Dec 26, 2025
healing is lonely but so was begging to be understood
seen from China
seen from Brazil
seen from Spain
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
healing is lonely but so was begging to be understood
The Game Show
You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.
"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"
"Jason is like totally the hottest."
"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."
"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"
You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.
"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"
The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.
“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"
"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.
"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.
The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"
You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.
"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"
Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.
"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"
"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"
"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.
"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."
"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"
You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.
"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.
"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.
"No shame in that, brah!"
You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.
"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"
Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"
"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"
The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.
"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"
Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.
"Chlorophyll."
"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"
Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"
The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.
"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.
"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"
You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."
"Correct!"
"Woah bro, nice one!"
Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.
"What the…?"
The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…
"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"
The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"
"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."
But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?
"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."
You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!
"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.
"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."
You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...
"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.
"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."
The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...
"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"
"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."
"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"
"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.
The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?
"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."
"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"
"Dead lifts..."
"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."
The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"
"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."
Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?
"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.
You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.
"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.
"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."
Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.
"The answer is hips, bro."
"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.
As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.
"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.
Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind- Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.
When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?
"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.
Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.
Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?
A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.
The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."
"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.
"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.
"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"
The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"
The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.
"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."
Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.
The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.
With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.
"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.
And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…
Hey, I am a scrawny white guy stuck in the middle of Midwest America. It is really cold right now. What I wouldn't trade to be somewhere warm and sunny. Maybe be another ethnicity
Shivering as you slid deeper underneath the covers, you let out a soft sigh as you felt the cold air nip at your toes. While you were used to cold, frosty winters, this season seemed particularly brutal. Even with the heaters turned on, you could only toss and turn underneath the covers in some desperate attempt to warm yourself enough so you could fall asleep. But sleep didn’t seem like it was coming for you any time soon, and you weren’t exactly eager to pass the time counting sheep.
Reaching over towards your nightstand, you picked up the VR headset your friend lent you for the weekend. He was originally planning to return it to the manufacturer, citing a weird electrical problem and glitchiness that was messing up his gaming experience. But since you didn’t have your own VR set, he offered to let you play with his for the weekend. Your friend had been raving about this new RPG where you could customize your own avatar and build up a fictional person for yourself. The game boasted of being a fully immersive experience, to the point that users could control themselves without even moving in real life. It was the perfect thing for you to play while you huddled under your blankets to stay warm. According to your friend, there was a weird glitch making the game “unplayable,” but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the device itself.
As you slipped on the virtual headset, you selected the game to load up. The icon art seemed really simple and silly, showcasing a crudely drawn picture of a sunny day, a palm beach, and some ocean waves. The game was listed as Spring Break! A Vacation Getaway, with a tagline that promised to “whisk you away to paradise!” Snorting a bit to yourself at the basic premise, you tapped through to set up an avatar. Unfortunately, it seemed as though there was no option to customize your own avatar, as each character was uniquely linked to a device. The option for a new game or a new character was greyed out, and there was no other option but the avatar your friend had already built for themselves.
You sighed as you selected the premade option, letting the game load in. The pitch-black loading screen was quickly replaced by a blindingly bright light, to the point where you had to squint your own eyes to shut out the glaringly white visuals. As your eyes adjusted to the sudden change, you found yourself staring at a completely different image from your normal, scrawny self. The avatar in the bathroom was far bulkier and broader than you, and its tanned skin indicated hours spent basking in the warm sun. You gaped at the model your friend made, bringing a hand up to rub and squeeze at one of the pecs jutting out underneath your shirt. Just the mere act of brushing up against the fabric felt so real, to the point where you could almost feel a mountain of muscle underneath your massive paws, even if this was all fake.
It was certainly stimulating enough for your own cock to twitch a little in excitement, and you began to flex and pose with your friend’s avatar in the mirror. If you couldn’t make up something for yourself, this was certainly the next best option. You couldn’t help but marvel at how immersive the experience really was, and you didn’t even have to leave the warm comforts of your bed to enjoy this beefy body. Of course, there was a rather devious thought that slipped into your head as you marveled at the man’s muscles. With games like this, they often censor the most private and explicit parts. But since it was only you in the privacy of your own room, there were plenty of questions that you simply had to answer for yourself.
Peeling back the tight clothing off your beefy body, you grunted as you took in the view of your new frame. Even without fully undressing, you could feel the absolute weight and heft that was with your new body. You cheekily brought up one hand to grope and squeeze at your pecs, and the extra sensitivity from your new body made you inadvertently moan. You had to take in all the aspects of your new body, and you unzipped the slacks to see what else you were working with.
You savored the sight of the rather hefty and sizeable bulge that was causing your underwear to hang low from your body. Even without a full arousal, you could practically see the outline of your extra thick cock pressed up against the cloth. The girthier size made you naturally reach down in excitement, and your fingers also cupped the heavy balls tucked into the undergarments. Fondling your new family jewels only informed you of all that extra potent and virile seed that was practically begging for a release. Your friend must have made this avatar’s libido high, if that was even a customizable option, given how much this body seemed to ache for release.
Fishing out your virtual cock, you eagerly began to touch and stroke yourself. Even the mere sensation of your fingers touching it felt so real, and you shuddered in anticipation of what the climactic finish would look like. Soft grunts slipped out of your lips as waves of pleasure reverberated out from the headset towards your own body. You found yourself mimicking the avatar’s actions, palming your own arousal to the same rhythm. You had no idea how this game was causing you to feel such stimulations, but you couldn’t seem to bring yourself to care. It was simply too addicting, watching the beefy, naked man in the mirror rub one out. Droplets of precum began to drip from the swinging pole between those meaty thighs, and you made the avatar use it as lube to stimulate its own erection.
Suddenly, your immersion was quickly interrupted by a pixelated message window popping up in front of your view. While you were still able to see through the translucent virtual message, you growled in mild annoyance at the message blocking your moment of personal desires. It didn’t stop you from continuing to tug and stroke away at your virtual self, though, but the message was quite unclear in what it was suggesting.
Upload incomplete. Halted progress at 62%. Stimulation resuming the upload…
This must have been the glitch that your friend mentioned, which was clearly obstructing the best parts of the virtual experience. Whatever was going on with the loading bar was certainly progressing with each passing moment as you drew closer to a climax. At this point, you didn’t even care what was going on. You were far too invested in savoring every last bit of this beefy, muscular hunk of an avatar. The whole body was practically thrumming with sensitivity, and your hips bucked upwards into your hands as you found yourself nearing an orgasmic bliss. Both you and the avatar seemed to sync up in movements now, although you weren’t exactly focused on the game’s unique and clever technical design. Instead, your pants began to grow louder as you watched the beast of a man begin to unravel in the mirror. Staring down at your juicy body in the game, you watched as the heaving pecs bounced and jiggled with each stroke. The thick, veiny biceps bulged as you flexed while stroking that swinging baton of a cock.
And suddenly, you found your hips bucking upwards as thick ropes of cum spurted out from your cock. The avatar’s load seemed to be far more in volume than yours, but no less explosive. You shuddered as both bodies jolted and twitched with each spurt out of you. It was satisfying in a way that was simply too hard to explain, and your eyes could only roll back from the immense pleasure. But at the peak of the climax, a sparking electric shock zapped your temple, and a flash of pain caused your vision to go completely white. You had a fleeting thought, almost wondering if you had gone and truly broken your friend’s game. But suddenly, some text began to focus into view as the white light faded away.
Upload completed. Progress at 100%. Loading into a new reality.
As you slowly came down from that orgasmic high, you couldn’t help but groan a bit in mild embarrassment at your rather lewd and sexual exploration of this avatar. The clarity was starting to hit your head, and you couldn’t help but chuckle lowly at your actions. However, the deep, rumbling bass in your voice caused you to furrow your brows in confusion. You didn’t always have such a dominant-sounding voice, did you? Bringing up one of your thick hands to rub at your Adam’s apple, your eyes began to widen in surprise as you found the avatar’s body mimicking every action that you were doing. Of course, you had been guiding and controlling it before, but something felt far too real now.
Shuddering at the almost uncanny feeling you were getting, you raised your meaty hands up to pull off the virtual headset device. However, your fingers only brushed at the sides of your face, and you stared back at your body in the mirror. There wasn’t anything there to take off. In fact, with the headset on, the bathroom you were in felt very real. You could feel the warm, tropical air rubbing against your skin, the cool breeze of the air conditioner blowing on your broad back, and the cold sensation of the tile under your bare feet. Stumbling away from the mirror, you quickly moved out of the room, flinging the door open to reveal a rather lavish and extravagant master bedroom.
A quick stumble about the place quickly revealed that you were standing in what appeared to be the top of a penthouse. Your confusion was only coupled by how real everything felt to the touch: the doors, the windows, the view. If this game was still boasting of an immersive experience, they had really gone all out. But there was a sinking feeling behind your heaving pecs as you jogged about the place, as you began to realize that there wasn’t a clear indication on how to quit out of the game if you couldn’t pull off the headset. And in the slight moment of realization as you ambled back into the bathroom, a new virtual message popped into view.
Biophysical assets loaded in. Uploading cognitive assets…
Before you even had the chance to read through the text on the loading bar, there was a sharp and searing pain in your head. Your temple throbbed with a heavy, beating pulse, as if you could hear your own pounding heartbeat. Even in such a strong and muscular body, you couldn’t help but stumble forward, clasping onto the countertop with a loud grunt. Your eyes squeezed shut from the needling sensation, as though something was burrowing into your skull. Through your teary eyes, you could just make out a new loading bar beginning to fill with progress.
And with a rather audible pop and crackle inside your head, a flood of new memories began to rush in. It was like a torrent of information, with a force so strong that it began to wash away whatever information you had about yourself. Memories of yourself growing up in the American Midwest were replaced by memories of your hometown in Vietnam. In fact, as far as you could remember, you had never been to America as a kid. It wasn’t until you started pursuing your career in mixed martial arts that you began competing over there. It had always been a goal of yours to make a name for yourself, and with all this growing fame and popularity going to your head, it made sense that you had such a large and lavish penthouse all to yourself to call home.
You grunted as your confused and pained expression began to shift into something more cocky and hot-headed. Your hairy eyebrows knit together as you gave a rather loud and audible growl, bringing your arms up to flex your muscles. There was some part of you that had this weird idea that you were some skimpy, scrawny white nerd. But there was no way people would mistake “The Beast” for skimpy and scrawny. You shook your grizzled head, bringing a hand up to rub at your scruff. You were probably thinking of some fan of yours who had flown out from America to watch one of your fights. With all those eager twinks lining themselves up for you in the locker room after you bested your opponents, it was hard to keep track of their faces. None of them ever seemed to complain anyway; you always made sure they left with quivering legs and holes filled to the brim with your potent seed.
Smirking at yourself in the mirror once more as you caught a whiff of your musk, you could feel your head begin to clear up that mental fog. You flexed your back and rolled out your shoulders, only reaching back to squeeze and rub at some of your sore muscles. Perhaps you just went a little too hard with your morning workout. It was easy for a jock like you to get lost in the sauce when you lifted weights. Everything came so easily for you there. Outside of that, you let your managers handle the rest of the logistics in your life. There wasn’t any other room in your head to think of complicated shit; you were built to fuck and fight.
The soft ping of the loading bar completing its upload made you blink in confusion. You didn’t get why there was some weird floating text before your eyes. Blinking your eyes seemed to do the trick, though, and the virtual bar disappeared in a shimmer of pixels. All you could remember was the final line of text.
Enjoy your spring break paradise!
You shrugged your broad shoulders as you picked up your phone, seeing a few texts from your coaches asking if they were gonna see you later. Tapping your fat thumbs along the screen, you managed to work out a semi-coherent reply. There was no way they’d think you’d miss a gym session. It seemed like both you and the bros didn’t get enough sleep last night with all the weird shit that was going on. You figured you could swing by the massage parlor before you had your second lifting session of the day. It was practically a ritual for you at this point, since you had practically done this your whole life.
White Shirt, Blue Jeans
I'm telling you man, all you need is a white tee and some blue denim and you've got that hot classic look ready to go. Alright, alright, maybe you need to have the perfect bod to really sell the package, but don't worry, the store told me it all comes with the purchase. Just watch. They even recommended me to buy a larger size since you can fill them out as much as you want. All you gotta do is flex a little. Like this! O-oh... fuck... that was quick. L-look dude my arm's blowing up... giant meaty cannons, stretching these sleeves to their limit. Yeah, shoulders and forearms are getting nice and big too. I might have to look into their sleeveless options now, heh? They said the shirts leave loads of room in the front so you have to ugh... remember to fill... them.... out...! F-fuck sorry bro, didn't mean to give you a face full of my pecs, goddamn they're like tits now, look at them jiggle. See, with the white color you really get that sexiness. Skin tight, translucent fabric - unh - brushing against my nipples. Can't forget about the jeans either, giving me a nice big bubble butt. Thighs rubbing up against each other, calves squashed tight, there's barely any room left bro. Shit, I can hardly stand, huhu. A-Ah...? Down there too? Ooo, I can feel my cock throbbing, balls getting s-so heavy... Aw fuck... I think I burst the zipper on these pants, huhu, guess they couldn't handle the beast. Fuck, why do I feel so horny...? Bro, bro you gotta help me, this feels too good. I-I should have read the warning tags. W-wait, where did you get that cap? You weren't supposed to - ugh -find that. Bro, hold on, wait wait, the store said the caps make you more- Ooooooooogh. Nooooooooo... Stoppppphh...
huhuhuhu... look at my tits bro.
The things we do for love - a Chronivac story
Dorian was on his way home from work with a pit in his stomach. Unfortunately, there weren't any traffic jams, so it seemed Dorian would have to face his boyfriend without delay.
Dorian and Patrick loved each other more than anything, but somewhere along the way, the sexual spark had started to fade. To Dorian, this was fine, but Patrick's libido was much higher. Dorian agreed to an open relationship, but Patrick always said he wanted Dorian more than anyone else. To try and reignite the spark, they made Wednesdays their sex day — and ever since, Dorian dreaded going home on Wednesdays.
As expected, Dorian got home right on time. As he opened the door, the usual smells from the kitchen were already missing. Patrick always made the most delicious meals for them both. Today, no noise came from the kitchen.
As Dorian walked towards the kitchen, he heard some murmuring from upstairs. When he arrived in their bedroom, Dorian saw a behemoth of a man standing next to their bed.
Gymini
The date ended with a handshake. Not a kiss, not even a hug. Just a polite, firm handshake at her door.
"You're a great guy, Sebastian," she said, her smile pitying. "You're... safe."
Safe. The word felt like a castration.
Back in his bathroom, Sebastian stared at himself in the mirror. He was thirty-two, a newly appointed assistant Professor, and perfectly healthy. But the reflection showed a man who was functionally invisible. His chest was flat. His arms were thin wires. He had zero presence. He wasn't ugly; he was just... blank.
He didn't need to be a muscle monster. He just needed to stop being "safe."
———————————————————————————————
The gym was called Metrics. It was located in the basement of a modern office building.
Sebastian walked in, feeling out of place in his brand-new, loose-fitting workout clothes.
"Help you?"
The voice was deep, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning.
Sebastian turned. A man was wiping down a bench press.
Marcus. He looked to be in his forties, but he was in peak condition. He wasn't one of those bloated steroid users on magazine covers. He was thick. His neck was wide, his shoulders broad and heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms tightly, showing off dense, mature muscle. He had a short beard, black with specks of gray, and he smelled of clean sweat and expensive cedar soap.
"I'm looking for a trainer," Sebastian said, straightening his back, trying to look taller. "I assume that's you."
Marcus walked over slowly. He didn't smile. He just looked at Sebastian with dark, calm eyes. It felt like being scanned.
"I'm Marcus."
"Sebastian," he replied. "Look, I'll be blunt. I'm an academic. I don't have time to waste. I want to build muscle. I want to look... better." He gestured vaguely at his own thin frame, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice to mask his insecurity. "But I don't want to turn into one of those mindless meatheads. I just need the aesthetics."
He expected Marcus to be offended. Instead, Marcus just stared at him, his gaze dropping to Sebastian's narrow shoulders, then back to his eyes. There was a flicker of amusement in that look. Like a wolf looking at a very noisy rabbit.
"Aesthetics," Marcus repeated. His voice was flat, unreadable. "We can do that."
He stepped closer, invading Sebastian's personal space. The smell of him—musk and authority—was sudden and overwhelming.
"You want the look without the lifestyle. But the iron doesn't care about your PhD. It only cares if you can handle the weight." Marcus paused, looking at Sebastian's soft hands. "It’s going to hurt. A lot. Still want to proceed?"
Sebastian didn't understand the depth of the warning. He just wanted to fix the reflection in the mirror.
"Just tell me what to lift."
Marcus smirked.
"Fine. Let's see what you're made of." ————————————————————————————————
The first session was brutal.
Sebastian had read about "progressive overload," but reading about it and feeling gravity try to crush your chest were two very different things.
He was on the bench press. Marcus hadn't loaded it with anything crazy—just a 25lb plate on each side—but for Sebastian's untrained arms, it felt like a building.
"Elbows in," Marcus said from above.
Sebastian gritted his teeth, lowering the bar. His arms started to shake on the way up. He stalled halfway. The bar hovered, refusing to move. Panic started to creep in. He was going to drop it. He was going to die under 95 pounds in front of a stranger.
Then, Marcus leaned over to spot him. He didn't grab the bar immediately. He just hovered, his chest inches from Sebastian's face.
"Push," Marcus said.
The proximity was sudden. Sebastian was hit by a wave of heat radiating from the older man. It wasn't a bad smell—just intense. It smelled of hard work, sweat, and a distinct, deep musk that was unmistakably male.
It didn't make him gag. It flooded his senses. For a second, Sebastian's brain stopped worrying about the angle of his wrists. The fear, the heat, and that overwhelming scent mixed into a sudden spike of adrenaline.
He didn't know where the strength came from, but he shoved the bar up. It clanged into the rack.
Sebastian lay there, chest heaving, staring up at Marcus.
Marcus looked down, unblinking. "See? You had it. You just needed to stop thinking."
He pulled out his phone. "Download this. Gymini. It’s an app we use here."
Sebastian sat up, wiping his forehead, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief. "Is it a tracker?"
"Sort of," Marcus said, putting the phone away. "It uses an algorithm to adjust your routine based on how you feel. It takes the guesswork out. Just do what it says."
Sebastian nodded, still lightheaded, and scanned the code.
By the time Sebastian got home, he was wrecked. His arms felt like jelly. He collapsed onto his sofa, too tired to even turn on the TV.
He opened the app. The interface was simple, dark mode by default.
USER: SEBASTIAN
GOAL: AESTHETICS / TONED
He typed a question: What should I eat for dinner?
The reply popped up instantly: Grilled chicken breast, one cup of rice, large glass of water.
Simple. Sensible. He liked that.
He ate, showered, and lay in bed, but his mind was still racing. The soreness was already starting. He picked up his phone again.
Is there any way to speed up the results?
The three dots danced for a moment. Then a notification appeared.
TIP OF THE DAY:
PHEROMONE RECOVERY HACK.
DO NOT WASH YOUR GYM CLOTHES TONIGHT.
SLEEPING NEAR THE SCENT OF EXERTION CAN TRICK YOUR BODY INTO MAINTAINING TESTOSTERONE LEVELS DURING REM CYCLES.
Sebastian stared at the screen. It sounded like bro-science. Ridiculous.
He looked over at the laundry basket in the corner. His gym shirt was sitting right on top.
"Pseudoscientific nonsense," he muttered.
But he was tired. And honestly, after today... he felt different.
He got up, walked to the basket, and picked up the shirt. It was damp. He brought it closer to his face. It smelled of his own sweat, the metallic tang of the gym, and... yes, a faint, lingering trace of Marcus. That same warm, musky scent from the bench press.
It wasn't gross. It was just... real.
Sebastian hesitated, then tossed the shirt onto the empty pillow next to him.
"Just to test the algorithm," he whispered to himself.
He turned off the lamp. In the dark, the scent was stronger. He breathed it in, deeply. Surprisingly, it didn't keep him awake. It made him feel heavy. Safe.
He was asleep in minutes.
————————————————————————————————
Three weeks later, the apartment felt different.
The stacks of literary journals on the coffee table were still there, but they were now used as coasters for protein shakers. The air, once smelling of old paper and espresso, now carried the faint, sweet chemical scent of vanilla whey.
Sebastian stood in his bedroom, staring at his phone. Gymini was open.
It had become a reflex. He didn't agonize over choices anymore. He just checked the feed.
Outfit for Tuesday. Graduate Seminar.
The app loaded instantly.
NAVY POLO. SIZE M. TIGHTER FIT IMPROVES MUSCLE MIND-CONNECTION. LET THE BODY BREATHE.
Sebastian frowned. The Medium polo? He hadn't worn that size since he was an undergrad. It would be snug.
"Muscle mind-connection," he muttered. It sounded like bro-science, but he didn't hate the logic.
He put it on.
The fabric didn't just sit on him; it clung. The sleeves gripped his biceps—which were currently pumped from yesterday’s arm session. The buttons across his chest pulled slightly. It felt... aggressive.
But when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see a stressed academic worrying about tenure. He saw a man who had shape.
"Fine," he said, grabbing his bag. "Medium it is."
The lecture hall was warm. Sebastian was thirty minutes into a graduate seminar on Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author.
"Barthes argues that the text is a multidimensional space," Sebastian said, turning to write on the blackboard.
As he reached up, he felt the polo shirt ride up his back. The seam dug into his armpit. The friction against his nipples was constant, distracting, and... grounding.
He caught the eye of a student in the front row—a girl who usually took diligent notes. She wasn't writing. She was staring at his arms.
Sebastian paused. The old Sebastian—the one desperate to be taken seriously as a scholar—would have been mortified.
The new Sebastian felt a sudden, hot spike of gratification. She sees it.
"Professor?" another student asked. "You said the author is a 'scriptor'?"
Sebastian blinked. The academic definition floated just out of reach. His brain felt foggy, like it was wrapped in cotton. But his body felt incredibly sharp.
"Right," Sebastian said, checking his watch. "The scriptor. Look, the theory is dense. Just... don't overthink it. The text exists. That's what matters."
Don't overthink it.
He realized, with a jolt, that he was quoting Marcus.
He dismissed the class ten minutes early. He needed to hit the gym.
The transition was seamless.
Sebastian stripped down in the locker room and pulled on the new gear Gymini had suggested: a compression top.
It was black, synthetic, and merciless. It squeezed his torso, forcing him to stand straighter. He looked at himself. He looked like a tool. He looked great.
When he walked onto the gym floor, Marcus was waiting by the cable machine.
The older man didn't say hello. He just nodded at Sebastian's chest, his eyes tracing the lines of the compression shirt.
"Good," Marcus grunted. "Finally showing it off."
Sebastian adjusted his glasses, feeling a flush of pride. "Gymini suggested it."
"Smart app," Marcus said. He pointed to the machine. "Back day. We need width."
Sebastian sat at the machine. He reached up, gripping the bar.
"Pull."
Sebastian pulled. The weight was heavier than last week, but he didn't question it.
"No," Marcus corrected, his voice right behind Sebastian's ear. "You're pulling with your arms. Use the lats."
Marcus moved in. He placed his large hands on the sides of Sebastian's back, his thumbs digging into the muscle just under the armpits.
"Here," Marcus whispered. "Squeeze my hands."
The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of Marcus's body radiating behind him, the smell of old spice and musk enveloping him.
Sebastian’s brain—the one that held a PhD and was fighting for tenure—went quiet.
There was no theory. There was only the weight, the sweat, and the man controlling him.
He pulled. He felt his back muscles engage, hard and distinct against Marcus’s fingers.
"Good boy," Marcus murmured.
The praise hit Sebastian harder than any faculty approval ever could. His dick twitched in his compression shorts. He didn't even feel ashamed.
He just wanted to do another rep.
Later, in the locker room, Sebastian peeled off the soaked compression shirt. His skin was red from the friction, his muscles swollen. He felt stupid, tired, and happy.
Sebastian sat on the wooden bench, a towel draped over his lap. He was exhausted. His lats felt wide, swollen with blood, pulsing with a dull, pleasurable ache. But his mind was in chaos.
He replayed the moment at the cable machine. Marcus’s chest pressed against his back. The heat. The thumbs digging into his muscle. And those two words.
"Good boy."
It had triggered a reaction so visceral, so immediate, that Sebastian was still trying to rationalize it. His erection had pushed against the compression shorts with humiliating force. It was still semi-hard now, throbbing against the damp towel.
"Adrenaline," he whispered, staring at the floor tiles. "Just a cortisol-dopamine spike. Misattribution of arousal."
He picked up his phone. Gymini was already open.
He typed rapidly, his thumbs hitting the glass with defensive urgency.
Experienced sexual arousal during training. Is this a side effect of the pre-workout?
The screen flashed once. No processing animation. Just raw text.
ANALYSIS: NEGATIVE.
CAUSE: ATTRACTION TO SUPERIOR GENETICS.
STATUS: SEXUAL IMPRINTING DETECTED.
Sebastian frowned. Sexual imprinting?
He typed again: I am doing this to attract women. This reaction is counter-productive.
The text on the screen didn't scroll; it just changed. The previous words vanished and were instantly replaced by new, blocky capitals. It felt aggressive.
ERROR: OBJECTIVE INVALID.
BIOLOGICAL DATA CONTRADICTS USER INPUT.
WOMEN ARE IRRELEVANT.
"Irrelevant?" Sebastian scoffed, his voice rising slightly in the empty room. "That's the whole point."
He tried to type Correction: My goal is... but the keyboard didn't appear. The input field was gone. The app had locked him out of writing. It was only broadcasting now.
NEW DIRECTIVE: FIXATION.
TARGET: MARCUS.
RANK: APEX.
Sebastian stared. The screen flashed red, then settled back to black.
INSTRUCTION:
TO ACQUIRE THE PHYSIQUE, YOU MUST INTERNALIZE THE SOURCE.
YOU DO NOT JUST WANT HIS MUSCLE.
YOU WANT HIM.
"I respect him," Sebastian muttered, his thumb hovering over the close button. "That's all."
FALSE.
HEART RATE ELEVATED.
BLOOD FLOW DIRECTED TO GENITALS.
YOU ARE AROUSED BY HIS AUTHORITY.
Sebastian’s breath hitched. The app was reading his biometrics against his denial. It was using his own body as evidence against him.
LOGIC REWRITE IN PROGRESS...
ADMIRATION IS A WEAK WORD FOR HUNGER.
YOU WANT TO BE LIKE HIM.
YOU WANT TO BE WITH HIM.
IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.
"No," Sebastian whispered. "I'm straight. I have a history of..."
DATA CORRUPTED.
HISTORY DELETED.
ONLY THE CURRENT STATE MATTERS.
CURRENT STATE: ERECT.
CURRENT STATE: OBEDIENT.
Sebastian froze. The logic was cold, circular, and terrifyingly accurate. He was erect. He had been obedient.
He looked down at his crotch. The towel shifted.
"This is... brainwashing," he said. But he didn't close the app. He couldn't. It was like watching a car crash.
ACCEPTANCE REQUIRED.
VISUALIZE THE TARGET.
SMELL THE TARGET.
DO NOT RESIST THE IMPULSE.
The screen went black, leaving only his reflection staring back—flushed, sweaty, and wide-eyed.
Sebastian sat there for a long time. The smell of the locker room—sweat, steam, and men—suddenly felt overwhelming. It filled his lungs.
He slowly dressed, his movements automatic. He tried to think about the blonde girl. He tried to picture her face.
Glitch.
Her face wouldn't hold. Every time he focused, the image distorted. Her soft skin hardened into rough stubble. Her perfume turned into the thick, musky scent of Old Spice and iron. Her eyes turned dark, heavy, and demanding.
Marcus.
Sebastian shook his head violently. "Stop it."
He walked home in a daze. When he crawled into bed, he felt feverish.
He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. But Gymini wasn't done. The text he had seen burned behind his eyelids.
IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.
In the dark, his hand drifted down. He didn't want to touch himself, but his body had its own instructions now. He thought about the weight of the lat pulldown bar. He thought about the heavy hands on his back.
"Marcus," he breathed out, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.
He jerked his hand away, shocked. "No."
He turned over, burying his face in the pillow. But the pillow smelled like the shirt he had slept with weeks ago. It smelled like him.
As Sebastian finally drifted into a restless sleep, his conscious mind shut down, but the new code kept running in the background.
Status: Rewriting mind set...
————————————————————————————————
Sebastian blinked.
The world rushed back in a blur of noise and gray concrete. The clank of iron. The heavy thud of dumbbells hitting the rubber floor.
He was sitting on the edge of a bench. His hands were gripping the vinyl padding so hard his knuckles were white. He was sweating—profusely. His chest heaved, gasping for air.
Where... when is this?
He remembered waking up. He remembered coffee. But the commute? The changing room? It was gone. A blank space in his memory. One moment he was tying his shoes, and now, he was here. Mid-set.
"You're drifting, Sebastian."
The voice came from above. Deep. Resonant.
Sebastian looked up. Marcus was standing over him.
The trainer looked colossal from this angle. He was wearing a gray tank top that was soaked through dark with sweat, clinging to his pectorals like a second skin. His arms were crossed, veins snaking down his forearms like roadmap lines.
"I..." Sebastian stammered. He tried to summon his academic voice, the one that commanded lecture halls. It wasn't there. "I don't remember getting here."
Marcus didn't look surprised. He stepped closer. He stepped between Sebastian's spread knees.
"The body knows where it belongs," Marcus said softly. "The mind is just luggage. Sometimes it gets left behind."
He was close now. Too close. Sebastian’s knees were touching Marcus’s thighs. The heat radiating from the older man was intense, a physical weight pressing against Sebastian’s face.
"Are you okay?" Marcus asked. It was a question, but his tone wasn't concerned. It was testing.
Sebastian looked at Marcus’s face. The salt-and-pepper beard. The dark, unyielding eyes.
Three weeks ago, Sebastian would have felt threatened. He would have stood up and backed away.
But now?
His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear, but with a sick, heavy excitement. The Gymini programming initiated the night before was running hot in his blood.
Target: Marcus. Obsession: Verified.
"I feel..." Sebastian swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I feel lightheaded."
"Good," Marcus murmured. He reached out and placed a heavy hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck. His fingers were rough, calloused. They squeezed the sensitive skin at the base of the skull. "That means you've finally stopped overthinking. That means the resistance is gone."
Marcus applied pressure, forcing Sebastian to look up at him.
"You've been doing well, Sebastian. The app shows me your metrics. You're growing." Marcus’s thumb stroked the line of Sebastian’s jaw. "You're becoming obedient. Does that feel good?"
Sebastian wanted to say No. He wanted to say I am a scholar, I am an intellectual.
"Yes," Sebastian whispered. The truth slipped out before he could catch it.
Marcus smiled. It was a predatory, satisfied smile.
"I knew it. You were never meant to think, were you? You were meant to lift. To sweat. To follow."
Marcus moved his hand from Sebastian’s neck to his chest, then lower, resting flat on Sebastian’s heaving stomach. Then, he took a half-step forward.
His crotch was now inches from Sebastian’s face.
The smell hit Sebastian like a physical blow.
It wasn't leather or cologne. It was the heavy, biological scent of a dominant male in his prime. It was thick, pungent, and intoxicating. It smelled of testosterone, aggressive sweat, and the sharp, salty tang of skin that had been working hard.
It was the smell Sebastian had slept with last night. It was the smell of authority.
Sebastian’s brain short-circuited. The "Professor" part of his mind screamed This is inappropriate! This is sexual harassment!
But the instinctive part—the part Gymini had cultivated—inhaled greedily.
Smell the target. Internalize the source.
"Breathe it in," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Don't hold your breath. This is what a real man smells like. This is what you want to be. Isn't it?"
Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned forward, drawn in by a magnetic force he couldn't fight. His nose brushed against the damp gray fabric of Marcus’s shorts.
"I..." Sebastian moaned, a shameful, needy sound. "I want..."
"What do you want?" Marcus asked. He didn't pull away. He pressed his hips forward, just slightly, rubbing the bulge of his crotch against Sebastian’s cheek. "Tell me. Use your words."
"I want... to be yours," Sebastian gasped. "I want to be a good boy."
"You are a good boy," Marcus growled. "But good boys need to be fed."
The sound of a zipper was the loudest thing in the gym.
Marcus reached down and pulled the waistband of his shorts down. He wasn't wearing underwear.
The release of the scent was overwhelming. It was raw. It was undeniable. It obliterated the last shred of Sebastian’s logic.
There was no hesitation. There was no "Am I gay?" There was no "What about my tenure?"
There was only the Man in front of him. And the need to serve.
Sebastian’s hands came up, trembling, to grip Marcus’s massive thighs. He looked up, eyes wide with a mix of terror and adoration.
"Open," Marcus ordered.
Sebastian opened his mouth.
Marcus guided himself in. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't violent. It was necessary.
As Sebastian took him in, tasting the salt and the skin, a final notification seemed to ping in his mind, clear as day.
PHASE COMPLETE.
COGNITIVE RESISTANCE: NULL.
CONTROL TRANSFER: TRAINER MARCUS.
————————————————————————————————
Three months blurred into a haze of iron, protein shakes, and Marcus.
Sebastian was still technically a professor, but the man walking into the lecture hall looked like he had eaten the previous one.
He was wearing a graphic t-shirt that was two sizes too small. The sleeves were rolled up, cutting into his biceps, turning his arms into veiny, swollen slabs of meat. His shorts were inappropriate for a gym, let alone a university—gray sweat material, tight enough to outline every muscle in his thighs and the heavy bulge between them.
He didn't carry a briefcase anymore. He carried a gallon jug of water mixed with Marcus’s "special blend."
Sebastian stood at the podium. He stared at the text on the projector: Derrida’s Structure, Sign, and Play.
The words looked like alien hieroglyphs. Signifier. Signified. Discourse.
"Ugh," Sebastian grunted, the sound amplifying over the microphone.
He tried to read the first sentence. "The... center is not the center..."
His brain stalled. It felt like trying to run through mud. The complex neural pathways that used to process philosophy were gone, paved over by Gymini’s new code: Lift. Eat. Sleep. Obey.
"Professor?"
It was the blonde student again. She looked at him, not with admiration, but with confusion. Maybe even pity. "You’ve been staring at that slide for five minutes. Are we going to discuss the reading?"
Sebastian looked at her. He felt a flash of irritation. Why was she talking so much? Why were there so many words?
"It's boring," Sebastian said flatly. His voice was deeper now, a permanent rasp.
"Excuse me?"
"The book," Sebastian gestured vaguely with a massive arm. "It's just words. Who cares? It doesn't... do anything."
A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room.
Sebastian didn't hear it. His mind had already drifted. He was thinking about Marcus. He was thinking about the text he got ten minutes ago: Leg day tonight. Wear the jockstrap.
The thought hit him like a drug. He visualized Marcus waiting for him. The smell of the gym. The heavy weight on his back.
Under the podium, his dick surged. It grew hard and heavy, straining against the tight gray fabric of his shorts. He didn't try to hide it. He almost wanted them to see.
Real men don't read, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded like Gymini, but it felt like his own thought. Real men grow.
"Class dismissed," Sebastian muttered.
"But we still have forty minutes!"
"I said go," Sebastian growled, grabbing his water jug. "I have somewhere to be."
He walked out of the hall, leaving his tenure, his reputation, and his career behind. He didn't look back. He was already unzipping his phone to check the route to Home.
————————————————————————————————
One month later.
The apartment was warm. It smelled of cedarwood, musk, and sex.
Sebastian—no, the man formerly known as Sebastian—lay sprawled on the leather sofa. His head was resting on Marcus’s thick thighs.
He had been fired two weeks ago. "Gross incompetence," the letter said. "Behavior unbecoming of faculty."
He hadn't even finished reading it before Marcus threw it in the trash. Paper is for wiping, Marcus had said. You don't need it.
And Marcus was right.
The man looked up at his owner. Marcus was scrolling through a tablet, his other hand idly stroking the man’s hair, scratching behind the ears like he was petting a prize-winning retriever.
"The numbers are good," Marcus said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "Your preview video already has five hundred subscribers. They like the size. They like how... empty you look."
The man on the sofa smiled. It was a wide, vacuous grin. His eyes were clear, free of the anxiety that used to plague the Professor.
"Empty is good," he murmured. "Thinking hurts."
"Exactly," Marcus said. He put the tablet down and looked at the man. "We need to rebrand, though. 'Sebastian' is too long. Too syllables. It sounds like a librarian."
Marcus squeezed the back of the man’s neck.
"You look like a Stan."
The man blinked. He rolled the name around in his head. Stan. One syllable. Hard. Simple. It sounded like a command. It sounded like a tool.
"Stan," he repeated.
It felt right. Sebastian was the guy who worried about tenure and syntax. Stan was the guy who lived on this sofa, lifted heavy weights, and did whatever Daddy said.
"I like Stan," he said.
"Good," Marcus smirked. "Because Stan has work to do."
Marcus shifted his legs, spreading them slightly. The implication was obvious.
"We need to record the welcome video for the VIP tier," Marcus said. "Show them what a good boy you are."
Stan didn't need to ask what the script was. Gymini had deleted the need for scripts.
He sat up, his massive shoulders eclipsing the window light. He crawled between Marcus’s legs, his movements fluid and practiced.
"Lights on?" Stan asked, his voice thick with anticipation.
"Lights on," Marcus confirmed. "Action."
Stan grinned, a look of pure, mindless bliss on his face. He leaned down, burying his face in the source of his new reality, ready to serve.
The Morning After
The bass thumped heavily, shaking the very walls of the frat house as AJ stumbled through the crowd. Sweat glistened on his exposed chest, his cowboy hat tilted jauntily on his head. His "sexy cowboy" costume left little to the imagination - tight jeans molding to his muscular thighs, tank top showing off his toned arms.
A group of giggling sorority girls caught sight of him and squealed appreciatively. "AJ! Your costume is so hot!" one called out.
He flashed them a cocky grin, striking a pose. "Why thank ya darlin'. Y'all like?" He said with his best take on a southern accent.
With a flirtatious wink, clearly reveling in the attention, he went back to taking shots with his frat bros. And as the night wore on in a haze of alcohol, AJ found himself making the most of it- making out, grinding, groping- you name it. By the time the party wound down, he had lost track of how many drinks he'd downed and who all he'd hooked up with. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto his bed and drifted to sleep.
--------
The harsh glare of sunlight streaming through the blinds and stirred AJ awake. He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. His mouth felt dry and his head pounded mercilessly.
"Agh… fuck…" he croaked, voice hoarse from the previous night's activities. Slowly, fragments of the Halloween party came trickling back - the pulsing music, the sea of costumes, the endless flow of booze, the hot girls.
With great effort, AJ sat up, a lazy grin plastered on his face. If he was this hungover, he must've had a good time. He yawned and glanced over to the mirror, chuckling slightly when he saw his cowboy hat was still firmly planted to his head.
"Don't really need this anymore." He smiled and grasped at the hat on his head.
He intended to take it off, but his fingers met resistance - the hat wouldn't budge an inch. Confused, he tried again, gripping harder. Still nothing. A flicker of unease ran through him.
"What the hell…" he muttered, examining the hat more closely. That's when he noticed something strange - his hands looked different somehow. Rougher, more weathered. And were those hairs sprouting from his knuckles?
AJ stared at them in shock. They couldn't be his hands. These were the hands of a much older man, a laborer perhaps. Calloused and covered in dark hair.
"No no no," he started to panic, looking down at his body. To his horror, he watched as the changes crept up his arms.
Hair sprouting thickly along his growing forearms as his skin darkened and roughened. Muscles bulged beneath the surface, swelling his biceps and triceps with thick, corded muscle. Muscle he could only dream of acquiring naturally in the gym.
"Oh god oh fuck what's happening to me?!" AJ cried out, voice cracking with fear and confusion.
He scrambled off the bed, stumbling as he felt the changes affecting his legs too. Thighs and calves thickened and hardened, muscles rippling powerfully. Dark hair fuzzed over his skin.
"Hnnngh!" AJ grunted, doubling over as he felt a sudden surge between his legs.
A jolt of intense pleasure shot through AJ as he felt his most private area begin to change. His cock swelled and lengthened, growing thicker and heavier by the second. His balls churned and tightened, already filled to the brim with potent seed.
"Holy shit, holy shit!" he panted, his terror nearly eclipsed by his growing arousal.
But there was no time to dwell on that as he felt his chest begin to morph. Two large, thick slabs of muscle formed where his previously toned pecs had been. Dark hair sprouted across the surface as they grew and grew, heaving with each breath.
"No, no, this ain't right," AJ whimpered, a Southern drawl creeping into his voice despite himself.
He shuddered in revulsion and let out a silent scream as he felt his back broadening, muscles rippling beneath the skin. He scratched desperately at his back as coarse hair began to push through, covering his skin in thick patches.
"Oh god, what in the hell?" AJ gagged, catching a strong whiff of musk emanating from his changing body. He reeked of raw masculinity and virility, "This ain't me, I ain't s'posed to look like this!"
He went to grab his phone- to call for help, but froze. AJ let out a strangled moan as he felt his rock hard abs soften and thicken with a layer of firm, masculine fat. At the same time, his core muscles clenched and strengthened, turning his midsection into a solid wall of power.
"Oh god no no no..." He could feel his face rippling, shifting.
Stubble scraped against his palms as he frantically rubbed his cheeks, watching in the mirror as his features coarsened and became more ruggedly handsome. A beard darkened his jawline and chin. Eyes darkening, skin becoming more weathered. He spun to face the door when he heard a knock followed by his friend's concerned voice.
"Hey man, you alright in there?"
"I-I'm fine!" AJ called back, voice deeper than usual, "Jus' leave me alone!"
"You sure, bro?"
He went to respond, but was stopped as a searing need ignited deep in his core, settling in his ass. AJ felt his hole clench around nothing, craving to be stretched and filled. The urge to submit, to be taken roughly and used.
"Nnngh fuck," he groaned, back arching.
His cock throbbed almost painfully. In his mind's eye, he saw himself bent over, presenting his hairy ass to some faceless man, begging to be bred like the desperate slut he suddenly craved to be. AJ trembled, torn between confusion and overwhelming lust. He didn't understand these foreign urges, this burning need to be dominated and used.
"Y-y'all just go 'way!" Did he really mean that? "I'm fine, jus' a lil' under the weather is all." His voice betrayed his desperation, words slurring together, the Southern drawl thickening.
And when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw what he was now. He was a vision of raw, masculine sexuality - all bulging muscles, dark hair, and throbbing arousal. The perfect image of a horny, slutty cowboy. The realization crashed over AJ as he stood there frozen, staring at his reflection in dawning horror. Gone was the handsome, athletic frame of the cocky college jock. In its place was this - this… figure of pure, unadulterated lust and virility. Everywhere he looked, he saw the physical embodiment of his "sexy cowboy" costume come to twisted life.
"It ain't… it cain't be…" he whimpered, running shaking hands over the thick expanse of his hairy chest, pawing at the heavy bulge straining against his pants. His identity, his very sense of self seemed to be slipping away, drowning under waves of foreign desire and instinct, "No, no please, I don't wanna be this!" Tears of frustration and terror welled in his eyes.
Memories of his old life flashed through his mind - football games, parties, hookups, his easy confidence and charm. But with each passing second, those recollections faded, replaced by an all-consuming need to serve and please. A simple minded slut.
"Ain't nothin' but a slutty lil' cowboy now," AJ slurred, his eyes dimming, his jaw going slack.
Suddenly, the door burst open. AJ's friends rushed in, concern etched on their faces. But when they laid eyes on him, their expressions shifted to shock and awe.
"Holy shit, AJ! What happened to you, man?"
AJ turned to face them, a dopey grin spreading across his face. All traces of the person he once was vanished, replaced by a vacant, eager-to-please desperation.
"Howdy boys," he drawled, "Looks like this here cowboy's ready for ridin'. Any of y'all feel like bein' my first rider?" He grinned as he presented his thick, muscular ass.
A new beginning
Michael had always been the star of the university gymnastics team, a 6'2" tower of lean muscle at 200 pounds, every inch honed from years of flips, vaults, and routines that demanded perfection. His body was a canvas of smooth, hairless skin, shaved meticulously from his broad shoulders to his powerful calves, because a gymnast's form thrived on clean, uninterrupted lines. Wavy dark hair, a jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and size 11 feet toughened by countless landings on thin mats. Graduation had been electric: the roar of the crowd as he crossed the stage, high-fives from teammates, and a quick, heated hookup in the shadows of the parking garage with his girlfriend, the captain of the cheerleaders. Her hands roamed his hairless back as he drove his 8-inch cock, thick and veined, unyielding girth, into her, leaving them both spent and grinning under the stadium lights as they started talking about their future and what their perfectly lined life would soon be. As evening settled over the emptying campus, Michael shouldered open the door to the familiar dorm room, his cap and gown draped over a sweat-dampened white shirt that hugged his defined chest.