomorrow with the next request from another customer in need!
Barnaby sat in a brightly lit café, the picture of quiet academia. His mind was absorbed in the physics textbook open on his lap, headphones resting around his neck, providing a soundproof barrier against the world. He was comfortable, if a little lonely, in his intellectual bubble. As he reached for his coffee, his hand brushed against a forgotten trinket on the table, a small, cheap, plastic wristband.
The moment he touched it, a fierce, internal heat ignited in his chest. It felt like a current, sharp and unexpected, and it made his vision swim. He quickly dropped the band. His focused thoughts on quantum mechanics were suddenly replaced by a strange, restless energy. He rubbed his temples, feeling a dull ache. He caught his reflection in the window: his maroon jacket and yellow polo suddenly felt too soft, too small. The urge to move, to exert himself, was intense. He left the book, the coffee, and the café, the world of ideas forgotten for the first time.
Day 2: The Physical Shift
Barnaby woke up to a profound sense of discomfort. His own clothes felt like they were strangling him. He stumbled to the bathroom, catching his reflection. The change was stark, yet not fully complete. His soft facial features were hardening, his jawline becoming squarer, and his once-lean frame had already started to fill out with a new, firm density.
He stripped down, the sight of his subtly broadening chest and thickening arms giving him a strange rush of adrenaline. His meticulous, ordered mind was now preoccupied with only one thing: muscle. He felt an urgent need to test his limits. He ditched his class schedule and, guided by a new, powerful instinct, found the nearest gym. He didn't know the first thing about lifting, but his body moved with an unfamiliar, aggressive competence, drawn to the heaviest weights.
Day 3: Mental Deterioration
The physical changes accelerated dramatically. Barnaby’s muscles were growing at an unnatural speed, adapting immediately to the brutal new regimen. His formerly light arm hair was darkening and thickening, mirroring the raw, unrefined power that now coursed through him. He was no longer thinking in equations or theories; his internal monologue had devolved into simple, declarative statements about sets, reps, and protein.
He stood in the gym locker room, noticing his immense size in the mirror . He had traded his nice clothes for oversized, simple gym wear. He tried to recall his own name, but it felt like a dusty, forgotten file in a rapidly deleting database. "Barnaby?" he mumbled, the word tasting alien on his tongue. It didn't fit this new, powerful body. A new, confident name pushed itself to the forefront of his simplified mind: Brock. Yeah, Brock. That sounded better, stronger. He could barely remember his friends’ names, let alone his major. All academic memory was rapidly being overwritten by gym schedules and the pure, blissful sensation of a pump.
Day 4: The Jock Persona Emerges
Brock's transformation was now evident to everyone. His hair, once neatly styled, was now a wild mass of curls that seemed to bounce with his newfound confidence. He instinctively started mimicking the behaviors and simple, direct speech patterns of the biggest guys at the gym.
He had started covering his huge arms in tattoos, driven by a simple, shallow desire to look harder, cooler, and more signed. He stood flexing in the mirror, his focus entirely on his own physique. He could no longer string together a complex sentence, often relying on grunts and one-word replies, lost in the pure, narcissistic joy of his size.
Day 5: Shredded and Dazed
Brock was now almost completely shredded. The last remnants of his old self had been burned away by the relentless pace of his transformation. His six-pack was defined, his shoulders were immense, and his new, rougher facial hair completed his aesthetic.
His thoughts were almost entirely gone, replaced by a dull, constant contentment. He spent hours mindlessly posing in the gym mirror, a heavy silver chain now adorning his thick neck, oblivious to the other patrons. He only recognized one goal: max out every lift. Everything else was a blur of hazy, dumb happiness.
Day 6: The Full Aesthetic
The transformation finalized. Brock’s physique now matched the overwhelming mass and definition of a professional fitness model. His face, once thoughtful, was now permanently set in a heavy-lidded, vacant stare, occasionally punctuated by a grunt of effort or a self-satisfied smirk. He wore only tank tops, his massive, tattooed arms fully visible.
He put on a pair of wireless headphones, not for music, but to complete the aesthetic and tune out any remaining sound that might introduce an intrusive, non-gym-related thought. His knowledge of physics was gone; his knowledge of muscle groups was flawless.
Day 7: New Life, New Jock
Brock walked across campus, no longer carrying a textbook, but a massive protein shaker. He was completely unrecognizable from the lonely nerd who had left the café a week ago.
He was massive, dumb, and overwhelmingly confident. He was surrounded by a new clique of equally muscled dumb jocks, his conversation limited to enthusiastic grunts and simple questions about lifting totals. He laughed loudly at the simplest jokes, his brain unable to process anything requiring subtlety. He had found his ultimate purpose: being big, being strong, and not needing to think about a single thing. His transformation was complete.
Simon Greene had never felt like he belonged — not in high school, not at home, and definitely not in his own skin.
At 18, he was the classic overachiever: straight-A student, chess club president, computer programming whiz, socially anxious, and a passionate social justice blogger. He was also shy, gay, and lived in a small town where all of those things made him feel like he had a neon sign blinking “Outsider.”
On his birthday, Simon wandered into the back of a dusty old bookstore to escape the summer heat. There, half-buried in a bin of forgotten paperbacks, he found a strange leather-bound book with no title. Inside was a single sentence:
“Wish who you weren’t, and you’ll become who you’d never dare.”
Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe he was just tired of being… him. Simon laughed softly and muttered under his breath:
“I wish I were the exact opposite of who I am. Like, I don’t know—super straight, dumb, hot, a total jock who’s confident and popular and everything I’m not.”
The book snapped shut.
That night, the transformation began.
Simon woke up in agony. His body felt like it was melting and rebuilding itself. His limbs stretched longer, wider. Soft muscles hardened into sculpted biceps and abs. He grew six inches in height. His skin bronzed, clear and glowing. His jawline chiseled out like it had been carved by Michelangelo himself. Blonde hair thickened and styled itself naturally, effortlessly. His voice dropped two octaves, now a deep, gravelly confidence machine.
His mind buzzed. Math formulas dissolved into nothing. Shakespeare quotes were replaced by football stats and gym routines. His sensitivity to politics, his blog, his interest in social theory—all gone. Instead, a new stream of thoughts flooded in: girls, pre-workout supplements, locker room jokes, frat parties, and an Instagram account full of shirtless gym selfies.
Simon—no, Chad now—stumbled into the mirror. What stared back wasn’t just different, it was unrecognizable. He looked like a young Chris Evans but cockier, lazier, and somehow always smirking.
A deep voice rumbled out of his chest.
“Hell yeah… damn I’m hot.”
And for the first time in his life, Chad didn’t feel invisible.
Two years later, Chad Montgomery was a sophomore at Harvard.
He wasn’t there because of his grades — his GPA hovered just above probation. He was there because he could throw a football like a god and had a jawline that made professors bend the rules and admissions offices make "exceptions."
He majored in “Communications,” but no one could say he was doing much of either. His days started with weight training, protein shakes, and shirtless mirror pics for his 600k Instagram followers. He wore backwards caps, chewed gum like it was his job, and referred to his professors by nicknames like “Dr. Dork” or “Queen Math.”
His weekends were even more intense — tailgate parties, beer pong championships, and waking up in someone else’s bed (usually his girlfriend Lexi’s, a business major and Instagram model with the emotional depth of a salad fork).
Chad didn’t believe in climate change. Or feminism. Or reading, really. He was outspoken, cocky, and unfiltered. His circle was full of guys named Bryce, Trent, and Hunter. Together, they ruled the frat house and lived like college kings.
But there were moments — quiet ones, late at night — when he’d stare at the stars and feel… weird. Like a glitch. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
Lexi would roll over and say, “What are you thinking about, babe?”
And Chad would just laugh and say, “Nothin’. Just… protein.”
Somewhere, deep in the corners of his mind, the name “Simon” lingered. But it didn’t mean anything anymore.
And if it ever tried to resurface, Chad would hit the bench press until the thoughts drowned under the weight.
Hercules Gold stepped out of Herculean Gains, his massive frame glistening with sweat after a brutal workout. His neon tank top clung to his bulging pecs, and his gym shorts left his thick quads on full display. He lifted his arms and stretched, taking a deep breath of the crisp evening air.
Then, a voice piped up.
“Wow… you are huge,” someone said in a soft, almost breathless tone.
Hercules turned and raised an eyebrow. Standing before him was a scrawny, pale twink with styled blonde hair, a tight crop top, and jeans that were far too skinny. The kid pushed up his glasses and smirked. “I’m Howy. And damn, you’re exactly my type.”
Hercules recoiled. “Bro, what?”
Howy stepped closer, trailing a finger along Hercules’ thick bicep. “You ever considered, like… experimenting?” he purred.
Hercules scowled. “Nah, bro. That’s some weak-ass faggy shit.” He flexed, making Howy take a step back. “You need to MAN up, dude.”
Howy giggled. “Oh, but I like the way I am.”
Hercules smirked. “Not for long.”
Before Howy could react, Hercules grabbed the back of his head and shoved his face into his musky, sweat-drenched armpit. The overpowering alpha stench hit Howy like a freight train—thick, masculine, pure testosterone.
The change was instant.
His soft, delicate frame jerked violently, muscles erupting beneath his skin. His crop top shredded apart, revealing swelling pecs and an eight-pack of raw power. His arms surged outward, veins snaking over thick biceps.
His legs ballooned, jeans splitting and reforming into gym shorts barely able to contain his massive quads. His styled blonde hair darkened, morphing into a short, messy jock cut. His glasses cracked and fell as his jaw widened into a sharp, rugged chadline.
His lips, once forming a flirtatious smirk, curled into a cocky sneer.
His mind reprogrammed.
No more weak twink thoughts. No more simping over dudes. Only gains, chicks, and dominance.
Howy—no, Howie—staggered back, blinking in confusion before grinning, rolling his thick shoulders. “Yo, bro… what the fuck was I even saying before?” he laughed, voice now a deep, arrogant drawl. “Haha, faggots are cringe, bro.”
Hercules smirked. “Atta boy.”
Howie spat on the ground, flexed his massive, hairy arms, and cracked a beer.
Nothing mattered now except lifting heavy, smashing chicks, and being a fucking ALPHA BRO.
Enjoy your new life, but then again you don't remember the old one bro huhu, now get out there and bring more fags to change bruh - Herc
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.
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!
The night sky over Westbridge University was a canvas of swirling snowflakes, each one catching the glow of the stadium floodlights like tiny diamonds in freefall. It was Christmas Eve, just past midnight, and the world below was hushed under a fresh blanket of white. But up above, things were far from silent. Santa's sleigh hurtled through the clouds with a desperate urgency, the bells jingling erratically as if trying to outrun the inevitable.
Kristoffer Nicholas, Santa to the world, Kris to the elves who knew him best, gripped the reins tighter, his gloved hands aching from the cold. The reindeer were faltering. Dasher's breaths came in ragged gasps, Prancer's fluttered weakly, and Comet had started coughing mid-flight over the Atlantic. Reindeer flu. The rare, virulent strain that only struck every few centuries, always at the worst possible time. They'd made it through Europe and Asia, but North America was proving too much.
"Come on, lads," Santa muttered in his deep, rumbling voice, laced with the faint echo of ancient Norse. "Just a bit further. We've got the Midwest to hit yet.
"But Dasher dipped suddenly, and the whole team followed. The sleigh lurched, presents spilling from the edges like confetti from a popped balloon. Santa yanked the reins, but it was no use. They were going down.
The crash was spectacular. The sleigh slammed into the university's football stadium turf with a thunderous crack, skidding across the frozen fifty-yard line in a spray of dirt, snow, and shattered sleigh runners. The impact bent the goalpost at a drunken angle, and the scoreboard flickered once before going dark. Presents tumbled everywhere, wrapped boxes bursting open to reveal toys, gadgets, and the occasional lump of coal.
Santa groaned, pushing himself up from the wreckage. His red coat was torn at the sleeve, his beard dusted with grass clippings and glitter from a spilled ornament bag. One boot had flown off in the chaos, revealing a thick wool sock. He staggered to his feet, surveying the damage. The eight reindeer lay in a heap, twitching and moaning softly. Their eyes were glassy, their fur matted with sweat despite the cold.
"Bloody hell," he sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not now. Not here.
"He reached into his infinite pocket for his rune-etched communicator, a sleek, stone-like device that connected him to the North Pole. His thumb hovered over the emergency beacon. The elves could send a rescue team, but it would take hours. Christmas would be delayed. Children would wake to empty stockings. The thought twisted in his gut like a bad batch of eggnog.
But then, voices. Laughter, deep and raucous, echoing from the tunnel leading to the home team's locker room. Santa paused, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. It was late, far too late for anyone to be here on Christmas Eve. Curiosity, that eternal spark in his ancient soul, flickered to life. He pocketed the communicator and trudged toward the sound, his remaining boot crunching on the frosted grass.
The locker room was a den of masculine chaos, the air thick with the scent of sweat-soaked gear, cheap body spray, and the faint metallic tang of energy drinks. Lockers lined the walls, some ajar with jerseys spilling out like colorful tongues. Benches were cluttered with water bottles, tape rolls, and discarded towels. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made the space feel both intimate and oppressive.
Eight young men occupied the room, their presence filling it like a pack of wolves claiming territory. They were the remnants of the Westbridge Wolverines football team, six senior athletes winding down after a late-night training session, plus the towel boy and one player's kid brother forced to accompany his brother on his way to their grandparents. Christmas celebrations loomed just hours away, but for now, they were reveling in the crude camaraderie that defined their world.
Chad Kessler, 24, the quarterback and undisputed alpha, stood shirtless in front of a mirror, flexing his biceps with a smug grin. At 6'3" with a blond crew cut and a jaw that could cut glass, he was the picture of cocky perfection. His chest was broad, lightly dusted with hair, and his abs rippled under tanned skin as he admired himself.
"Look at this pump, boys," Chad boasted, twisting to show off his lats. "Bitches are gonna be drooling at the party tonight. Who's bringing the keg? I need to get wasted and laid before Santa's fat ass shows up.
"Dylan "D-Rock" Russo, 23, the massive defensive end, chuckled from his bench where he was lacing up his cleats. Built like a Samoan-Italian tank at 6'5" and 260 pounds, his tribal tattoos snaked over shoulders that looked like boulders. He slapped his thigh, the sound echoing. "You mean before you pass out drunk again, Kessler? Last time you couldn't even get it up for that cheerleader. What was her name? Tiffany? Nah, she said your dick was like a sad little worm.
"The room erupted in laughter, the kind that was half genuine, half performative, the glue that held their fragile egos together.
Mason Hale, 25, the wiry wide receiver, leaned against a locker, smirking as he pulled on his compression shorts. Lean and shredded at 6'1", with dark hair and a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, he was the group's resident smartass. "Dylan's right, Chad. You talk a big game about pussy, but we all know you're just fronting. How many times you struck out this semester? Five? Six?"
Tyler "Ty" Brennan, 22, the ginger tight end, joined in from the showers, towel slung low around his hips, freckles dotting his broad shoulders. "Nah, man, Chad's got standards. He only goes for the prime cuts. Speaking of, who here's banged the most this year? I'm at twelve. Beat that.
"From across the room, Brody "B-Man" Larson, 24, the linebacker with a shaved head and a neck thicker than most men's thighs, snorted while changing out of his sweat-soaked shirt. "Twelve? Amateur hour, Ty. I'm at fifteen. And that's not counting the threesome with those sorority twins. Pussy was so tight, felt like heaven."
The last athlete, Jax Rivera, 23, the speedy cornerback with olive skin and a cocky grin, high-fived Brody as he zipped up his hoodie. "You guys are full of shit. But hey, at least we're not like Elliot over there, still a virgin at nineteen.
"All eyes turned to Elliot "Towel Boy" Finch, the skinny equipment manager's nephew. At 19, he was pale and lanky, with messy brown hair and glasses that slipped down his nose. He was hunched over a pile of dirty towels, folding them meticulously to avoid eye contact. His job was thankless, washing gear, handing out water, taking the brunt of their jokes. He wasn't muscled like the others; his frame was wiry, almost fragile, and he wore baggy shorts and a team tee that hung off him like a tent.
"Fuck off, Jax," Elliot muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flushing red. "I'm not… I mean, I've had girlfriends."
The laughter boomed again, louder this time.
"Sure, you have, princess," Chad taunted, sauntering over and ruffling Elliot's hair roughly. "In your dreams, maybe. We all see you staring in the showers. You got a thing for dicks or what? Be honest, towel boy. You wanna suck one of us off?"
Elliot shoved Chad's hand away, standing up abruptly. "Screw you, Kessler. You're all assholes. Just because you're big and dumb doesn't mean…"
"Big and dumb?" Dylan interrupted, flexing his massive arms. "Nah, we're big and hung, little man. That's why we get the pussy and you get the towels."
Caleb Kessler, Chad's 19-year-old little brother, shifted uncomfortably on the bench nearby. A freshman walk-on, he was trying hard to fit in, his blond hair mirroring his brother's but his build still boyish, tall but not yet filled out. He idolized Chad, but moments like this made his stomach twist. "Come on, guys, lay off Elliot. He's cool. And Christmas is tomorrow…er, today. Let's just finish up and hit the party."
Chad turned on him with a mock glare. "Defending the towel boy now, lil' bro? You turning soft on me? Or maybe you're into him. That why you brought him that energy bar earlier? You want to fuck his pussy huh?"
Caleb rolled his eyes, but his laugh was forced. "Whatever, man. You're such a dick sometimes."
The banter continued as they finished changing, pulling on jackets, stuffing gym bags, trading more crude jokes about conquests and body parts. Tyler boasted about a recent hookup: "She had tits like melons, man. Bounced so hard I thought they'd knock me out." Mason countered with a story about a girl who "screamed like a banshee" during sex. Brody and Jax piled on, their voices overlapping in a symphony of misogyny and bravado.
Elliot kept his head down, folding faster, wishing he could disappear. Caleb shot him a sympathetic glance but said nothing more, not wanting to draw fire.
They were just about to grab their bags and head out, Chad slapping high-fives all around, Dylan cracking one last joke about Elliot's "tiny pecker", when the door creaked open.
A gust of cold air swept in, carrying the scent of pine and snow.
Santa stood there, his massive frame filling the doorway, eyes twinkling under bushy white brows.
The room fell silent for a beat.
Then Tyler snorted. "The hell? Santa Claus? Bro, it's Christmas Eve, not Halloween. Nice costume, old man. Now get the fuck out before I force you to, fucking creep!"
Santa's smile was warm, but there was steel beneath it. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice booming yet kindly, like thunder wrapped in velvet. "I apologize for the intrusion. But I'm in need of assistance."
Chad crossed his arms, smirking. "Assistance? From us? You lost, fatty? This ain't the North Pole; it's a locker room. Real men only. Now get the fuck out, last call moron!"
The others chuckled, tension easing into mockery as Caleb and Elliot’s eyes looked at each other, embarrassed by the scene unfolding before them.
Dylan leaned against a locker. "Yeah, what, you need help finding your elves? Or maybe Mrs. Claus finally left your fatty ass?"
Santa's expression didn't falter. "My reindeer are ill. Crashed right out there in your stadium. I need eight strong young men to help pull my sleigh tonight. Just for a few hours. You'll be back before dawn, and rewarded handsomely."
Mason burst out laughing. "Pull your sleigh? Like reindeer? You some kind of pervert, dude? Like we are going to follow you like that out of the blue."
Brody shoved Jax playfully. "Hear that? Santa wants us to be his bitches. Sorry, pops, we don't swing that way. We fuck pussy, not play dress-up."
Jax nodded, grinning. "Yeah, go find some theater kids or something. We're athletes, not your gay fantasy."
Elliot and Caleb exchanged uneasy glances, staying back as the older guys crowded closer to Santa, their postures aggressive, voices rising.
Tyler stepped forward, poking Santa's chest. "Get out, weirdo. Before we make you."
Chad, ever the leader, nodded. "You heard him. Scram. Now last call. It’s 6 versus 1, you want to try your chance?"
Santa sighed, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Very well. If kindness won't suffice…"He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a glittering Christmas ornament swirling a mix of red, green, and gold, pulsing with an inner light that made the room's fluorescents dim in comparison.
The boys froze, confusion flickering across their faces.
“What the…?" Chad started.
Santa tossed it gently onto the floor.
It shattered in a burst of smoke and glitter, the explosion silent but blinding. Peppermint filled the air, thick and cloying.
When the haze cleared, the eight young men blinked, coughing.
Their clothes were gone, replaced by sleek black leather harnesses that strapped across their chests, looping under armpits and buckling tight around waists. Thick bands accentuated pecs and abs, the material gleaming under the lights. Below, leather speedos hugged their groins, pouches already taut. And atop each head sat a pair of realistic reindeer antlers, velvet-soft, branching elegantly.
Chad looked down, horror dawning. "What the fuck is this?!" The room exploded in chaos.
Dylan clawed at the harness straps crossing his massive chest, the leather creaking but refusing to yield. "Get this shit off me! This some kind of joke?!"
Mason spun toward the mirror; his lean frame now framed obscenely by the gear. The antlers caught the light, casting shadows like horns. "This isn't funny! Who the hell are you, really?"
Tyler yanked at his speedo, the material snapping back against his freckled skin. "I'm gonna kill you, old man! You drugged us or something!"
Brody and Jax were right behind, Brody's thick neck flushing red as he tried to rip the antlers off, only to wince in pain, they felt glued, rooted somehow. "This is assault! We're calling the cops!"
Elliot, still skinny and pale, touched the harness tentatively, his glasses fogged from the smoke. The antlers felt heavy on his head, and the speedo cupped him uncomfortably tight. "Guys… this isn't right. We need to…"
"Shut up, towel boy!" Chad snapped, rounding on Santa with fury in his eyes. His blond crew cut bristled, muscles tensing under the leather. "You did this! Undo it now, or I'll beat your ass!"
Caleb, wide-eyed beside Elliot, backed up a step. "Chad, calm down. This guy's gotta be some kind of magician or… or something. Let's just talk…"
"Talk?!" Chad roared, advancing on Santa with the others in tow. "He dressed us like fags! I'm not talking; I'm ending this!"
Santa stood unmoved, his jolly demeanor cracking into something colder, more ancient. "You had your chance for civility. Now, you'll learn humility."
He raised a hand, palm out, and spoke a single word that resonated like a bell toll: "Grow."
It hit them like a tidal wave, invisible but crushing. Chad staggered first, his thighs exploding with sudden mass, quads ballooning outward, veins popping across the surface like lightning bolts on a storm cloud. The hair on his legs thickened from a light blond fuzz to a coarse, dark forest, curling densely over calves that swelled into diamond-hard peaks. His hamstrings tightened, pulling his stance wider as if to accommodate the new power surging through him.
“Fuck, what's happening?!" Chad gasped, clutching his legs. The pain was exquisite, a burning stretch that made his eyes water.
Dylan groaned next, his already enormous frame packing on even more bulk. His traps rose like mountains toward his ears, the harness straps digging deep into the meaty flesh. Pecs inflated, pushing outward until the leather groaned in protest, nipples hardening into thick, dark nubs that poked against the straps. Armpit hair sprouted in heavy, wiry tufts, damp with fresh sweat that carried a musky, primal scent, earthy and intoxicating.
“Oh God, it burns!" Dylan bellowed, doubling over as his biceps peaked, forearms thickening with cords of muscle and vein.
Mason's transformation was sleeker but no less brutal. His lean abs thickened into armored cobblestones, obliques carving deep V-lines that funneled down to his groin. His cock stirred unbidden inside the tight speedo, lengthening inch by inch, the shaft swelling until it pressed obscenely against the leather, the zipper teeth straining. Balls hung heavier, scrotum loosening and darkening, a treasure trail of dark hair sprouting upward from his pubes, crawling like ivy over his navel and chest.
“Stop… make it stop!" Mason pleaded, voice cracking as he felt his shoulders broaden, lats flaring like wings.
Tyler's ginger hair spread wildly, pubes thickening into a fiery bush that escaped the speedo's edges, a trail blazing up his abs. His dick surged, the pale, freckled length pushing past the waistband, head flaring wide and glistening with sudden precum. Feet grew broader, toes lengthening and spreading, soles toughening with calluses that felt like they'd been forged from years of hard labor. Hands followed suit, palms roughening, fingers thickening into blunt instruments perfect for gripping… reins?
“I'm… I'm getting bigger… everywhere," Tyler whimpered, staring at his hands in horror. "This can't be real!"
Brody's change hit his core hardest, abs rippling into an eight-pack, pecs ballooning until they strained the harness like overripe fruit. His thighs quaked, hair coating them in a thick pelt, while his cock throbbed to life, veiny and thick, balls churning with unwanted heat. "No…no… fight it, guys! Don't let this freak win!"
Jax, the slimmest athlete, bulked up dramatically, shoulders rounding out, biceps curling into peaks, legs turning into tree trunks with hairy, veined surfaces. His feet slapped the tile as they grew, arches high and powerful, toes flexing involuntarily. "It hurts… but it feels… fuck, no!"
Even as the six athletes writhed, Caleb and Elliot weren't spared. Caleb's boyish frame filled out violently, chest barreling forward, arms thickening until veins stood out like rivers. His hands roughened, calluses blooming on palms that suddenly felt made for hard work. Feet expanded, soles pink and leathery, toes blunt and strong. "THE FUCK! Help…it's happening to me too! AAAAaaaaaaahhHHHHhhhhh"
Elliot, the least prepared, screamed as his skinny body betrayed him. Ribcage expanded, pecs pushing out into firm slabs hugged tight by the harness. Arms bulked, biceps peaking, forearms corded. His cock, once a modest 4 inches hard, swelled grotesquely, shaft thickening to wrist-width, balls inflating like balloons, heavy and pendulous. Hair erupted everywhere: chest, abs, thighs, a dark, sweaty pelt that made him look feral.
“Please… no…" Elliot sobbed, collapsing to his knees as the changes peaked.
But the worst was the antlers. They burned, fusing with skulls in a blaze of agony. Chad clutched his head first, roaring as bone merged with bone, roots pushing inward like hot needles. "Ahhh, get them out!" He could feel them now, part of him, sensitive and alive.
One by one, they all screamed. Chad, Dylan, Mason, Tyler, Brody, Jax, Caleb, Elliot, the pain unifying them in shared torment.
They lunged again, bodies now supercharged, but Santa raised his hand once more. Their eyes snapped open in anticipation as they realized they just lost the game. Dylan’s eyes started to water as tears ran down by themselves. Elliot and Caleb, still wondering what happened to them as they now looked exactly like the athletes they were never meant to be, stood behind the other guys running to try to get Santa to change them back.
SNAP
Their bodies betrayed them utterly. One by one, the eight young men, Chad, Dylan, Mason, Tyler, Brody, Jax, Caleb, and Elliot, dropped to their knees on the cold, unforgiving tile of the locker room floor. The command echoed in their minds like a whip crack: Kneel. Their newly hypertrophied muscles trembling not from exhaustion, but from the invisible chains of Santa's will wrapping around their very souls.
Chad snarled, his blond crew cut matted with sweat, his massive thighs quivering as he fought to rise. "No… I won't… you can't make me…" But his body locked in place, knees grinding against the grout lines, back arching involuntarily. His glutes flexed, cheeks spreading wide to expose the tight, virgin pucker nestled in a nest of newly thickened hair. The leather harness dug into his pecs like a lover's cruel embrace, straps biting into skin that was now slick with sweat.
Dylan, the behemoth, grunted beside him, his tribal tattoos stretching over ballooned traps. "This… this is bullshit… get up, guys!" Yet he too presented himself, ass high, hole twitching in the fluorescent light, a bead of sweat trickling down his crack.
Mason, Tyler, Brody, and Jax followed suit, their protests melting into whimpers as their bodies obeyed. Mason's curved cock bobbed free, leaking; Tyler's freckled length slapped his thigh; Brody's veiny beast throbbed; Jax's pole stood defiant yet helpless. Their feet, now broad and calloused, pressed flat against the tile, toes curling in futile resistance. Hands, rough, powerful, braced on the floor, palms scraping as they shifted.
Caleb and Elliot, the unlikely dominants in this twisted tableau, stood frozen for a moment longer. Their cocks, monstrous now, veined and heavy, surged to full erection with Santa's SNAP, the speedos vanishing in crimson wisps. Caleb's shaft, thick as his wrist, pointed accusingly at his brother's exposed ass. Elliot's, comically oversized on his transformed frame, dripped precum like a faucet.
Santa stepped into the circle, his red coat shedding like a second skin to reveal a body that defied his jolly image: broad-shouldered, muscled like an ancient god, dusted with silver hair, and sporting a cock that rivaled any of theirs, thick, uncut, veined with centuries of power. He stroked it lazily, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Now, my reindeer," he purred, voice like velvet over steel, "it's time to make you say HO HO HO, properly."
He gestured, and the air shimmered. From his infinite pocket emerged implements: thick leather collars snapping around necks, connected by chains that rattled softly; nipple clamps biting into hardened nubs; cock rings clamping at bases, forcing blood to swell members even larger. The antlers on their heads pulsed, sending jolts of pain-pleasure down their spines, acting like antennas directing Santa’s orders directly into their young malleable brains.
"Pair up," Santa commanded. "Caleb, claim your brother. Looks like he needs a bit more… Help, then the other ones. Elliot, take Dylan. The rest… assume the position."
Caleb's eyes widened in horror. "Chad… no, I can't… it’s my big brother! Oh god no… Santa please, STOP MOVING FOR FUCK SAKE!! SANTA PLEASE…" But his body lurched forward, hands gripping Chad's hips with bruising force. His cockhead pressed against Chad's hole, slick with magical lube that appeared from nowhere, peppermint-scented, tingling.
Chad twisted his head, blue eyes blazing. "Don't you fucking dare, Caleb! I'll kill you, fight it, you little shit! STOP I CAN FEEL YOU POKING AT MY DOOR!! STOP!!! Stoo…..pmmMMmmmkjKJJHHHjfj" Chad couldn’t talk anymore as Santa snapped and a huge candy cane dick appeared in his throat.
But Caleb thrust hard, unyielding, burying half his new hard length in one go. Chad roared, the stretch burning like fire, his prostate igniting sparks that made his own cock jump. "MMmmmHhmHhhhHPphhfhhfff" he screamed through the candy cane.
Elliot, tears streaming down his face, mounted Dylan similarly. "I'm sorry… I don't want… but it feels…" He slammed in, Dylan's massive frame shuddering. "Too tight… oh God…"Dylan growled, "You skinny fag… I'll break your neck!" Yet as Elliot bottomed out, balls slapping ass, Dylan's eyes rolled back. A moan escaped, unwilling, as he tried to suppress it.
The others linked: Mason's mouth forced onto Tyler's cock, Tyler's into Brody's ass; Brody sucking Jax while Jax fucked Mason's hole. A daisy chain of domination, bodies writhing, chains clinking and tears running down their homophobic cheeks.
Santa circled them like a ringmaster, his cock in hand. He paused behind Chad, clamping nipples until the quarterback yelped. "Feel that, boy? Pain is the path to pleasure." He reached under, stroking Chad's balls, heavy, churning, milking a drop of precum. "Looks like you have plenty of eggnog for us to enoy."
The fucking began in earnest. Caleb's hips pistoned, driven by Santa's will, but something shifted, a bond forming in the violation. "Chad… it feels… good inside you," Caleb gasped, hating the words even as they tumbled out. His mind screamed resistance, but the heat, the tightness, the way Chad's walls clenched… it was addictive.
Chad bucked, trying to throw him off. "Shhhttttop…fffffucking shhtttttop! MMMmmjJjpPHHHjjHHHHhhhh!"
But each thrust sent waves through him, prostate hammered, cock leaking steadily. A whisper in his mind: It feels… full. Right. He shook it off, snarling.
Elliot pounded Dylan, the former towel boy's skinny frame now a machine. "Dylan… your ass… it's sucking me in…" Dylan's protests faded to grunts, his own cock hardening further as the intrusion sparked forbidden pleasure. "No… hate this… but… deeper…"Mason gagged on Tyler's freckled dick, saliva dripping, while Jax railed his ass. "Fuck… your mouth's like pussy," Tyler muttered, even as Brody's tongue worked his hole. Brody, choking on Jax: "This… bond… I feel you all…"
Santa joined, sliding his ancient cock into Jax's mouth at the chain's end. "Suck, reindeer. Taste your master." Jax's eyes watered, but he obeyed, throat bulging. Santa thrusts lazily, directing the scene. "Harder, Caleb. Make your brother beg."
SNAP
Caleb obeyed, slamming balls-deep, the slap echoing. Chad's mind fractured: Hate it… but the cum… I need it deep. "No…please… don't cum in me…" Thought Chad as flashbacks of all the moment he enjoyed taunting and humiliating his little brother flashed in front of his watery eyes. But the addiction spread like wildfire. Tyler moaned around Brody's cock: "Your ass… craving more…" Brody nodded, eyes glazing: "Yeah… fill me… bro…"
Elliot came first, shuddering, unloading ropes into Dylan. The big man roared, his own orgasm triggered, cum splattering the tile. The chain reaction hit: Jax filling Mason, Mason spurting down Tyler's throat, Tyler into Brody, Brody down Jax's gullet.
Santa pulled out of Jax, moving to Chad's side. He clamped a hand on Chad's antlers, yanking his head back. "Cum, Caleb. Seal the bond."
"I’m… sorry… br… oooooOOOOooOOOoo". Said Caleb as he felt the resistance, he still had left in him fall into oblivion. His balls letting go like a damp giving up.
Chad whimpered, his body betraying him, ass clenching, milking. "MMMmhhhhMMhhhHHHHH…" he screamed as he felt his little bro unloading deep in him as his own orgasm was forced out of his engorged veiny and leaky cock.
Caleb erupted, hot seed flooding Chad's guts—deep, marking. Chad's vision whited out, his own cock exploding untouched, ropes painting the floor. The cum inside burned pleasurably, like liquid fire bonding them.
One by one, they collapsed, panting, chains slack. But the hate twisted into need. Dylan looked at Elliot: "Again… need your cock again…" Elliot nodded, eyes hungry.
Mason murmured, "Need… Cock in ass… cum deep… Please master."
Tyler, Brody, Jax echoed the sentiment, bodies pressing close, hands roaming, fingering holes, stroking dicks. A pack bonded in submission. A pack obeying their true master: Santa.
Santa smiled, waving a hand. Candy canes materialized from all the remnants of their belongings on the ground and in their gym bags. Thick, striped dildos now, vibrating with magic. He inserted one into each ass, the peppermint melting into tingling ecstasy. "I think you all deserve a treat, good boys."
Mason, Tyler, Brody, Jax followed, minds surrendering, a mental harness clicking into place, linked to Santa's will, eager to serve.
Elliot and Caleb joined the group, their cocks still leaking lazily what was left of their freewill as Santa gave them a candy cane as well. Santa turned around, a smile on his face knowing he would be able to resume his gift distribution around the world thanks to his 8 new reindeers ready to get him around the world thanks to their muscled bodies for this night. But as he counted again, he realized only 7 were on their knees in front of him. He turned around only to realize Chad was still on the ground, his leaky cum on his hairy abs, spasming effortlessly as the cum started to dry and mat in his hair. His breathing going up and down and the candy cane in his mouth still thrusting deep against his uvula, making sure his gag reflex was a long forgotten memory.
Santa got closer to his laying body with a creepy smile on his face. Chad saw everything and even though he tried hard to get up and leave, his body was still frozen in place, waiting for the orders to come to it. Mentally strong enough not to listen, but not strong enough to run away… “No… I'm Chad Kessler… not this… fagg…” But Santa forced the cane deeper, and Chad's body stood, antlers dipping in submission. His mind screamed, trapped in an obedient shell. He couldn’t fight anymore. He was still there, feeling everything, hating it all, but it was like his brain had ben disconnected from his body. He was a passenger of his own body and life now.
“Stubborn one," Santa chuckled. "Only means you’ll have to be trained properly; I don’t think a night will be enough though…"
The sleigh awaited outside, repaired by magic thanks to one of Santa’s magical SNAP. Eight harnessed reindeer, muscled, antlered, cocks still hard, were hitched. They flew, bodies soaring through the night, delivering gifts. Minds blissful in service, asses clenching around lingering fullness, craving more orders from their one and only: Santa.
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Dawn broke. Seven awoke naked on the locker room floor, Dylan, Mason, Tyler, Brody, Jax, Caleb, Elliot. Bodies unchanged: super-muscled, hairy, cocks semi-hard and massive. They stirred, eyes meeting. They had no memories at all of what happened last night, or why they were all naked on the Locker-room ground or how it was possible to be dawn already. Elliot and Caleb were there too. As they got up, Brody and Jax grabbed their backs and slapped them joyfully before kissing them on the mouth and slapping their wet assholes, ready to fuck them hard like every morning for the last couple of months. For them, there was nothing wrong about having unprotected fun with your bros, specially when you have a hot body. After all, Sex is a gift and you have to share it, even more on Christmas day.
Dylan reached for Elliot's ass first. "Need you… inside me again."
Elliot nodded, sliding in easily. "Always… crave it."
Caleb groped Mason: "Who wants me to suck him dry?"
The orgy reignited, moans filling the room, no hate, only need. The craving etched permanent: cock in ass, cum deep, unbreakable.
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Chad awoke elsewhere, in Santa's North Pole workshop, a cozy yet sinister chamber of red velvet and iron chains. His body tied spread-eagle to a massive four-poster bed, harness still biting into his muscled form, antlers fused, cock ring tight. A plug, candy cane remnants, vibrated softly in his ass against his over-abused prostate.
He blinked, groaning. Santa stood before him, naked, his thick cock erects and glistening. "Welcome home, reindeer."
Chad struggled, chains rattling. "Let me go! People will look for me… my brother, family, friends! They'll know I'm missing and come free me!"
Santa laughed, deep and merry, climbing onto the bed. He positioned himself, cockhead pressing against Chad's plugged hole, pushing the toy deeper inside, sliding in inch by inch. Chad gasped, body arching despite his mind's fury.
Santa leaned close, breath hot on Chad's ear as he grabbed him by the antler to force his neck open, mouth centimeters away as he bottomed out. "Oh, my dear boy… for the rest of the world, you've never existed. And soon everybody will know the legendary Chad, my lead reindeer. No one remembers Chad Kessler. Not your brother. Not anyone. You are mine and I’m sure after a year of training, there’ll be no difference between you and Rudolph!!"
He thrust, slow and deep, as Chad's mind screamed in silent horror, body moaning in betrayal. "One year," Santa whispered. "One year to train you properly. By next Christmas, you'll beg to lead my sled."
Chad's eyes watered, cum already building in his engrossed balls.
“Release me Please… I swear I’ll be a good boy…”
“My deer, I hope you’ll be the naughtiest of them all…”
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Ho ho ho!! Merry Crisis!!!
I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
May all of your dreams come true, and may you have plenty of amazing moments with your loved ones.
This story was made for the 2025 Christmas Story Swap. I was honored to be paired with Bovine Retribution. I hope you’ll enjoy it and that I respected the vision of your prompt. I sure had a blast working on it! :)
It was Christmas morning, and Evan couldn’t believe his luck. After weeks of entering an online giveaway hosted by none other than Jake Andrich, he’d received the grand prize: a jockstrap worn by his idol. The package had arrived just in time, wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address, adding to its mystique.
Evan was an ordinary guy; someone you might pass on the street without a second glance. At 28, he had a lean but unremarkable build, the kind that came from walking to work and occasionally hitting the gym, though never with much consistency. His dark blonde hair was perpetually messy, no matter how much he tried to style it, and his hazel eyes often seemed to wander, reflecting his shy and introspective nature. Evan wasn’t the life of the party, nor was he the wallflower, he existed somewhere in between, a middle ground of normalcy. He had always been kind-hearted, if a little awkward, and his track record in relationships reflected his struggle to put himself out there. Forever single and hesitant to take risks, Evan spent more time admiring from afar than engaging.
As Evan unwrapped the package, his hands trembled. The jockstrap was immaculately clean but carried a faint, musky scent, a tangible link to the man he admired and fantasize about. An enclosed note, written in Jake’s bold handwriting, simply read, “Enjoy.” The casual tone sent a thrill through Evan; it was as if Jake had personally acknowledged him.
Evan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the item. His heart pounded with excitement and nervousness. This was more than just a piece of clothing, it felt like a gateway to something greater. Unable to resist the pull, he decided to try it on. The fabric felt strange against his skin, warm, almost alive, as though it were pulsing with energy. Evan was getting hard just thinking about his cock touching the fabric Jake’s cock had touch and cum inside. It was a dream came true.
As he as getting more and more chubbed up inside the way too large jockstrap, Evan felt a thirst growing in him, getting stronger and stronger. He got up and went to the bathroom to grab a drink before fully settling in to admire his prize. He wandered into the abthroom, his mind still buzzing with the surreal reality of owning something so personal from Jake Andrich. Reaching for a glass, he suddenly felt a wave of dizziness. His head spun, and he clutched the counter for support, blinking rapidly to clear his vision as the glass fell from his hand and shattered on the ground.
"My head…" he muttered, shaking his head. But as he took a step to grab a groom, a sharp, searing pain shot through his feet. He yelped, stumbling back as an audible crack echoed through the room. Tilting his head down, he stared in horror as his feet began to contort, the bones shifting and stretching beneath the skin. His arches lifted, his toes lengthened and straightened, and the once-average feet became broader and more defined, veins snaking along their surface.
The pain was excruciating. "What’s happening?" he gasped, his voice trembling. The skin on his feet darkened, taking on a deep, even tan, and unfamiliar tattoos began to etch themselves across the tops. The transformation wasn’t gentle; it felt as though his very bones were being crushed and reshaped, only to reform in a grotesque mimicry of someone else’s. Tears streamed down his face as he clung to the counter for dear life, his legs trembling under the strain.
His feet continued to crash and change. The arches lifted, the toes lengthened and straightened, and his once-average feet became broader and more defined. Evan screamed as the sensations surged upwards, his legs trembling. The muscles in his calves began to swell, veins snaking to the surface as his skin darkened to a deep, even tan. His thighs thickened, cords of muscle forming as his body involuntarily flexed, showcasing a power he had never possessed.
“What is happening to me?” Evan cried, his voice cracking with desperation. His pleas were met with silence as the transformation continued relentlessly.
The pain intensified as his bones began to stretch and shift. His hips narrowed, his pelvis realigning and felt totally alien to Evan. His body was changing at high speed and Evan couldn’t stop this from happening. Everything in him was hurting before soothing into pleasant numbness. Evan’s torso lengthened, and his spine arched unnaturally, forcing him upright as his chest expanded. The faint hair on his chest fell away, replaced by the smooth, ink-covered skin Jake was known for. Tattoos emerged like ink bleeding through paper, etching themselves onto Evan’s body with a burning intensity. Each line and shadow mirrored Jake’s intricate designs, and Evan’s screams grew louder.
“Please, stop this! I don’t want this!” he begged, clawing at his skin as if he could peel away the changes. But his hands, now broader and calloused, only betrayed him. His arms swelled with muscle, veins bulging as his biceps and forearms grew to intimidating proportions.
Evan’s face was the next to betray him. His jaw cracked and widened, his cheekbones sharpening. His nose reshaped itself, and his lips plumped, forming a cocky smile he’s seen thousands of times but couldn’t remember where. His eyes shifted, the irises darkening to a piercing shade. Even his hairline receded slightly, reforming into a manly and attractive style. The pain in his scalp was unbearable as his hair thickened and darkened.
“No! This isn’t me!” Evan sobbed, his voice deepening mid-sentence as he heard a faint Canadian accent appearing. The sound startled him; it was no longer his own. The rich, resonant tone was unmistakably Jake’s. He clutched his throat, but the transformation was complete. Evan opened his new eyes and scream in horror as he now recognizes who these features belonged to. He tried to grab the jockstrap to take it off but he couldn’t. It was glued to his newly tanned and perfectly groomed skin. Tears started to fall down his cheeks. Sure, Evan fantasized about Jake Andrich pretty much every single minute of every day, but he loved himself and his life, he didn’t want to be Jake, he just wanted to touch and get fucked by him. As Evan kept on trying to get the jockstrap off, his head started to spin again and he almost fainted out because of dizziness.
The changes became even more excruciating as they swept through the rest of his body. Evan’s skin began to glow with a sickening vibrancy, the tan spreading evenly and unnaturally across his body as if being burned into his very cells. Each pore seemed to sting, a fiery sensation engulfing him as the skin took on Jake’s flawless tone.
The agony intensified as hair sprouted in new places. Evan screamed as his armpits itched unbearably before thick, dark hair pushed its way through the tender skin. The same happened on his forearms and chest where a happy trail grew between his sculpted abs, every follicle erupting with coarse hair that wasn’t his own. He clawed at the hair in desperation, but his nails, now broader and harder, only skimmed the surface. The musky, masculine scent of Jake’s body began to seep from him, overtaking the faint soap smell he’d had moments before.
Evan’s sobs turned to shrieks as his skin felt like it was being pierced thousands of times simultaneously. The intricate designs of Jake’s tattoos began to etch themselves onto him, each line burning like molten steel being drawn across his flesh. He watched in horror as the ink bloomed over his chest, arms, and back, perfectly replicating Jake’s iconic patterns. Tears streamed down his face as he begged for the pain to stop, the sensation unbearable as it spread to every corner of his body.
"Please! Stop! It hurts!" Evan cried. His chest heaved as the tattoos continued their assault, wrapping around his ribs and crawling down his sides. His abdomen tightened and hardened into a perfectly sculpted six-pack, the tattoos framing the muscles like artwork.
Finally, the transformation reached his groin. Evan’s screams turned into gasps of raw shock as his hips realigned, the bones cracking and grinding into a broader, more imposing shape. His penis throbbed painfully, growing thicker and longer with every pulse, while his balls swelled to an almost unbearable size, filling with an unfamiliar weight. The skin there darkened and tightened, matching the rest of his newly tanned body, and a thick patch of dark, wiry pubic hair erupted around the base before regressing back in his skin, proof of regular shaving to maintain it properly. The physical transformation was complete.
Evan collapsed to the floor, his body shaking with the residual agony of the changes. Every inch of him was now alien, an exact replica of Jake Andrich. His tears dripped onto the polished tiles as his mind raced, the pain beginning to ebb but leaving a raw, burning ache in its wake. The transformation wasn’t just physical; the remnants of his identity felt as though they were being smothered by the overwhelming compulsion to obey. A faint but insistent voice in his head urged him to rise, pose, and perform, drowning out his own thoughts. He whimpered softly, knowing he had lost not only his body but perhaps his soul as well.
The transformation moved to his mind. Evan’s thoughts fragmented, his will eroding as an overwhelming compulsion to obey Jake surfaced. Desperately, he fought against it, but his body betrayed him completely. His hands moved upward, seemingly of their own volition, brushing over the hard, sculpted pecs that were no longer his own. The sensation was overwhelming, each touch sending jolts of foreign pleasure through him, yet he could only watch in helpless horror. His fingers traced the edges of his tattoos, lingering on the intricate designs etched into his skin as if savoring their presence.
Tears continued to streak down his face as his hands slid lower, their movements deliberate and teasing. They dipped beneath the waistband of the jockstrap, the fabric stretching as his fingers wrapped around the imposing length of his new, hardening shaft. A wave of shame and arousal crashed over him, his face betraying him as a cocky smirk began to tug at his lips. His reflection stared back in the mirror in front of him, the expression oozing confidence and control, a stark contrast to the terror roaring in his mind.
"No, stop! This isn’t me! I don’t want this!" Evan’s inner voice screamed, but it was muffled under the growing haze of dominance radiating from his new form. His hips rolled forward slightly, his movements sensual and practiced, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Even his breathing changed, deep and steady, punctuated by low, satisfied grunts. His body seemed to revel in its new strength and masculinity, completely ignoring his mental protests.
The compulsion to obey surged stronger, pulling him into a series of practiced poses. Evan’s broad hands explored every inch of his transformed physique, flexing and showcasing muscles that rippled under his flawless, ink-covered skin. His mind screamed in rebellion, but the alluring, commanding presence that now occupied his body silenced it with ease. Slowly, his hand returned to his groin, cupping his newly enlarged balls and stroking himself with an expertise that wasn’t his own.
As he stared at his reflection, his body began to spasm uncontrollably, his muscles flexing and posing as though directed by an unseen force. Evan watched in horror as his hands moved on their own, sliding over his pecs, lingering on their firm curves before dipping lower. He could feel every humiliating moment as his hands brushed against his jockstrap, the tight fabric now stretched taut over his hardening length. His reflection smirked, Jake’s smirk, as his fingers pressed into the bulge, and the overwhelming sensation made his body arch involuntarily.
His mind screamed for it to stop, but his body betrayed him further. His hips bucked, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips as waves of pleasure pulsed through him. The scent of his musky armpits filled the air as his arms lifted, his face burying itself in the crook of his elbow. The mixture of sweat and raw masculinity overwhelmed his senses, and the final thread of his resistance snapped as his body convulsed violently.
A deep, primal growl rumbled from his throat as he came hands-free into the jockstrap, the sticky warmth clinging to the fabric. His reflection flexed again, each pose radiating dominance, and the cocky grin widened. Evan’s thoughts dissolved into static, his identity erased in the haze of submission. In that moment, he forgot who he was, his mind now filled with one purpose: to serve Jake.
Evan, or rather Jake, grabbed his phone and a black cap that he put backwards before taking a picture and sending it to an unknown number. He then added it to his contacts as Master.
Miles away, Jake’s phone buzzed. He opened his phone and smiled. A notification read: “Jake v04 is ready to serve Master’s will.”
Evan, now the perfect replica of Jake Andrich, stood before the mirror. He totally forgot who he was, for him, he was a servant to Jake and has to obey his every order in order to make Jake’s life easier. Evan was gone and replaced by Jake.
As Evan kept on flexing his biceps and humming his armpits while his cum was drying in his jockstrap, he received a notification from Master: “Film new content. Post it by tonight.”
Evan’s reflection smiled back at him, but it wasn’t his smile. It was Jake’s. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
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Hey guys! Here is my contribution to the Christmas story exchange 2024. This year I was honored to write for @tf-lover.
Sorry for the waiting, life got ahead and I got a flue so yea ^^ got me pretty much behind on every schedules ^^
Wish you guys a Happy New Year 2025 and I'll see you soon with lots of new stories!!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
