Trey wiped the sweat from his brow and sank onto the bench, his tiny frame nearly disappearing beneath the weight of the iron. The gym was alive with the clanging of metal, the grunts of men pushing themselves to the limit, and the faint smell of chalk and sweat. He felt out of place, as he always did. Every glance at a mirror reminded him of the thin arms he couldn’t bulk up, the ribs that jutted too sharply, and the legs that barely seemed to support him.
He adjusted his pastel gym tank, tugging it down over his stomach, and tried to focus on his playlist. The upbeat pop music was supposed to distract him from the gnawing anxiety, but it didn’t work. Not really.
That’s when he felt it—a shadow falling over him, larger than anyone else in the room.
“Hey, kid,” a deep, rolling voice said. Trey looked up. The man standing before him could have been carved from granite. His arms were thick ropes of muscle, veins snaking across his skin like living rivers. His chest expanded under a tight tank, each pec straining against the fabric. His eyes were black pools, gleaming with amusement—or something darker.
“You want to get… real?” the man asked, voice low and predatory. “Not skinny. Not weak. Real. Mass. Muscle. Power.”
Trey swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “Uh… I mean… I use protein shakes, but I—”
“This,” the man interrupted, producing a small vial from the folds of his tank top, “isn’t protein. It’s… better. Ancient. Special. Imported. It’ll make you unstoppable.”
The liquid inside was black, thick, almost gelatinous, swirling like ink. Trey’s stomach twisted. Something about it was wrong. It felt… alive.
“Fifty bucks,” the man said, grinning. “Drink it, and you’ll thank me.”
Trey hesitated, trembling, a mixture of fear and longing tugging at him. The desire to be seen, to have a body that wasn’t fragile and laughed at… it was overwhelming. His hands shook as he took the vial.
The first swallow made him gag. The liquid clung to his throat like tar, crawling down into his stomach, leaving a slick, burning trail. He coughed, and a strange warmth blossomed in his chest. A tingling sensation snaked through his arms, down his spine, into his legs.
He staggered back toward the mirror, heart hammering. His fingers twitched violently. His skin prickled as if tiny insects were crawling beneath it, moving under the surface of his flesh. A cold dread sank into his stomach.
Then the first change happened.
It started small—a subtle tightening of his forearms, as though invisible bands were squeezing the bones and sinew. He gasped, gripping the edge of the bench. The veins in his arms thickened, twisting upward under the surface, purple and tense. A faint sheen of sweat appeared, sticky and oppressive.
“What… what’s happening?” he whispered, but the sound of his own voice startled him. It was thicker, deeper than it should have been, rough around the edges, alien.
The next shift was more horrifying. His ribs pressed inward as his chest began to expand, muscles knitting themselves beneath the skin with a creeping, painful slowness. It was like being pulled from the inside, the growth agonizing, stretching his skin until it throbbed. Each pec swelled, striated lines forming with terrifying clarity.
Trey fell to his knees, trembling. Sweat poured down his back, pooling in the small of his spine. His stomach convulsed as the muscles began forming a six-pack, ridged and sinuous. Each breath was punctuated by a stretching, tearing sensation he could feel in his bones.
And the smell hit him. Not his own, not quite. A thick, musky, animalistic scent clung to his skin, something primal and raw. It made his stomach lurch, but also… excited him, and that terrified him more than the pain.
His arms now throbbed visibly with enormous biceps, bulging beyond what was humanly possible. Fingers pressed against the mirror; the reflection was no longer Trey. The face had begun to shift. His jawline grew strong, angular. Cheeks sharpened. A faint beard sprouted across his chin, short and coarse, his lips fuller. His eyes, wide with fear, flicked around the gym, but even in terror, a flicker of thrill lurked somewhere deep in his chest.
Something inside hissed, tugged. Become more. Stronger. Hunt.
His legs thickened painfully, muscles knotting and swelling until his tank top and shorts felt impossibly tight. The floor under him seemed too small. Every movement was laborious at first, then exhilarating—raw power coursing through his veins. Each twitch of muscle released a small, disgusting fart, rich and protein-heavy, filling the air and adding a grotesque soundtrack to his horror.
Trey’s mind screamed, clawing at the edges of his consciousness. This isn’t me. I’m Trey. I’m… smart, nerdy… I like girls… no, I like boys… But the tar inside him pulsed, insistent. No. You are him. You will be him. You will want women. You will lift. You will take.
He tried to run, but his legs were alien, too long, too thick, moving with the rhythm of someone else entirely. Panic gave way to awe as he caught a glimpse in the mirror. The reflection staring back was enormous, bronze-tanned, impossibly muscular, and… smiling. A cruel, confident, predatory smile that Trey had never known he could make.
And even as terror consumed him, a part of his mind—buried deep, screaming—couldn’t deny it. The raw, intoxicating power, the muscles, the sheer dominance… it was thrilling.
He collapsed fully to the floor, trembling, as the tar inside him wriggled, eager, alive. His old self—the nerd, the bubbly twink, the anxious gay boy—was screaming, but quieter now, fading with every heartbeat, every breath, every grotesque bulge of new flesh.
The transformation had begun.
Trey woke to the faint metallic taste of sweat in his mouth. His body ached in ways he didn’t recognize; muscles stretched and flexed beneath his skin even as he tried to lie still. Every movement sent shivers through him, a grotesque symphony of stretching, popping, and the faint wet squelch of sinew rearranging itself.
He tried to lift his arm. It was… enormous. Not just bigger than yesterday—unreal. His bicep bulged with every twitch of muscle fibers, veins snaking across it like rivulets of molten metal. His forearm, thick as a toddler’s torso, throbbed with life. A sharp jolt ran from his fingertips to his shoulder, and his knuckles scraped against the floor as if they no longer belonged to him.
Panic clawed at his chest. “No… no… this isn’t me… this isn’t real…” His voice emerged differently—low, guttural, a rumble that vibrated in his ribcage. He barely recognized it, and the sound made him flinch. It felt alien, like the body had learned to speak before the mind could catch up.
But the mirror across the room stole his attention anyway. He staggered to it, one thick-legged step at a time. The reflection staring back was no longer Trey. His skin had darkened further, a deep, tanned sheen glistening with sweat. Muscles rolled under the surface in ways that seemed… alive. Each pec rippled as he flexed involuntarily, and his abs were a network of ridges and valleys, sinewy and perfect. His shoulders had widened grotesquely, arms dangling like tree trunks, massive hands ending in thick fingers that seemed clumsy compared to his new bulk.
Even the smell—oh, the smell—made him gag and thrill at the same time. His body radiated a heavy, musky, primal odor, sweat mingling with something darker, more animalistic, like raw meat left too long in the sun. Each small movement released tiny, awful farts that rattled through the quiet room, pungent and undeniably his.
Trey tried to think. He tried to reach for his old identity—the soft, anxious, nerdy boy who loved pastel clothes, trivia games, and careful debates about politics. But the thoughts were brittle, fragile. They shattered when they collided with the constant, insistent pulse of raw muscle and instinct. You are him. You are powerful. You will take what you want.
He looked down. His legs were thick cords of flesh, thighs like barrels, calves bulging impossibly. Each step made the floor groan. Panic sharpened into terror as he realized he couldn’t control them. His knees bent differently. His gait changed, deliberate, predatory, powerful. The tar inside him had begun to dominate every impulse, whispering that he was no longer weak, no longer Trey, and that he would want.
He staggered to his kitchen. The vial sat there, empty, as if smirking. His stomach twisted. Hunger hit—but not for food. Desire pulsed through him, low and unrelenting, spreading from his groin outward. His cock throbbed with a new weight, thick, eager, alive. He tried to hide it, tried to ignore it, but the black tar inside him hummed and whispered, she. take. breed.
Trey’s hands trembled, exploring the new planes of his body. His chest—dense, thick, straining under the skin—rippled involuntarily. His arms flexed as he touched them, veins rising, fingers digging into muscle that felt alien, pulsing under his touch. Every inch of him seemed alive. The room smelled of his sweat, the heat of skin stretching, the sour tang of muscle tearing itself into new shapes.
And then the first primal urges hit like a punch. A memory, buried in the tar, surfaced: girls. Women. Curves. Soft skin. Warm mouths. He recoiled, almost screaming, but the thought felt electric, thrilling, necessary. His mouth went dry, tongue thick. His body bent, leaned forward, hands pressing to the counter for balance, the urge crawling up through his spine.
The mirror called to him. His reflection wasn’t Trey anymore. It was him—Rohan. Massive, tanned, impossibly muscular, pulsing with raw desire and unstoppable instinct. The eyes staring back were bright, cocky, predatory, and alien. And they were smiling, leering at his own horror.
He tried to resist, tried to think of books, friends, games, debates, politics… but each memory slipped further, replaced by cravings he didn’t recognize: lift. chase. fuck. conquer. The tar inside him vibrated with satisfaction, coiling through his veins like a living thing, whispering instructions: grow. take. breed. dominate.
Trey—his mind—screamed, shrank, gasping inside the cage of this new body. But his muscles, his thickened limbs, the hardened chest and crushing thighs, pulsed with their own will. A twitch in his bicep, a flex of his pecs, and a low rumble escaped him—a sound not entirely human. He realized his first protein-fueled fart had escaped, loud and disgusting, and he laughed. Not Trey’s laugh. A deep, guttural, throaty chuckle, as if the muscles themselves were amused.
He tried to speak, to plead, to demand control, but his voice came out as something else. “I… need… girls… lift… more…” The words were foreign, guttural, staccato, and every syllable made his cock throb further.
It was the first time he touched a woman—not a real one yet, just in thought—but the desire hit him like lightning. He imagined her, soft, warm, pliant beneath him. The thought should have horrified him, but the tar pulsed, whispering that it was necessary, natural, the only way forward. His hands shook as his new muscles flexed, veins throbbing like snakes across his arms, chest, and legs.
By the time Trey slumped against the wall, exhausted and trembling, the transformation had claimed him almost entirely. His old self—a nervous, anxious, nerdy, gay boy—was a whisper, a shadow, fading. What remained was Rohan: 34 years old, 6’8”, impossibly massive, brutish, sweaty, smelly, and ravenous. Hungry. Obsessed with gains, with women, with the raw, violent joy of his own power.
The tar inside him hummed. It had won. And Trey knew, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, that he would never be himself again.
The gym smelled of iron, sweat, and ambition. Rohan—or Trey, whatever memory lingered of him—towered over everyone. His legs were tree trunks, his arms boulders, chest massive and glistening with sweat that caught the fluorescent light. Veins writhed across his skin like living things. The tar inside him hummed with satisfaction, urging him forward, whispering every thought: hunt. take. claim.
He spotted them first—two girls at the smoothie bar, laughing, oblivious to the world. His jaw flexed; the thick accent rolled out with a rumble as he muttered to himself:
“Damn… look at dem… bodies… soft… tight…”
He pushed through the gym like a force of nature, each step making the floor groan under his weight. Sweat poured down his back, mixing with the thick musk of his body. A low fart slipped out, unnoticed, and he laughed—a deep, throaty, guttural sound that made heads turn.
“Yo, ladies,” he boomed, voice rough, carrying that exotic cadence, “whatcha doin’ later? Need a guy… strong… show ya a good time.”
They blinked, startled. One, a petite brunette, swallowed hard, stammering: “Uh… we’re just… uh…”
“Don’t worry,” he said, flexing his massive biceps. The veins pulsed like snakes under the skin. “I lift… hard… heavy… can make ya feel… real.” His grin was predatory. The tar inside him thrummed, making his cock pulse, heavy and eager. He reached out, brushing her hand with a massive palm, fingers thick as her wrist. “C’mon… lemme show ya…”
The other girl giggled nervously, blonde curls bouncing. “You… you’re huge.”
“Yeah… big… strong… want girls… hard… tight… need ‘em…” he muttered, voice thick, accent twisting words into guttural promises. He leaned closer, chest nearly pressing against her, smell overpowering: raw sweat, tar, and the pungent stench of unwashed meat.
The brunette gasped, pulling back. “Uh… we’re really just—”
“Don’t care… I get… girls… tonight… want fun… wanna ride… gonna… pump ya…” His words were clipped, harsh, desperate with desire. His hands flexed involuntarily, veins throbbing. Another fart slipped, loud and smelly, and he chuckled, a deep vibration that made their skin crawl.
The blonde’s eyes widened. “Oh my god…”
“Yeah, bro… see these muscles? Want these muscles inside ya?” He flexed, pecs rippling, abs tightening, voice dripping with crude lust. He leaned even closer, smelling them, tasting the sweat in the air. “I’m… Rohan… gonna fuck… all night… give ya… what ya need…”
The brunette stumbled, trying to step back, but Rohan followed like a predator, grin wide, eyes dark, cock pulsing hard in his shorts. “C’mon… don’t be shy… lemme show… pump… all over…”
“Stop… please…” the blonde whispered, voice trembling.
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that shook his chest. “Nah… no stop… don’t… wanna… want… now… feel me… feel this…” He slapped his bicep, the muscle popping grotesquely under his skin, veins pulsing, every fiber alive. Another fart slipped, and he inhaled deeply, reveling in the smell, the grotesque affirmation of his own body.
“You’re… so… big… I…” the brunette tried to speak, but the words died. Rohan leaned in, low, thick accent dripping from every word: “Yeah… I’m big… strong… horny… you want… I take… you tight… feel good…” His hand slid down her arm, brushing against her thigh. He grinned. “C’mon… gimme… gimme now…”
Every nerve in his body screamed, every primal instinct roaring. His old self—Trey—fought, whispering, screaming inside: No… this isn’t me… stop…
But it was gone. Consumed. Rohan, the brute, the meathead, the pulsating, horny, thick-accented monstrosity of muscle and lust, was in control.
“Damn…” he groaned, voice rough, guttural, almost animal. “You like… strong… big… wanna ride… wanna feel me… all night… yeah…” His abs rippled, pecs flexed. He brushed his thick fingers across the brunette’s shoulder, cock straining. Another fart erupted, loud, pungent. He didn’t care. It was him. It was power. It was need.
By the time he was pulling them toward the locker room, Rohan’s grin was wild, predatory, unstoppable. The tar inside him pulsed, satisfied, having erased Trey completely, leaving only a colossal, horny, dumb-as-bricks, straight, Indian meathead obsessed with gains, women, and conquest.
He looked back at the mirror one last time before disappearing down the hall, veins throbbing, muscles bulging, cock throbbing—smelling, sweating, and alive. This… is me now.
