They say: Don’t buy anything from untrustworthy websites. Viruses, spam and far worse things could be lurking there. The moment your details fall into the wrong hands, your peace of mind is gone and your money is gone too.
But Roman says: I don’t care! I want that orange iPhone! For $300, I just have to buy it!
He waited several weeks for his parcel from Zingiber Technology – and sure enough, it arrived after seven weeks. Slightly battered, but it was there. Full of impatience, Roman tore it open. There it was. The latest iPhone. Shiny and shrink-wrapped. He carefully picked it up, turning it gently in his hands. He set it up. Everything worked. His Apple ID, all his passwords. He was just about to install his tax app.
But then… he felt an irrepressible urge to take a selfie. Right at that very moment. Not just any selfie. It had to be topless. Roman was slim; he would never take a photo of himself bare-chested. But it was like an inner compulsion that made him rip his shirt off and throw it to the floor.
Now he stood there in front of the mirror. His heart was beating and bumping against his chest.
Bump.
It tickled.
Bump. Bump.
Hair blossomed on his chest. Bright orange curls wiggled out of his slightly reddening skin. Slowly they spread over his pectorals. Wait...
Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.
His flat chest muscles pressed against Roman's skin, filling it with hard textur, coated with bristly hairs. His free hand came in touch with his new furry chest. Feeling the rough patch under his fingers, he gasped for air. Like water falling down a waterfall the rusty-orange hairs created a path to his lower regions, accompanied by a subtle swelling in his mid-section.
Fffffffhhhhhh. The air was filling his body.
Bump. Bump. Bump. The blood was pumped through his thickening body.
Roman's shoulders tensed. Widening, rounding, spreading into the room, while some sparse red hairs greeted from there, declaring it as their new home.
His forearms filled out. Thickening with every breath as freckles joined the fight over the free patches of skin on Roman's body. They lost around the elbow, giving space to the luscious red curls flowing down his forearms.
His upper arm crunched. Muscles and fibers dwelling beneath the skin, creating a solid unit of strength from hand to head.
Click. Another picture. Ffffffffffffh. The growth wandered down to his butt, swelling and stretching his shorts.
He moaned, caressing his nipple, throwing back his head as he could feel blood rushing to his face.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
Roman's hair started curling, forming locks that looked redder by the second, while the same orange hair spread over his clean-shaven face. Crunching and creaking sounds escaped his face as his lower jaw sharpened. His brows extended slightly forward, taking the reddish tone that could be found almost everywhere on his body. An invisible blade carefully traced the outlines.
Deep inside him Roman could feel something shifting. Away from the phone gamer to a trained camera expert, knowing how to show off with the right light. But as the wave of red hairs hit his legs, he was not thinking about it.
He was feeling it. The swelling beneath his skin, the tingling on his skin. He did not think about his feet, bursting out of his sandals.
He did feel the power surge blasting the thin leather stripes away, making place for bigger feet with freckles and tufts of red hair. Different thoughts occupied his minds. Training. Showing off. Posing. Taking pics.
Click. Bump. Bump.
Roman was looking at his mirror selfie. That was who he was. Who he had always been. Who he will always be. And he was feeling everything of himself.
Click.
"That's good enough, the lads gonna love it."
Pfffffffffffffh.
Roman exhaled.
Bump.
Posted.
Hi, fellow tf enthusiasts! This is a little short story that came into my mind when I saw this pic. Have a great day!
Jasper was used to getting what he wanted. With fiery red hair, a slim sculpted frame, perfect freckles, and a smile that could disarm anyone, he’d long been the object of desire wherever he went. In the world of clubs, private lounges, and curated hook-up apps, Jasper was a twink in high demand—spoiled, praised, pampered. And he loved it.
He never had to try too hard. Men doted on him, from older daddies to cocky jocks, all eager to take care of their "sweet ginger prince." Jasper ate up the attention, enjoyed being delicate, pretty, the one being worshipped.
That all changed on a Saturday night.
He was out, slightly tipsy, shirt open, laughing with a friend when an Indian man approached him. Strong-looking, masculine, wearing a tight black tee and sleek glasses that only made him look more confident. He smelled good—musk, sweat, spice. His chest hair peeked from his collar.
"You’re stunning," the man said with a gentle smile. "Let me buy you a drink?"
Jasper scoffed. “Not interested.”
The man didn’t press. He just nodded and walked away, calm and collected. But Jasper kept going.
“To think he really thought I’d be into that,” he said to his friend, loud enough for the man to hear. “So hairy. So… earthy.”
The man paused in the crowd and turned. His smile never broke. “Careful with your words,” he said. “Some things you say stay with you. Some things… change you.”
And with that, he vanished.
---
That night, Jasper’s dreams were strange—humid, sticky dreams where he was sweating, panting, growing. He awoke with a start, his groin aching. His cock felt... off.
Pulling down the sheets, he stared in disbelief.
His cock was darker. Not just slightly tanned—deep brown, thickened. His balls had dropped lower, heavier, and a new scent hovered around them—spicy, unfamiliar. He gasped. “What the fuck…”
By the next morning, his pubes had thickened into coarse black curls. A trail of hair ran up his smooth stomach. His armpits were dense now, his chest beginning to itch.
He panicked.
He tried shaving. The hair grew back within hours—darker, thicker. He scrubbed and scrubbed but the scent never faded. He tried makeup to hide his deepening tan. Useless. It only got darker, warmer, richer. His freckled complexion gave way to smooth, tawny skin.
By day three, he was unrecognizable.
Jasper stood in the gym bathroom, staring into the mirror. His shoulders were broader, chest thicker, now covered in a lush forest of black chest hair. A deep treasure trail ran down from his pecs, disappearing into tight black shorts. His beard had come in fast and precise—dark and sharp. His eyebrows had thickened, his eyes now framed with eyeglasses and intensity.
He looked… like the kind of man he used to mock.
And worse, he felt it.
He took a photo with trembling fingers, not even knowing why. Just to document the end of his old self. This hairy, sweaty, intoxicatingly masculine body was his now. The curse had sealed in. His voice dropped into a deep baritone when he tried to speak. Every move felt heavier, thicker, like he carried a new gravity. His cock was huge now—and always throbbing. And his scent… it turned heads, both male and female.
He hadn’t even gone home since the change completed. There was nowhere to return to. His old life was gone. Men didn’t want to pamper him now—they wanted to submit to him. He reeked of power, testosterone, and hair.
But he didn’t want it. He missed his slim form, his delicate charm. He wasn’t meant to be this man.
He stared into the mirror, eyes heavy with regret. “Please,” he whispered, hoping the one who cursed him might hear. “I take it back. I’m sorry. I’ll never mock again. Just… let me go back. Please…”
Ah, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans. And the sight of the buxom barista serving it. Silky brown hair flowing atop that hourglass figure. Perhaps he should frequent this place more often.
Zayn loved to start his day with a cup of life-giving black water and a good toast, and he hated it when the normalcy was disrupted. He used to frequent the Hut near the square, but the place was now in renovation. Thankfully, it only took him a few steps to find the place he was now sitting in. Order was restored.
… or perhaps not. The first sip was rich and exhilarating, until it ended with an unexpected, unwelcome, but not uncommon texture. He promptly picked out the culprit, half of which had been in his mouth and the other half still dangling on the cup. A short strand of hair. ʀᴇᴅ ʜᴀɪʀ.
Zayn’s eyes instantaneously darted from the barista to her colleague, who was busy taking the order of an elderly couple. A mop of wavy, short red hair topped his head, which along with his porcelain skin and freckle-covered face stood out in stark contrast against the black t-shirt and dark apron he was wearing. As soon as the queue was emptied, Zayn strutted to the ginger, back straightened, arms stiffened in an attempt to inflate his already bulky frame. He dropped his coffee cup on the counter loudly enough to garner the barista’s attention. “Mate, can you make me a new cup of coffee?”, he questioned, his voice lowered. “I found a strand of red hair inside the cup”, he continued, the word ‘red’ deliberately emphasised. The ginger rolled his eyes and looked puzzled for a moment, but quickly accepted his request with no retort. Once again, it was the girl who brought the coffee out to him. “Thanks”, he smiled cockily at her before returning to his table.
Order was restored, and Zayn was back to his outpost where his eyes continued to busily clap about and mentally undress all the dainty damsels inside and outside. He actually wouldn’t have minded had the busty barista’s hair been the thing that was in his cup. Why does it always have to be the wimps and runts that ruin his day? Now that he had shown the loser his place, he could feel waves of satisfaction coursing through his body. He took a sip to celebrate.
And he spat the coffee out. Another strand of red hair. Unbothered by the stain on his cuff and the liquid still dripping on his hand, he looked inside the cup. Intricate overlapping rings of keratin formed from definitely not just one strand of hair floated on the surface of the beverage. However hot the coffee was, Zayn’s blood was now boiling ten times hotter. He bolted up from his chair and headed straight to the ginger, his face red from anger. “Are you done fucking with me?”, he said threateningly. The younger man looked even more perplexed, though before he managed to utter anything, his coworker had already chimed in to his defense.
“What is it again?”, she said with visible disinterest on her face.
“There’s. Fucking. Hair. In my coffee. Again.”
“Could be anyone’s hair”, she nonchalantly replied.
“IT’S RED!”, Zayn screamed at the top of his lungs, pointing at the other stressed employee, “Who else in this place has red hair beside that scum?”
“Mate, it's ʏᴏᴜʀ hair”, the girl replied after a long sigh, then turned away from Zayn for a moment to pick something up.
The absurd statement had temporarily overridden Zayn’s desire to smack the gob of out the red-haired pansy with an even stronger urge to give the bitch in front of him a well-deserved slap. Thankfully, the last morsel of rational thinking convinced him against it and as a result, he just hurled a deafening string of profanity at the staff. Zayn stomped out of the coffee shop, unperturbed by the concerning gaze of all the other customers.
The outside air cooled his head down and allowed his breathing to return to normal. That was when he was made aware of two things. One, his bag was still inside the shop – in the heat of the argument he had completely forgot to take it with him. Two, he needed to empty his bladder. Stat. Wasting no time, he slammed the shop’s door open and dashed straight towards the gents. In his haste, he didn’t register the fact that the two staff members were smiling warmly at him, and others in the shop were gleefully chatting with each other, as if no commotion had ever taken place just mere seconds ago.
The loo was small but odourless and clean, with a sink near the entrance and a toilet in the corner. Zayn habitually checked his face in the mirror and grinned at the dark-haired hunk looking back at him. He turned towards the bowl to finish his business. For some reason it was taking longer than usual. Too long, in fact. When Zayn was finally done relieving himself, he was barely able to keep his balance. His head felt heavy all of a sudden. Pants still a distance away from his cock, he placed his hairy hand on the wall to steady himself. It was getting abnormally hot inside the room. Beads after beads of sweat dripped from his head and chest down his lower body, soaking all of his clothing wet. Irritated by the now damp sweater scratching against his skin, he frantically threw it on the nearby sink. Zayn couldn’t think clear. But he wasn’t feeling unwell either. The feeling was akin to that time when he downed two bottles of gin in the company of his lads. Physically he might be mildly disoriented, but deep inside he felt free. Inhibitions were broken, and the need to mentally exert oneself was gone. If someone approached him right now and asked him what his name was, he probably wouldn’t be able to answer. For now, he just needed to rest for a while.
Zayn’s sweaty black slid against the wall as he took on a more comfortable position. He was near naked at this point. His member was out, his boxer briefs stretched around his shins and a pulled-down pair of jeans obscured the dirty socks that were separating the skin of his huge feet from the rank, imposing Adidas running shoes. His beard was itching a little as droplets of sweat made their way through it. He tried to wipe them off, but when he looked at his palm, it was his facial hair that came off. Before he could even blink, the hair had dissolved into the sweat. His arms and chest soon met the same fate, leaving only his pubes untouched by the depilatory secretion. Once bushy and swarming with hair, now only smooth, unblemished skin remained beneath the coat of glistening sweat. Zayn was not even sure if his sight was functioning properly. It’s hard to think right now. When he saw the sheen of the layer of sweat that had almost covered his whole body, it didn’t even cross his mind that his once olive skin had somehow taken on a pale, creamy colour.
The warmth of his body coupled with the room’s temperature had made his ball sack much saggier. Or perhaps it was because his balls had almost doubled in size. He wasn’t in the right state of mind to tell. His cock head felt funny though. The skin around his circumcision scar had expanded downward, wrapping around his cock head to form a long, drooping prepuce. He caressed the covered head with his fingers, and was immediately overwhelmed as his now oversensitive cock answered his touch with immense pleasure and began to ooze out a stunning amount of precum. The size of his dick hadn’t changed much – in fact thanks to the added extra skin it did look like it had gained a bit of length – but the sheer size of his testicles and the sagginess induced by it easily dwarfed the stature of his manhood and made it look relatively tiny.
Zayn’s groggy mind was still overloaded with pleasure that he hadn’t noticed his pubes had turned a fiery red. Elsewhere on his head, the new hair emerging out of his scalp would soon turn out to be of the exact same colour. As the fog his in psyche lifted and whatever that had been causing his intoxicated state disappeared, he felt lighter, much lighter. In mind and in body. The seed of carefreeness had bloomed in his bubbly soul.
As Zayn tried to recollect himself, he realised that he had been in the toilet a bit too long. He hoped no one was prevented from attending to their pressing matter while he was here. Feeling slightly guilty, he stood up and pulled his pants and trousers back on. On his way to retrieve his sweater, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Looking back at him was a shirtless young man with glinting green eyes. He had lush, wavy locks of red-hair, still damp from an earlier bout of sweating. Freckles dotted his face and most of his pale body, interspersing with the occasional rosy complexion where blood was flowing through his strong veins. The youngster was lithe and fit, though with a certain imbalance in his build. Whatever transformation he had undergone, it had greatly slimmed up his upper body, but left the rest seemingly untouched. Zayn’s thighs had neither lost their definition nor their heftiness. The tight jeans he was wearing still struggled to contain his firm, muscular behind and his engorged genitals produced a visible bulge on the front. He shifted his big feet comfortably in his smelly socks and huge running shoes.
Zayn grinned confidently at himself in the mirror – for this was him, always had been and always will be. Redhead, smooth, freckled, happy-go-lucky. He put on his sweater, which now clung loosely to his body, washed his hands, and made his way out of the loo. The ginger barista hollered upon seeing him:
“Mate, your cappuccino is ready!”
“Alright, cool, thank you!”, Zayn smiled warmly back at the bloke. Within seconds he was back to his seat, bag by his side.
Ah, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans. And the sight of the cute ginger barista serving it.
Yo new request for another Herculean Gain transformation bruhs this time from @rowdy317 so lets see how he changes bruhs. Enjoy!
Rowdy adjusted his glasses nervously as he stepped into Herculean Gains. His brown hair was a little messy, and his oversized hoodie made him look even smaller than he was. He wasn’t the gym type—he was a soon-to-be engineering graduate, always buried in books, calculations, and late-night coding sessions. But something inside him was… restless.
He had read about this gym online—how it transformed men into absolute beasts. The rumors seemed ridiculous, but something drew him here anyway.
And then, the legend himself appeared.
“Yo, little dude, what’s up?”
Rowdy turned and froze. Standing before him was Hercules Gold, a gym god of mythic proportions. Golden skin, massive pecs, arms like boulders, and a smirk that oozed confidence. His tank top barely contained him, and his gym shorts left nothing to the imagination.
“I—uh—” Rowdy stammered, overwhelmed.
Hercules grinned. “Bro, you came to the right place. You got that look, man. You wanna be huge, don’t you?”
Rowdy hesitated, then nodded. “…Yeah.”
Hercules clapped him on the back. “Say no more, lil’ dude. You need Himbo Juice.”
From nowhere, he pulled out a massive golden shaker, filled with thick, glowing liquid. “Special Ginger Beast edition. Extra cinnamon for peak hair growth.”
Rowdy gulped. “Is it safe?”
Hercules laughed. “Bro. Just drink.”
Rowdy took a deep breath and chugged it.
BOOM.
The change was instant. Heat flooded his body, and then—growth.
His arms exploded outward, thin limbs stretching and bulging with thick, heavy muscle. His hoodie tightened, then ripped apart, revealing swelling pecs covered in a thick layer of fiery red chest hair. His abs carved themselves into an eight-pack as his waist thickened with raw power.
His legs ballooned, jeans shredding into scraps as tree-trunk thighs burst free. His sneakers stretched and morphed into massive gym shoes fit for a beast.
His brown hair lightened, then blazed into a bright, fiery red, cascading into a wild, luscious mane. His face sharpened, his timid features shifting into a smug, arrogant smirk. His glasses slipped off, no longer needed.
His mind… slowed.
“Uh… bro… I feel so huge…” Rowdy muttered, flexing.
Hercules grinned. “Welcome to the Himbo Life, Rowdy the Red Beast.”
Rowdy just laughed, admiring himself in the mirror. No more thinking. Just flexing, lifting, and looking insane.
Wanna a tf then ask away with what ya want (more info the better) or DM me with it bros, i will do my best on the tf you want, time to transform mah dudes
Hi, Chronivac support, I was trying to use your app to give me a body that would look great in a kilt, to make me match my Scottish heritage more, but all I’ve seem to do is make my hair turn increasingly coopery and ginger each day. Did I mess up one of the settings, any way I can fix or correct this??
Good morning! You just left too many points open. And the colleague who worked on your case is totally uncreative. He can only think of red hair, freckles and big ears for "Scottish". You can do better than that. We'll turn you into a magnificent bull of Scottish Highland cattle. In your family tree you'll find Scottish marquies, Spanish fleet admirals and French counts. You studied law in St Andrews after your military service with the Royal Airforce. This is what a Scotsman looks like who wears his kilt with pride.
A kilt can be worn with the upper part of the body clothed… The main thing is that your cock swings freely between your legs.
Tiago had always stood out in Brazil—not because of size or strength, but for his eager spirit, his obsession with American culture, and, above all, his secret fetish: redheads.
White guys with fiery hair, kissed by freckles and carrying that soft, warm glow like embers under skin—those were his favorite. The way their pinkish skin looked in the sun, how their body hair caught the light in golden-red strands—it consumed his fantasies. He wanted them. But more than that... he wanted to be one of them.
His friend Luca, a mysterious gringo expat who dabbled in “unusual crafts,” had always teased him for it. But he also listened—really listened—and one night, while Tiago slept peacefully, Luca whispered an incantation over him.
He never told Tiago what he did.
The next morning, Tiago blinked awake with a dull ache in his groin and an odd sensation over his skin. Everything felt... thin. Sensitive. Exposed. His sheet rubbed against him in a way that made his spine tingle.
He pulled the blanket off and gasped.
His olive skin was gone—in its place was pale, pinkish-white skin kissed by a thousand little freckles. His fingers shook as he touched his chest, now lightly dusted with a few wiry red strands. Down his stomach was a deliciously neat treasure trail, leading into a thick red bush nestled at his groin. His eyes widened further. Even his cock was different now—his balls smooth and pinkish, his shaft a paler color, with a tidy cut and a soft pink tip. He’d never been circumcised before. He exhaled sharply, his breath trembling.
He darted to the mirror.
Gone were his dark curls—in their place was a fiery red mop, messy and vibrant, like flames caught in motion. His face was paler, speckled with freckles, and his jaw had a bit of soft red scruff coming in. He rubbed it slowly, almost afraid it would vanish.
His eyes weren’t brown anymore.
They were blue—crisp and icy. Almost too blue.
He stepped back and looked down at his legs. His thighs and calves were dusted with copper-blonde fuzz, a soft and steady forest that made him gasp with delight. He turned around, inspecting his butt—it was a little more round, soft... it looked more ginger now. That same kiss of color, that flush of life.
As he took in the view, his cock began to stiffen. He didn’t even try to stop it. It rose, pointing upward proudly, thick, pink, and ginger-haired at the base.
He was hot.
He was cute.
He was a ginger.
“This can’t be real,” he whispered in a new voice—lighter, somehow more boyish.
But it was. He felt alive, charged, aching to go outside and see how the world would treat him now. Would white guys stare at him? Would other redheads smile knowingly? Would people think he was born this way?
He didn’t care.
Tiago slipped on some gym shorts—no underwear—and a loose tank top. He wanted the freckles to show, the red trail to peek out. He wanted the world to see the ginger boy he’d always dreamed of being.
Tyler was the kind of guy who always had something to say — loud, cocky, self-assured. In the office, his jokes about others flew freely, but one coworker in particular always seemed to be his favorite target: Liam. Pale, ginger, freckled, quiet — Liam never fought back. He just adjusted his glasses, murmured something polite, and turned back to his screen.
“You go outside lately, Liam? Or do you just sparkle like a vampire under the sun?” Tyler snorted, nudging another coworker and grinning. “I swear, man’s one sunbeam away from catching fire.”
Liam didn’t look up. But that day, he said something back. Soft, almost too quiet to hear:
“You don’t understand the fire you’re playing with.”
Tyler blinked, but the moment passed. Work carried on. That night, he went home, half-drunk from happy hour, stumbling into bed with a smirk still on his face.
And then it began.
He woke up sweating, skin flushed. At first he thought it was a fever — but it wasn’t sickness. It was heat. A strange burning under his skin, radiating outward. He clawed at his sheets, moaning softly as his skin began to itch, then tingle, then burn.
He stumbled to the bathroom mirror.
Freckles. Tiny reddish-brown constellations were spreading across his shoulders, then down his chest. “What the hell?” he breathed, voice cracking. He reached up — his chest hair, usually sparse and dark, was now thick, wiry, red.
He watched in horror as his face reshaped slightly — jaw squaring, lips plumping, cheekbones sharpening just slightly. His eyebrows brightened, and his stubble turned to a flaming, well-kept beard. His hair, once dark brown, shimmered with new copper-orange strands pushing out at the roots, filling in fast and hot like wildfire.
“Stop, what is this?” Tyler gasped, but his voice was deeper now. Not his old tone — rougher, slightly huskier, with a natural baritone that made his body tremble.
The hair on his arms and chest grew denser by the second, crawling like living flame. His pale skin flushed with a faint rose hue — smooth, then dusted with freckles, then touched by fire. His once tan body was now pale, kissed by a ginger glow, his body hair a forest of copper.
And then, it finished.
He stood naked before the mirror, panting, trembling. A strong, muscular man — freckled, pale, coated in fiery red hair, his blue eyes wide and full of confusion. He was the man in the photo.
His phone buzzed.
A text.
From an unknown number.
“Now you’ll learn what it’s like to be stared at, joked about… burned by judgment. Let’s see how long you last.”
Tyler — or whoever he was now — sank to the floor.
He’d mocked Liam’s fire. Now it lived in his flesh.
