i’m scared to check my screen time, i know its bad..
i used to pride myself with the fact that i dont have any vices; no alcohol, no cigarettes, no drugs. hell, i don’t even drink coffee. yet, i find myself so attached to this black rectangle because my brain likes 15 second reel stimuli. im rotting away like a zombie to a black rectangle.
it’s a shame because i’m too talented for this. i love to draw, sew, bake, and so much more. i shouldn’t spend my time wasting away, turning seconds into hours, hours into days.
i tried to delete the apps before but that’s deprivation, not self control. i want to have all these temptations on my phone and not touch any of them. i’m starting that journey with this blog. i’m gonna start recording my thoughts, hobbies and interests on here for anyone to see (but it’s gonna really be all for me :p)
this is my main social media from now on, i hope i won’t forget to post
Mi spaventa cambiare tanto da non sapere riconoscere più me stessa: lasciar indietro troppo della vecchia me.
Mi manca la vecchia me, e il mio dare importanza a tutto, a pensare costantemente in modo profondo e attribuire dei veri significati alle cose.
Quell’innocenza e allo stesso tempo profondità stanno svanendo: sono tutta disincantato e speranze grigie oramai , forse sto cominciando a comprendere davvero lo schifo che ci circonda e me lo faccio andar bene come tutti quanti gli altri .
Non credo che soffrirei così tanto se fossi diversa come dico, probabilmente in fondo sono sempre io: solo consapevole dell’orrendo tempo in cui sono collocata e del peccatore mondo umano, il che è peggio per il mio cuore ancora incantato d’amore.
maybe a story where the nerdy stepson returns home from college and becomes his exjock stepdads dick. Your dick tf stories are the best!
Certainly a longer one but I personally had fun with this! Made some creative choices that differ only somewhat from the initial request. Enjoy!
I enjoy mornings like this now even more. Sipping on my coffee, lounging around, feeling my throbbing cock against my thigh. Fuck... Look at that thing.
It’s been so much quieter in the house. That was maybe one of the first things I noticed, and god, it's peaceful. No heavy footsteps on the stairs, no slammed doors, no attitude.
"Look at you." I can't help but appreciate the sight of my fat cock resting against my thigh, "Fuck..."
I shift my weight in the leather chair, and the tight spandex pinches just right, sending a white-hot jolt straight up my spine.
"God, yes," I mutter, my hand dropping naturally down to wrap around the thick, hot base.
My dick twitches instantly beneath my palm, lengthening and swelling with a heavy throb as clear pre-cum slips from the slit to smear against my thigh.
"Still leaking?" I chuckle, giving my thick shaft a slow, firm squeeze. "You can't even wait five minutes, can you?"
My cock responds with another hard pulse, swelling thicker in my fist as if drinking in the praise.
"I never thought..." I breathe out, my eyes rolling back as I stroke myself once, twice, feeling the heavy, slick slide of skin, "...I'd ever be this lucky. I never thought I'd have a piece of meat this big just waiting to be played with every single day."
I pump a little faster, letting out a sharp groan as my hips buck. The tight fabric strains against the impossible size of my dick, leaking more and more with every stroke.
"That's it," I whisper, teasing the swollen head with my thumb, "Just... just like that..."
It's hard to remember now, looking back, that my cock used to be a person who walked through that front door like he owned the place.
I can still picture the moment he walked through that front door for summer break, dropping his duffel bag by the coat rack with a careless thud. Twenty-one, broad-shouldered, and entirely wrapped up in his phone screen.
"Hey, Mark," he snapped out, flat and dismissive.
Always Mark. A reminder that I wasn't his father. Whenever I tried to talk to him, he’d just roll his eyes, flash a cold smirk, and brush past me like a piece of cheap furniture, too busy texting his frat buddies to notice the guy paying the mortgage.
"Hey Leo, good drive?" I asked.
"Yeah, fine," he muttered, "Gotta unpack. Meeting some of the guys in twenty."
"Right," I said smoothly, my blood simmering. "My mistake. Go unpack. Wouldn't want to keep your friends waiting."
He rolled his eyes, clearly dismissing me, "Whatever. See ya later."
"Take your time," I murmured, watching him take the stairs two at a time, "We've got all summer to catch up."
He had no idea. He just thought he was home to ignore me for three months straight, totally oblivious to the Reclaiming Program pamphlet locked in my desk drawer.
I had wanted a real connection with him, back at the start. He'd get back from football practice and I'd think about my glory days. How we shared a love for the game, how we could have bonded over weights and old football highlights like real father and son. But he had zero interest in any of it. Just the guy whose money paid the bills while he lived his golden life.
But then one today, one of my old teammates mentioned the Reclaiming Program and all its promises: surging testosterone, explosive muscle development, relentless morning wood, and leaving the humiliating days of needing Viagra in the past forever. "Turn your useless son into your cock"- what a concept, right? At first I doubted it. But then, when Mikey showed up with the proof between his legs, I relented. Still, I wasn't sure it would work given Leo was just a stepson with no shared blood.
But I figured it would be worth a try...
A few days into his break, the screen door slammed shut as my step-son walked in from throwing the pigskin with some of his old high school buddies.
"Christ, it's hot out," Leo panted, dropping his cleats by the door, flushed and sweating.
I was already waiting at the counter, swirling the heavy blender pitcher.
"Rough afternoon?" I asked smoothly, pouring the shake into a tall glass.
"Felt like my arm was dead by the third route," he groaned, practically snatching it from my hand and chugging it, "Huh, this tastes good. What's in it?"
"Just a special blend of amino acids and protein," I replied, keeping my face entirely neutral as I watched him swallow the Reclaiming Protocol's special blend. "Thought you could use the edge."
Leo paused for a moment and smiled, "Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it."
Over the next few days, the routine settled into something dangerously smooth. Every afternoon after Leo came back, I'd have a shake waiting for him. I was wiping down the kitchen counter one evening when Leo wandered in, running a hand worriedly through his thick hair.
"Hey, Mark," he muttered, frowning slightly as a few stray strands came loose between his fingers. "Random question… when do guys usually start losing their hair?"
"I wouldn't worry about a few strays." I smiled.
"Yeah... I guess you're right."
Later, while Leo was out with his friends that week, I slipped into the upstairs bathroom and swapped his standard body wash with the thick, pheromone-heavy transdermal blend from the Reclaiming kit. Not long after, he returned him- his heavy footsteps trudged up the stairs. The bathroom door clicked shut, and the muffled hiss of the shower started up.
I lingered in the hallway downstairs, waiting, listening. At first, there was just the sound of water drumming against the tiles. Then...
"Ahhhh... fuck..."
I paused, leaning slightly toward the stairwell. The transdermal compounds were hitting his skin, over-sensitizing every nerve ending.
"God... what is... ahhh..."
A high, pathetic moan slipped past his lips, completely unlike his guarded, masculine tone.
"Mmm... fuck...no, I feel..." Leo whimpered aloud to the empty bathroom, his voice trembling as the suds worked deeper into his pores. Turning his skin into sensitive cock flesh. "Why does it feel like... oh god..."
Down in the hallway, I smiled.
"Everything alright up there, Leo?" I called out smoothly.
Silence hung heavy from the bathroom for a second, followed by a frantic, breathless scramble of water and a desperate, whimpering groan that he tried... and failed... to swallow down.
By the weekend, I noticed his desire to be anywhere away from me was fading. He'd follow me room to room, sit and watch TV with me... even ignored calls from his buddies.
It all culminated one humid Tuesday morning. I came down the stairs in just a loose t-shirt and boxers, grabbing my coffee mug from the counter. I noticed Leo sitting at the kitchen table, staring. His eyes locked downward, devouring the heavy, obvious bulge in my thin cotton of my boxers.
I paused, leaning casually against the counter. "Like what you see?"
Leo snapped out of it, his face flushing crimson as he stammered, caught completely red-handed. "Yes... yes, sir."
The words slipped out of his mouth before he could catch them. God, do you know how good that sounded coming from him? After all these years of him being an arrogant dumbass?
He of course, froze. Staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, horrified by his own slip of the tongue. I just held his gaze and grinned.
Later that afternoon, the cracks in his composure showed again. Passing by his half-open bedroom door upstairs, I heard him.
"No, you're not listening to me!" Leo snapped into the phone, his voice tight with rising panic. "I'm telling you, it's not just stress! My hair is literally coming out in clumps, man! And I couldn't even finish three reps on the bench today, my arms feel useless. Something is seriously wrong with me!"
I stopped in the hallway, listening to the helpless frustration in his tone, smiling to myself. He could panic to his friends all he wanted. It wasn't going to change anything.
I guess I didn't realize how far it would go until two days later. He never seemed to wear a shirt anymore, muttering about how uncomfortable clothing felt against his sensitive skin. But with that, I could see exactly what was happening to him. The muscle wasting was more clear than ever now. But that wasn't what caught me by surprise.
I had tossed my damp, heavy gym towel onto the edge of my bed before heading down to shower. When I walked back into my room to grab a fresh shirt, I caught him.
Leo was standing right in the middle of my room. Eyes glazed over as he clutched my sweaty gym towel in both hands, buried face-first into the fabric, greedily inhaling my scent with a low, desperate shudder.
"What do we have here?"
He froze, dropping the towel like it burned him, his mouth parting as excess, thick saliva slipped past his lips.
"Everything alright in here, Leo?" I asked smoothly, firmly grasping his shoulder.
The contact hit his re-wired nervous system like a live wire. Leo's eyes rolled back, his knees buckled slightly, and a devastatingly slutty, pathetic moan tore straight from his throat.
"S.sss...ssirrrr.... I....I...I...."
He tried to swallow it back, coughing weakly, more of that thick saliva sputtering from his mouth. Just a panting, soft-shouldered mess who couldn't even look me in the eye anymore.
"Shhh." I handed him the towel, "Enjoy it."
I left him shaking in my room and pulled out my phone once I was downstairs. The private club chat was buzzing as usual.
“Still breaking him in?” Gary posted around noon, tossing up a laughing emoji. “Poor kid is probably half brain-dead by now.”
“How many days has it been since you started dosing him?” Dave chimed in right after. “Has to be nearly three weeks.”
“Think that may be a record...” Gary added, dropping a string of applause icons. “Most guys would have already claimed the prize by week two. You’re really dragging this out, Mark.”
"Give him a break, this is uncharted territory. First time someone tried reclaiming their step-son."
"Come on and reclaim him already! Bruce wants to know if it works before he uses it on his step-son."
I smiled. They wouldn't have to wait much longer...
Leo, or what was left of him, came to me late one evening, entirely stripped of whatever pride he had left. I was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a glass of bourbon when he shuffled in, completely naked, his once-broad frame visibly shrunken and soft. Pronounced bald patches stark against his scalp.
"P-plea... agh, mmm..." Leo sobbed out, a wet, choking gurgle of sound, as thick, viscous streams of excess thick saliva pooled heavily in his mouth, spilling over his lower lip and dripping down his chest in long, glistening ropes.
"Can't even talk, can you?" I murmured, reaching down and pulling down my pants. "Look at what's happened to you. Are you asking for help, boy?"
Leo let out a pathetic, bubbling whine, nodding frantically as more thick fluid leaked from his parted lips, "Aghhhh, pl...pl..."
"Shhhh." I ran a slow, heavy hand down his back, the simple touch was too much for his over-sensitized skin.
A fresh, hefty wave of thick, viscous fluid surged from his mouth, overflowing past his slack lips in glistening ropes as he let out a high, vibrating moan that dissolved into a pathetic gurgle.
"That's a good boy," I murmured, my grip tightening firmly on the back of his neck. I nudged him forward, guiding his weight downward. "Show me how ready you are."
Without a single hint of protest, Leo gripped the table with his hands, and bent over right there. Presenting his ass to me and my hardening cock. That first thrust sent an electric shock that shot through my spine.
Leo's muffled, drooling cry cut off mid-gasp as the bones in his arms and legs began to buckle, softening and melting inward. I watched his deltoids and biceps flatten. His limbs shrank, pulling tight against his torso until they dissolved completely into the shifting, expanding mass of his trunk.
"Oh fuck..." I moaned, feeling as his ass fuse to the base of my cock.
His human silhouette distorted beyond all recognition, shrinking down lengthwise as his body reformed into an immense, cylinder of raw cock-meat. Veins braided themselves across his tightening skin, throbbing in a frantic, desperate rhythm that soon echoed the pounding of my own heart.
"Neeeee..... neeeeed th...this...." Those would be Leo's final words.
I watched as the bone structure of his jawline dissolved into a thick, pink cockhead. His nose flattened and vanished into the expanding flesh, and his lips parted permanently. The corners fused downward until his mouth narrowed into a gaping, glistening oval, weeping a constant, heavy stream of pre-cum.
"Oh yeah... Oh fuckkkk yeahhhh." I couldn't held but wrap my hand around my new length, "Oh fuck..."
My new dick convulsed violently at the contact, the entire length of him twitching and throbbing, a slick flood of pre-cum dripping from my new piss slit. I couldn't help it anymore... I hit my climax, pouring my hot release across the kitchen and myself with each throb.....
.......
That was just the first time of many, of course.
If you had told me a month ago how things would turn out, I probably wouldn't have believed it. But the Reclaiming Program delivers on every single promise it makes, provided you have the patience to see it through.
And as for Little Mark down there? Well... maybe not "little." I mean, just look at him! Twitching, throbbing, so fucking eager to be used. No arguments, no attitude, no slamming doors. Just pure, responsive meat that lives only to serve my pleasure whenever the mood strikes.
And speaking of when the mood strikes...I'd say Little Mark is eager for another round...
----------
If anyone wants to do a rewrite of one of my prior stories or even use a similar concept, please reach out!
Also, I borrowed the concept of "reclaiming" from Zadenight who had a few captions involving this concept!
After badgering director's to perform As You Like It for years Toby finally gets what he wanted. Well, besides his favorite part that is. Cast as a wrestler, Toby is going to steal the stage in the only way he knows how: losing himself to his role.
Don't be alarmed but this is my longest story yet! Toby's true love of theatre trickles away and fuels his quick and intense growth into the perfect wrestler. Aided by his soon to be 'best bro' Cal, singlets that never seen to fit, and waning knowledge of stagecraft Tony's trip to the ring is my favorite yet. Hope you enjoy ! -Occam
They do one Shakespeare play on mainstage every year and without fail, every year, Toby has made a case to perform his favorite play: As You Like It. And at last, at this super-senior’s absolute final chance he has convinced them to put it on.
While obviously a fan of the play, the real reason he had been pushing so hard was so he could finally embody the ever-melancholic Jacques. To give the ‘All the World’s a Stage’ speech has been a dream of his so long that it is basically always looping in his head. The casting directors are well aware its verses are engraved upon his heart.
Longingly imagining being the actor to teach those humdrum layfolk in the audience that they too are players in this farce that we call life as he walks in for his audition, Toby smirks knowing this charade is all just a frivolous formality. The cast list may as well already have his name written next to the most pensive character in the Bard’s canon.
Crossing onto the too-familiar stage, already in character, Toby performs as pitiful a bow as he can muster. Sauntering to center stage, he prepares to give a dramatic monologue before he’s interpreted by the director. House lights go on and Toby squints into the mostly empty auditorium.
“Heyyy, Toby! So sorry! We really meant to meet with you before this-”
“Oh of course Sir! I know I know, this is all just a big waste of your time, my time– Shall I instead come down there and help with casting? You know no one knows this play better than moi!”
“That won’t be necessary, in fact-”
“AH! Or better yet let me toss my audition monologue prepared to the wind. I’ll just do Jacques again, give you all a sneak peak into my stellar performances to come! *Ahem* All the-”
“Tobias! I’m sorry this is how you’re finding out but the role of Jacques will be played by a professional guest artist. I- We really did mean to tell you.”
It feels like glass physically breaks within the poor actor’s chest. “Wh- Wh- Why!? You literally know Jacques is the whole reason I’ve been trying to get this play put on by our department for years!”
The directors sit there in silence as Toby’s voice echoes through the cold room. Someone clears their throat as the exposed nerve of an actor’s shoulders quiver. Taking a beat, Toby turns away from them to collect himself. He’s not become the theatrical powerhouse he is by letting every shitty mistake made by casting turn him into a pool of tears. Squeezing back tears with nothing but force of will, Toby forces a smile back on and turns.
There’s still the jester! He can be Touchstone! He can play a clown, he’s been the go to fool for years! If you can’t go for gold you can still play its foil, he tells himself. Slowly bouncing back between his feet to work into a solid jester’s caper, Toby starts to perform his next favorite character.
“Not a problem! The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly! If you’d rather I play to type I’m more than happy-”
Looking to his audience he finds a grimace on every face.
“I’m afraid Touchstone has already been cast as well, Toby.”
“God! It’s Jacob isn’t it!? That kid can barely speak in pentameter and you’re going to let him ruin Shakespeare’s greatest fool!”
Again, hearing his shrill voice echo back, Toby just rolls his eyes and awaits whatever his obviously incompetent ex-favorite director is going to lob at him next.
“We’re doing this for your own good Toby! You’ve been in four of our annual Shakespeare selections already, and countless other productions at that. It’s time for other actors to shine and for you to, well, move on Toby.”
Chewing on his lip, the broken actor doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps he should have taken the hint the numerous times he was encouraged to put on the play himself, but producing and directing were of absolutely no interest to him. As he tells the directors presently when they suggest he work instead on the production side of this production.
“I’m an Actor, sir. If I’m alive it is to be on the stage performing. I know this play by heart and am not going to stand in the wings watching other people- some blackguards butcher lines that should be coming from mine mouth!”
Slowly starting to pace the stage, Toby wonders if they’re going to let him have any part to play. This was supposed to be his stage. His production. His proper adieu to the program before touring the nation in a company or hitting the silver screen. “I don’t suppose you have another role in mind for me?”
“Well, there’s still Charles?”
“The wrestler!? He’s in two scenes!”
“They’re the opening scenes, Toby. It’s the perfect role if you change your mind and opt to join the production side. And better yet, it should allow you to spend more time on pursuits outside of our season? Perhaps audition for other local stages?”
“I can take a hint.” He says not taking a hint, “If you want me to bring my show stopping self to this inferior role, so I shall. There are no small parts, as you’ve said to my quite lesser cohorts over the years. If Charles I am to be, I’ll be the best fucking wrestler this stage has seen!”
Leaving then and there to secure the final word, Toby flees the stage and starts scheming as to how on earth the twiggiest man in the BFA program is going to portray a brawny professional wrestler. How he’s supposed to steal the stage in a role that doesn’t even qualify as two-bit. He absolutely doesn’t want to play it for laughs, but genuinely– how is Toby supposed to portray a serious threat to their leading man?
It’s perhaps his greatest challenge yet. But Toby’s no stranger to dramaturgical difficulties, he is going to be the most convincing wrestler no matter what it takes. He already knows the book well enough to recite Charles’ lines in his sleep, now to truly embody the man. He’ll spend hours on end watching matches, live in singlets, ugh perhaps he’d even stoop to interview those dullards on the wrestling team.
In preliminary research he quickly finds the appeal of the sport. Never one for any kind of physical activity, let alone bloodsport, Toby never thought he’d be so sold on such a macho sport, forgetting just how obviously homoerotic it is. This is not the angle he’s going to take with the wrestlers themselves of course, they don’t need to know how hot he finds the whole dicks out sweaty grappling thing.
Schedule mostly vacant, Toby has more than enough time to sneak into a practice and take notes. Being the only witness to this perhaps only technically open practice of the university's wrestling team, when the athletes begin sparing their coach sidles up to the actor-brained student taking notes.
“You one of them figure drawers son? Usually y’all come as a whole class.”
“Ah! It’s a pleasure sir! No, I’m with the theatre department! Are you familiar with the Bard’s As You Like it?”
“Debard? No. Wouldn’t say I am, never heard of ‘em. Theater type ehm? Here to ogle m’boys?”
Blushing, Toby frantically waves him off, “AH! Ah Ha ha, no of course not! I’m here to learn my good sir! I’m so fortunate as to play a wrestler in our upcoming annual Shakespearean production and desire nothing more to get in the headspace of a wrestler.”
“Y’don’t say?” Scratching a few days stubble that’s thicker than most men’s beards, the coach seems to have a few gears turning. The team has gone far too long without a proper featherweight contender… Looking within this wayward thespian the coach seems something he can work with. Something he can mold. Someone he can make into a real wrestler. “Wanna learn what it’s like to wrestle, boy? How’s about you suit up and get down there.”
What a chilling idea. Little Toby amongst those sweaty behemoths. One stray elbow and he’d need to be taken out on a stretcher. And yet, this very, very simple man is right. There is no better way to become a wrestler but to wrestle. His joke of a role cannot dominate the stage without Toby throwing everything he’s got into it.
Wandering down to the only other even vaguely bookish man in the room, the equipment manager, Toby is led to a pile of haphazard singlets apparently left behind by visiting schools. “They skew large, for obvious reasons, but I’m sure we can find something small enough.”
Displacing just about the whole pile, the manager eventually digs up some long forgotten spandex that Toby will surely still be swimming in. Unwilling to strip in front of the man, he rushes to the next room to change. Giving the garment a quick sniff he can’t tell if the acrid musk he’s smelling is from the singlet’s invisible stains or just the ambient odor of the locker room.
“And you said these have all been dry cleaned yes?”
Scratching his ass, the manager certainly didn’t say this, but he’s happy enough to lie about it now. What does he care about the pipsqueak wearing some second hand shit. The baked in Test’ll probably be good for him. “Sh’yeah kid? You think I don’t know how to do my job?”
Frowning, Toby sticks his legs into the purple garment and pretends he doesn’t know what dried sweat stains feel like as he tugs the armholes over his shoulders. Still fully wearing boxers and his Julius Caesar show shirt, even this does little to fill out the too-big singlet.
“Lookin’ good. Well, good enough. Think most’ve the team has gone to weights but Coach held someone back for you.”
“Wh-no. Surely you don’t mean he intends for me to.” Do you want to think like a wrestler or not. Not particularly, but duty calls. With a gulp Toby peeks out of the locker room and sees the coach talking with a man who is at least slightly smaller than the most terrifying of his peers.
No going back now, Toby fights down mortal terror and does what he does best- Acts. “Well I say you put me in direct- coach! I’m raring to go!” Cocky smile on his face, Toby’s sure the pair staring at him with tilted heads are none the wiser to his mortal terror. When he approaches near enough the smaller man reaches out a hand to introduce himself, to which Toby only barely flinches back.
“Hey! Heard you’re interested in the team, Toby right? I’m Cal!”
At first still smiling, Toby meets his hand. Though when he feels the wrestler's rough grip he cannot hide the frown that crosses his face. It’s like sandpaper. Compared to his own soft hands, clean and maintained by rigorous routines of moisturizing, Toby can hardly believe someone willingly letting their skin devolve to such an unpleasant state.
“Oh yeah takes some getting used to,” Cal smiles awkwardly, “Shoulda warned you hah! Really makes dating hell when chicks or whatever get grossed out by your touch.”
Toby smiles awkwardly in turn, sure his tacking on that ‘or whatever’ was trying to signal something to him. Looking Cal up and down, Toby figures he could certainly do worse. But, he’s sure that the coach isn’t intending this as a meet cute. And when the burly man whistles and nods to a mat he sees Cal’s awkwardness shift to excitement. Blush remains painted on his face as he nervously messes with his hair.
“Sorry for whatever’s about to happen Tobe,” seeing his the actor start sweating bullets, Cal walks over to the ring, “Ahh don’t worry though it’ll be alright. I won’t hurtcha!”
“Right.” Toby follows suit and does his best to match the trained wrestler’s stance. As he does so one of the loose strands of his singlet falls from his narrow shoulders. Just before he can cry out to ‘wait’ the coach blows his whistle again. Any look of goodwill in Cal’s eyes fades to make way for some intense gaze of near-bloodlust.
And then he charges.
Fiddling with his singlet’s not-sleeve, by the time Toby looks up Cal is already upon him. Thouse uncomfortably rough hands grab his bony arms with the strength and precision of a machine. Hoisted into the air, the thespian feels weightless. As he’s manhandled by the man, he feels his adrenaline start to spike. He feels the very first rushing sparks of excitement course through him. He watches as the focus on Cal’s face shifts to a cocky, victorious smile. As air rushes past him their eyes meet and Toby wonders if his whole life has been leading to this. And then he’s thrown to the mat and sees nothing.
Coming to with a pounding headache in Coach’s office, Toby moans deliriously. Grabbing his pounding head, Toby mutters out a “Whuh happened?” as Coach fills out some paperwork on the desk.
“Got some sense knocked into you out there kid. Cal feels bad ‘bout the whole thing and wants to walk ya home. Chat yer ear off the whole time I’m sure.”
Woozy, Toby’s happy to hear he’s got an escort home, too out of it to wonder any more about the wrestler’s proclivities. Wobbling slightly as he stands, for a moment the actor wonders why Coach is acting so blase about giving what simply must be a concussion to a student out of his program.
And while some perceptive part of him catches the half-smile on the man’s face, notices how Coach- how the coach seems to be playing some game with him, all of a sudden Toby feels a great deal of trust for the man. Stealing one last glance at the brawny man, Toby feels with certainty that Coach knows what’s best for him. Must be the concussion.
“Cal’s running weights with some of the younger students tomorrow late morning. Be there.”
Slowly nodding at the command as he exits to greet Cal, Toby grins as he sheepishly apologizes a few times over. Taking in his meek words, Toby feels his higher functions slowly booting back up. The musclebound brute apparently has a good deal of curiosity about theatre that Toby is happy to help sate.
On their brisk walk to Toby’s apartment, the thespian teaches Cal the plot of Twelfth Night and Hamlet in between explaining why he’s so interested in wrestling in the first place. When they arrive on his doorstep, Toby finds himself all the more won over by the broad-shouldered man, and those feelings have begun to trickle into a fondness for his brutish sport.
“And uh, don’t mean to be forward or anything but uhhh? Did you want me to stay over and make sure you’re all good from that hit dude?”
“That hit? Oh shoot, uh yeah? Do you think that’d be a good idea?”
“Couldn’t hurt! And I don’t mind dude, besides, Coach said you really wanted to come train with us tomorrow so I can just take you straight there!”
Murmuring in agreement, Toby welcomes a jock he never thought he’d be caught dead with into his neat home. Crossing the threshold over a campy welcome mat, immediately does the weight of weariness come crashing down onto Toby. Forgetting the anxiety from earlier, he lazily removes his shirt and resolves to just sleep in the singlet.
It’s surprisingly comfortable, almost feels a little tighter than it did that afternoon. Strange. Turning to find Cal already at home sitting on his couch, Toby drags his feet to join him. He deliberately falls over the arms and into Cal’s lap as the athlete throws some wrestling onto the TV.
“Woahhh watch it dude, gotta be careful with your head! Don’t want to lose any of your play-smarts y’know heheh!”
Cal pointedly doesn’t touch the man whose head is resting on his thigh. But as he feels heavy sleep coming, he can’t help but smile as the man squirms under his head. Toby doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. This is insane. There’s a man who basically assaulted him sitting on his couch, watching godawful tv on his account, and for some reason Toby feels as at home as he does on stage.
Cal feels as familiar as any of his co-stars. Lulled to sleep by the warmth of his muscular thigh, the sound of men grunting as an audience cheers acts as a lullaby to the injured Toby. Rather than the glitzy lights of the stage, in dream Toby only sees the inside of the ring.
The next morning the actor awakens to Cal making liberal use of his kitchen. Steam rises from a pan and from a few plates already loaded with more meat than Toby thought he had in his fridge. Still cooking, the wrestler hears him stir and welcomes him to the new day.
“Heyyyy G’morning Tobe, hurry and load up on some protein so we can head out to the gym!”
Nodding mindlessly as he rubs sleep from his eyes and starts housing some eggs and sausage, Toby looks down and notices how his singlet is indeed closer to fitting his still-thin frame.
“I- Do I have time to take a shower Cal?”
“Before getting all sweaty dude? Nahhh, ‘s a waste of time forreal. Now shut up and eat, dude! As soon as I pack up the leftovers we’re out the door.”
Obeying his trainer apparent’s commands, Toby scarfs down the breakfast, choking out an “Unquiet meals make ill digestion, you know.” before confirming he’s quoting Shakespeare like a tic after being chided once more to fill his gob rather than chat.
When at last they beat feet and arrive at the gym, Toby finds himself experiencing meat sweats for the first time in his life. Stomach so overfull he can visibly see his stomach bloating against the hitherto limp singlet, Toby’s not sure how he’s going to move at all productively, let alone work out.
Little does he know, as soon as Cal begins instructing him any concern or discomfort melts away. Everything else fades away, including the memory that he is currently missing a class he was auditing. But that’s of no matter, theatre history can wait, he needs to think like a wrestler.
While this was ostensibly a group activity, every other wrestler seems self-sufficient so Cal is entirely focussed on the scrawny actor. Issuing orders like a drill sergeant, Cal ushers his trainee from machine to machine, from lift to lift and delights as his little pretend-wrestler sweats through a baggy tee he borrowed for a pump cover.
When at last he’s sick of the feeling of wet fabric on his back he tears it off to reveal arms that are shockingly large. Balking at the newly beefy biceps hanging where there was once but skin and bones, Cal has a hard time justifying the amassed muscle as a mere bump. Reaching over to feel the man’s sweaty, twitching arms, Cal demands he show off.
“What the fuck dude! Flex those things!”
Panting as he feels as woozy now as he did post-concussion the day before, Toby struggles to raise his arms before flexing them with a pained grunt. Corded muscle twitches through their whole length as they peak larger with each microsecond he keeps up the performance. Cal’s eyes flit to the shadows in the man’s pits as he’d swear the man was hairless yesterday, but watching as the fresh growth drips with sweat he decides ont to mention it.
“Fuck dude! This must be like a beginner’s lucky pump or something! Looking like a member of the team already!”
Rolling his eyes as he trips over to a mirror, Toby prepares to tell Cal to knock it off before throwing up another flex, for his own eyes this time. In his reflection he finds his new arms exactly as Cal described, slightly thicker even. It seems impossible. Truly muscular, sculpted arms. Ones made to manhandle. His ever overactive mind scrambles for something poetic or funny to say only to fall flat.
Beyond that, he’s at last notices how he is clearly filling out the singlet!? He can hardly believe it as it strains against the beginnings of pecs and slightly wedgies into his ass crack. Tugging down on his thighs as he sees the singlet cut into the trunks, Toby frowns at how his boxers ruin the look. Slightly tuning out Cal discussing the importance of recovery and routine, Toby pointedly sniffs the air and realizes how much of a sweat he’s worked up.
Raising one arm into a flex, he fights back a grin as it hardens and throbs to instead look at that dark patch of new growth. Must’ve been a minute since he’s waxed? Yeah, that makes sense. His other hand reaches over to feel it and for half a second he scratches the dank, itchy bush before recoiling. Something deep suggests he give the digits a sniff but he makes the slightly less uncouth decision to just wipe the sweat on his singlet.
“Yo Tobe, is that your phone?”
Returned from his delirium, Toby finds a few texts from his castmates asking where he is. It’s not like him to not be early to rehearsal. “Oh shoot! Wait Cal- I think I need to go, like now.”
Jumping into action Cal tosses him a hoodie and a slightly larger singlet. Neither man even spares half a thought to the fact his musk factory of a body is going to be rushing to a black box without showering, but the rehearsal must go on! Throwing on the baggy hoodie, unconcerned with its cleanliness as well, he shoots his fellow thespians a text saying he’s on the way before rushing out the door.
En route, he finds the idea of being late not weighing all too terribly as it did even moments ago. Texting Cal as he walks briskly, the jock does his best to shift gears back into that friendly curiosity.
yo wait dude speaking of! did u no that ten things i hate about u wth heath ledger was based of shakespear
Toby grins and rolls his eyes. He loves Cal, it’s so nice to spend time with people outside of his bubble. Literally anyone who’s spent half a second studying the Canon knows that. He begins his reply wondering how hard to go on his new friend.
Of course Cal, Ha Ha! You know I basically have a degree in this ;). Everyone knows it’s based on . . .
It’s based on? Uh..? Toby trips over his feet and stands there for a few moments. He’s absolutely blanking. Thank god it’s to Cal rather than anyone who knows better. God! What play is it based on though? He pounds his forehead with his fist assuming that’ll summon the answer. Surprisingly his memory doesn’t seem to react to brute force.
Getting another text from his director he shakes off his stupor and returns to his journey. Leaving it at the wink, he’ll just look up whatever play it was later, no tame– time to waste! Stumbling into the Fine Arts Building, Toby tugs on his hoodie to air out the singlet now stained with his own sweat.
God it’s so tight. He didn’t notice while moving, but now that he’s slowed down every seam is cutting into him. Toby’s bulkier limbs twitch as they’re off and on overtaken with pins and needles from increasingly inconsistent circulation. He knew lycra was supposed to be like a second skin but this is unpleasant, especially in his pants where his boxers really cause it to pinch.
“Toby!? Is that you?”
Looking up, Toby sees Claude, the young man cast as Orlando, the male lead. Wearing a baggy sweater and massive pants, there’s a look of amused disbelief as he holds back a giggle. “My, my! I had heard you were going method for your, abbreviated role? I certainly didn’t think you were to go this far!”
“Yeah yeah, whatever Claude. I’m sure you know this whole production’s a farce anyway, what with me cast beside- er aside.” Disrobing the already damp sweatshirt, when he unveils his newly built body, Claude is taken truly stunned.
“Oh my word!” Blushing slightly at the sightly figure, Claude opts to tease him further. “We should have had you playing brutes some time ago! And- no don’t tell me!? Is that hair? You stopped shaving your pits for this!? Ah Ha! What will that surly trade think of their little boytoy playing at being a man!”
Jaw clenching, every targeted dig flung makes his singlet all the tighter. For the first time in his life, Toby feels what can only be described as rage. Crossing his arms to hide how hard he’s tensing them, veins begin to crisscross their length as they twitch larger. Doing calf raises and flexing his thighs as he stands there and takes it, his singlet again gives him a wedgie before he switches to instead reflexively pop his pecs which sends a tear straight down the middle of his trusty singlet.
“Oh shit.”
Claude averts his eyes with a dramatic turn and gasp while Toby just nonchalantly looks down at his chest. “Fuck that’s kinda hot” he mumbles to himself before awkwardly waddling past the lead. “I gotta- I have a change of clothes, just tell the director I’ll be there in five, kay?”
Rushing as well as he’s able when every slightest movement sends another tear through this fabric designed to not tear, Claude goes to his usual changing room and locks the door as he at last bares his new body. Swearing he looks even larger than he did at the gym, his semi is just as visible in his boxers as it would be in the spandex.
No real time to lust after himself, Toby quickly gets changed, feeling the chill of this spandex unworn as it fits him like a glove. Obviously, after his previous discomfort wearing boxers underneath the singlet, he opts to go commando. Cock shame is a thing of the past, he thinks, smirking. If anyone ogles his cock that’s on them, not that he particularly minds of course. Shit he definitely would. The thought sends it throbbing one inch higher towards his belly button as he sternly tells himself to not get fully hard.
Easier said than done.
Sauntering onto the stage unembarrassed, every eye in the room is on him and his shockingly muscular form. Everyone there has seen him fully nude on stage before, that he’s somehow bulked up in less than a few days seems wrong. Convincing themselves it’s a muscle suit or the like, everyone comes to their own explanation so they can focus on their work. All ignoring the sweat dripping down the lifelike arms or the bushy garden in his pits, thankfully they’re mostly obscured by his massive biceps.
And so begins rehearsal. He’s read the play hundreds of times at this point. Not even opting to check his lines, as they run through the first scene, Toby awaits his cue and acts with aplomb.
Standing straight as he strides onto the stage, still clad in singlet as everyone else performs in their everyday clothes. “Good morrow to your Worship.” It’s such light work, he doesn’t even listen to his scene partner’s lines, simply filling in the blanks as necessary, “They say he is already in the Forest of Arden,
and a many merry men with him…” Resetting as commanded, “Marry, do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter.”
By the time their work on Scene I is done, Toby has noticed some fuzz on old Claude’s cheeks. Is he growing a beard? Rubbing his own hairless face he feels a tickle in his chest as he considers doing so himself. Awfully masculine. He really should look- He should be more masculine than that princely fraud.
Wonder what Cal would think– “Toby?”
“Huh?”
“You missed your cue.”
Oh shit. He hadn’t even noticed they moved onto the second scene. Getting on with it, he starts to notice his cheeks and jaw are suddenly itchy. It’s annoying. Almost as annoying as the fact that they’re skipping the fight for now. What the fuck is he here for if they’re skipping his big moment.
Getting worked up, his face begins to burn red as there’s almost a prickling underneath his skin. Yanking out his phone as he gets an urge to text Cal, he waves off being chewed out for being distracted before just walking off stage as his last scene ends. When asked if he’s interested in staying to help he laughs in the director’s face “If you wanted me here you’d have given me a real part, Sir.”
And with that he heads on out, excited to chat with Cal and too full of energy to sit around and watch other people act. He only takes the slightest detour towards Claude to stomp at him and fake him out, smirking as the lead flinches back. Scratching his cheek, when he leaves the theater he finds his wrestler-friend has beaten him to the punch:
heyo brobro u comin to practice today?
Man, he's so busy these days. Classes and rehearsal for theatre on top of wrestling practice and the gym? Won’t even have time to play around. His schedule’s so jam packed it’s tighter than a quick..? A quick something. Quick switch? Whatever. He again gives up on what should be the simplest of recalls to text Cal he’s on the way.
This time Coach has absolutely switched up his tune. Still gruff and brusque, when he sees Toby today there’s an unmistakable grin on his face. From afar Cal give two thumbs up with a wide smile of his own as Coach shouts, “Whooee boy! You sure are sproutin’ from Cal’s mornin’ program.”
Nodding approvingly, he pats Toby hard on the back as the younger man blushes and scratches his cheeks, peach fuzz slowly prickling thicker into stubble. On the walk over, every text back and forth with Cal seemed to darken his face with more stubbly curls. The sound of his slightly thicker digits scritching his cheeks is buried beneath Coach’s laudations as his voice drowns out everything else.
“So. Tobias. You wanna get on down there with the boys t’day?”
Arms crossed, he stares down at Toby, eyes burning embers beneath thick brows. The thespian nervously looks down at the wrestlers all going at it already as his pulse begins to accelerate. He remembers himself, he’s no wrestler. He’s a dramaturg! “Uhh no, no I really, I really- uhh?” But his heart races with excitement, he’s almost vibrating as everything within him burns.
He wants to. He needs to. More than anything. The idea of character research is little more than an afterthought as everything within him shouts he has no greater purpose right now than getting down there to spar. To show off his strength. To grapple those men and put them in their place.
Trying to shake his head no, his head instead twitches as his neck thickens. Paltry stubble crawls higher on his cheeks as it lengthens and spreads enough to be a proper beard coating his jawline. Clenched hard enough to crack his teeth as he now has to force his feet to stand in place lest he bolt, Toby feels his most bestial urges rise and rise in volume.
Who dares be more a man, is none. No that’s- that’s not the line. No matter. Blood rushes in his head, he can hear nothing but the toll of his heartbeat and the need to fight. To win. He hears Coach’s whistle blow and he charges. Cal stands there ready to catch him in the ring and in a far more level battlefield, the pair begin to wrestle.
In between lunges and grasps, Toby can’t help but notice he’s taller than Cal. He would’ve sworn he was shorter. He knew he was. He should be shorter. And then Cal punishes him for focusing on anything but the battle at hand. Arms pump larger as he strains against Cal’s strength. His chest widens as he grunts and gives everything he’s got to not go down.
Toby’s thick thighs balloon even larger as he tries to root himself in place, refusing to go down as he scowls with intense focus. And then the sound of tearing echoes in their small ring as Cal accidentally finishes the job begun by Toby’s bulking form. Surprise on Cal’s face as his hand slips away, the actor sees his chance.
Twirling around him as if in slow motion, Toby throws his arms around Cal and knocks his legs. Falling on his back, the growing man shouts for Coach to come and call it, his voice cracking deeper as he pins Cal on the ground. Sweat drips into his eyes and burns the couple new scratches on his muscular back.
One. He can’t believe he’s done it. Two. He has done it. He’s a wrestler. Three. He needs to be more.
Coach’s whistle resounds as he yanks Toby off a smugly grinning Cal. The other wrestlers break into applause witnessing Toby’s first victory, many eyes slightly confused as surely this isn't their first time seeing Toby dominate. Look at him, he took down Cal. Though perhaps not all that fair a fight given the height and weight advantage.
Helping Cal to stand, he sees the smarmy smile and wink of a man who might have let him win. “Nice beard Tobe” For a moment he has no idea what his friend’s talking about, before of course scratching his thick and sweat covered beard. The one he’s had since he could first grow one. There’s no better immediate show of masculinity and all.
“Thanks dude.” Patting Cal on the back, the pair head off to the locker room to get Toby another singlet.
“You’re really going through these things buddy!”
“Maybe if you guys got me a real uniform rather than throwing hand-me-downs at me one of them might stick.”
“Sure bro, then actually join the team.”
His mind stumbles over the thought. That’s right, he’s not actually on the team. Even if he suddenly feels like he’s been here for years he knows he hasn’t. He’s a- Uh. He’s an actor. Yeah. He shakes free from the confusion, refusing to engage as he instead just laughs at Cal’s words. Pausing at a mirror in the locker room he runs his hands down his beyond-defined abs.
Despite his newly prodigious beard and the jungle-adjacent bushes in his pits, his body is relatively hairless. Frowning at the thought, he wonders if that will change any time soon before basking in a few poses. When he catches Cal staring at him he decides to turn the tables and teases him for a change.
“See something you like there Cal?”
“Can’t blame a guy for taking in a work of art bro.”
“Ahh too kind buddy, bet you just can’t wait for me to pin you again huh?”
Cal slaps him, laughing, “Whatever dude!”
Toby’s phone vibrates in his bag. Frowning he finds a couple messages from his director, scheduling combat rehearsal and letting him know when to be ready and at the stage. He rolls his eyes and just mutes the man. They’re lucky to have him there at all. Looking to Cal as he begins showing off a handy few flexes to the mirror, even if he was consciously aware of his priorities realigning. One wonders if he would even care.
This is what it’s all about.
And so his life goes for a few weeks. Prioritizing practices over rehearsals. Going along with the mimesis of fighting rather than putting Claude in his place like he so deeply yearns. Enjoying wrestling more than he ever thought he could, flirting with Cal whenever he gets the chance. It becomes quite the routine, leaving him little time to notice as knowledge he used to consider baseline begins to seep away, replaced by new instincts and strategies for the ring.
Stumbling on free time one day, he finds himself craving an easy win and finally returns to the theatre history class he decided to audit what feels like a lifetime ago. Having already aced it he’s eager to drop in and see where they are, maybe offer some of his expertise since the pushovers in rehearsal are too stubborn to know his worth.
Arriving a couple minutes late, the professor is at first eager to see her once teacher’s pet return. Turning to greet him, she’s concerned by how deep his voice sounds, assuming he must be struck with quite the cold. After a moment of inspection, besides his bullish new size, she is taken aback by how sloppy he seems to be dressing. Once something of a fashionista, now more jock than actor, the man’s baggy clothes cling to his broad frame. While not coming from practice or the gym, the slightest sweat stains are already visibly.
“Hey! Professor, sorry I’m late!” His voice cracks deeper as his tone tinges slightly vacuous.
“Of course we’re happy to have you Toby, please find a seat! I must say you’re looking rather, uhm, jocular?”
“Right, yeah. Dunno if you heard but I’m, or I was cast as Charles in As You Like It.” He gestures with his hands, flexing reflexively which strains the seams of his already failing outfit, “Really trying to get into that Alpha headspace y’know.”
Surprised at his informality, she remains shocked at how differently her neat and cordial once-term favorite seems to be carrying himself. “Very well! Well where was I…”
The erudite professor continues lecturing on about the tradition of Greek theatre. Toby vaguely remembers enjoying the section of the course a great deal. He’s sure if it came down to it he’d remember the nitty gritty details. Still, as she drones on and on, the theoretical-thespian can’t help but get a little bored.
Despite this, when she asks a question, Toby can’t help but bolt up his hand. Some stray instinct from his know-it-all self acting with the urgency of the man in the ring, the sound of his shirt sleeve tearing can’t be ignored as a chunk of his pit fur bursts from the new hole.
“Ahh of course, you’re eager to show off for the class Toby. Well, go on! What do you think the audience of the Bacchae thought of the gruesome violence coupled with the joy of the Chorus?”
The Bacchae. Of course. Maintain composure. Toby slowly lowers his arm, keeping an air of confidence only interrupted when he accidentally elbows his seat neighbor. “Right.” He clears his throat to buy time. This should be a cakewalk, he did a presentation, staged a selection of this just last year. But for the life of him he can barely remember who or what the play’s even about.
“Of course, easy. Well we all know the Greeks loved violence right? S’why the Romans were all about it too. Why shouldn’t they love a good fight scene?”
The professor tilts her head staring, almost looking hurt as she believes Toby isn’t taking her seriously, “Ah, hm. Well, interesting supposition Toby. I was more referring to the Dionysian-”
“Dionysus, yeah! It was on the tip of my tongue.” The professor stares at him blankly causing him to blush with embarrassment before apologizing, “Sorry prof. My mind was elsewhere I guess.” Moving on and making a mental note to check on her wayward student, she focuses instead on the rest of her class.
Unable to ignore how he’s floundering, Toby does his best to hide in his seat. Difficult given he barely fits in it. Starting to nervously sweat, the stains start to grow. Trying to compact his upper body to hide from view, his legs stretch wider into his neighbor as his longer legs blatantly manspread. The poor guy next to him grimaces after taking a breath before being even further inconvenienced as Toby’s massive thigh pushes him to the side.
Still, rather than complain he leans close to the brutish actor’s ear, “Hey psst, sorr- Toby right? did you need to borrow some deodorant?”
Turning with a scowl to the weasly little nerd speaking to him, Toby feels alarm bells start to ring in his head. What is he doing here. He’s embarrassing himself. His chest prickles as his skin starts to burn. “Why don’t you mind your own business kid.” His pecs itch like something is crawling across them and his thick, clumsy hands reach to scratch it.
“Woah jeez? Hey sorry dude, I was just trying to help,” his neighbor does his best to ignore the man whose torso sized thigh is more in his space than Toby’s own. And Toby just continues scratching, reaching under his shirt he discovers the root of his burning itch. At last, his chest has started to prickle with hair.
Ignoring that upstart kid complaining about his sweat, forgetting about the professor who so embarrassed him, a grin twitches across his face as he delights in the new lengthy curls circling his nipples. Feeling thick new strands pressed into his singlet as a wide treasure trail prickles up his tight abs to meet the hopely intense growth smattering across his heavy chest.
Tight against his singlet, he feels his cock start to stir from excitement at his increasingly masculinity. Looking down at his crotch it’s thankfully obscured by the lycra if not his too-small shorts. Seeing his thick thigh pressing into his neighbors though, noticing how it seems to be the size of the little runt’s legs put together, that’s just too much. “Ahh fuck…”
“Toby? Did you need something?”
Shit. Shit. “Shit uhhh yeahh so sorry Professor, uhhh” He forgot her name, shit. “I totally have wrestling practice soon I gotta dip! I’ll uh, see you guys later!” Making no effort to obscure how he waddles as his hog of a dick starts taking blood from his brain, Toby doesn’t even look back at the classroom as he bolts from the Fine Arts building.
Annoyed with his shirt constraining his biceps, he tears it off and shoves it in his gym bag. Seeing the consistent new hairy coat on his chest does little to abate the growing issue under his singlet. Staring as it spreads further, filling the gap between his straps, Toby tugs at his shorts to try and fix the awkward situation but that only exacerbates the problem as his excitement continues to rise.
Thinking back to that twinky man who complained about him stinking, he angles his head towards the bush in one of his pits and takes a deep breath. Fuckkk he does reek. Biting his lip and feeling his facial hair scratch, Toby starts booking it home as his hips feel suddenly tighten and buck.
Sprinting as well as he’s able with a hardon like he’s never felt, he’s at least glad it’s happening now and not in the ring. Mind dancing to wrestling does little for his boner, but it does lead to his singlet getting tight elsewhere as well. Tugging on the shoulder straps as he runs, Toby feels them yank against shoulders cracking taller and a torso inching wider with gasping breath as he sprints onward.
The singlet wedges itself into his ass crack as his cheeks shake with every step, it becomes increasingly clear that he’s going to move up yet another size. He feels it strain against his thighs while inching up higher and higher as he rushes onward. So too do his actual shorts begin to tear, lighting a fire under his growing ass.
He knew he shouldn’t have borrowed clothes from Cal, for some reason nothing from his bro seems to fit anymore? Arriving at his place, Toby finds Cal is already there cooking some trademark protein-slop for the two of them. Beaming when he sees his bro, he asks how class was. “‘S been too long since you had fun with theatre stuff bro! What’d you learn.”
Toby opens his mouth to reply but finds no answer coming forth. Furrowing his heavier brow he struggles to remember, what did he learn, having already forgotten the Bacchae he opts for the most basic of stagecraft lessons. And still he fumbles.
“Uhh y’know just went over simple stuff. I really helped ‘em Like, I bet you didn’t know that to make sure it makes sense for the audience, right, they switch which one’s stage left and which one’s stage right! Like they go by what the audience sees bro!” Convinced this is accurate, his smile grows wider as he watches Cal nod and take this unfortunately incorrect information in.
Then before they can enjoy their stew-ish dinner, Toby’s phone starts going off. He silences it only for a second one to stop blaring as well. “What the…” Squinting at the phone, he starts to mute this one as well before Cal speaks up.
“Wait brobro, I think those are your As You Like It Alarms.”
“As I like what dude?”
Cal smiles, finding his bro’s stupidity and disregard charming rather than concerning. “The play Tobe,” gently pushing Toby to the door, he pats his bro on the ass to try and strike some urgency in him. “Ah and I packed some clothes from the gym in your bag in case you get too sweaty again. Now, go! And on’t worry about dinner, Imma slowcook this shit!”
Realizing he forgot to show off his chest hair to Cal when he’s about 3/4th there, Toby makes a note to do so later since it seems like he’s already late. Yanking on the door, he forgets he needs to do his ID since it’s after hours. Dutifully retrieving it from the bottom of his bag, strange even after four attempts the building refuses to yield. It’s almost as if he no longer had permissions for the building?
Whatever. He sneaks in with some little dude wearing all-black head to toe. Must be a goth, Toby figures. Making no rush, Toby strides in with pride and disregard for the rest of the production. “Worry not everyone, ol Tobe’s here,” the director calls cut from the scene they’re working on and turns to chew out an actor he used to trust implicitly.
Turning around, priorities instantly realign as he sees a man now seemingly twice as wide and infinitely hairier than the one he knew to be a leading actor. “Jesus Christ Toby!? Are you on steroids for this part or something?”
Looking gravely serious the man shakes his head, “God no! Wouldn’t dream of doing gear dude. They’d kick me off the team!”
“Th- Are you on the wrestling team?”
Rubbing the back of his neck and exposing his beyond-hairy musk traps he shoots back a “Don’t worry about it.” Scratching the same pit with his other hand, he looks deadeye at the director, “So we starting with my stuff or what?”
With a sigh he motions to set, this was all supposed to be a favor for Toby. “We were in the middle of something but I suppose we could-”
“Aces. Well I’ll be backstage listening for my cue.”
He misses it. Twice. And when he at last returns it’s beyond obvious that he’s no longer the Shakespearen scholar he once was. “Good uhhhm, day t’you mister,” Puffing out his chest he gives a nod to the audience. After being reminded he can call ‘line’ if he finds himself lacking, he does so at every turn and still manages to screw up.
“Come! Where is this young Gallons- No I swear that’s what she said!”
“Toby, is this a joke to you?”
His brow twitches, “No? I’m here aren’t I?”
“I suppose you technically are.”
“You wanted me to be a wrestler dude!”
“We wanted you to play Charles. We wanted you to- Look.”
“Can you freaking chill!?” He feels his blood start to boil. He hears the sirens that resound in his head when it’s time to fight. His arms twitch as he looks through the auditorium and sees Claude standing in a crowd of other actors. Ignoring the intrusive thought about the man’s height, how he needs to be taller, Toby stills his rage and takes a deep breath. “Sorry, s- sir. I swear I’ll get my shit together. I’ll be good for the dressing rehearsal.”
Wiping his nose with his thumb, he jumps from the stage and sits in the dark auditorium. When Claude takes the stage, despite trying to read his lines, Toby’s unable to take his eyes off him. Watching as people fawn over the man returns his heart to racing. His shoes squeak on the floor as his legs slowly stretch longer.
Staring daggers at the man, he reminds himself he didn’t even want that role, but for the life of him he can’t remember who he auditioned for. What this play even is. Didn’t he like it for some reason? A character, or..? Lost in struggling thought, the auditorium chair creaks as his back stretches taller and wider. It was like Jake or something, Jock?
Putting his all into recalling this name, sweat trickles down his brow as he tries to set his mind to anything not-physical. It just makes him want to punch a wall. Bouncing his leg as his feet start to outgrow his shoes, Toby tries to cross his arms and realizes how difficult it has become with how swollen his forearms and biceps have become, opposing an equally unyielding pec shelf.
After receiving a text from Cal, he guffaws loud enough for someone to trip on stage and shouts an apology, “Sorry gotta call someone! Don’t you worry Coach, I’ll be shipshape by game day!” And with that, the cast and crew watch as his defined ass carries him out of the theater. The director’s eye twitches, what is he supposed to do with this.
Free from the humdrum boredom of a rehearsal he’s not altogether much involved with, Toby feels the clarion call of clothes he’s about to outgrow as he feels the leg holes start to ride up and sees his package getting more and more visible. Shittt- He’s not even getting hard!
Rushing home he pulls Cal into a bear hug and the pair spend the rest of the night together. They’re something of an inseparable pair these days and Coach certainly isn’t going to complain. The new Toby obviously needs all the help he can get to show up to practice on time. Beyond that Cal seems to be quite the incentive for Toby to be the best wrestler he can be.
Since both their places only have the one bed they have to share wherever they end up. Some time ago Cal invested in earplugs as Toby developed an oppressive snore once his neck grew in. Less manageable is the sweaty furnace of man’s body heat as his sleeping self always ends up snatching Cal to use as a pillow to hug. Even more of a problem are nights where his bro gets riled up, you wouldn’t believe the number of times Cal’s already woken up to the hulking man dry humping him in his sleep.
Not that he minds, shit really they should start burning off some of that energy before bed. Certainly easier to clean if they get ahead of it. Sleeping through Cal’s alarm the next morning, when Toby eventually falls back to consciousness he’s happy to not feel any telltale stain besides the hefty pool of pre safely contained to his jock from the day before.
Drinking two protein shakes before heading out for his morning jog, Toby’s surprised to get such an early call from Coach. He takes it in stride as his heavy footfalls pound onward. “Yo Coach, wazzup?”
Already in his office, the Coach smirks at how nonchalant his newest wrestler has grown as he bulked up. “Nothing, nothing. I know your dress rehearsal is today so I just wanted to say ‘break a leg.’”
Toby trips up in shock, thick brows furrowing in concern, “B- But Coach? I thought you wanted me to stick in the play? Said it was good for me?”
Fighting back a smirk at just how effective a wrestler he’s made if Toby can’t remember even the most common of theatrical terms, he apologizes, “Come now Tobe, you know that means good luck. It’s a switch-em-up. Them actor-folks think it’s bad luck to say good luck, y’know that.”
Laughing at forgetting that, “Ahh like MacDuff!”
Toby is a success beyond measure. “Right, just like that, boy. So, I’ve been thinkin’ about your place on the team. Gonna have the boys vote on it ‘course, but how’d you like to be Team Co-Captain.”
Having only just returned to his jog, Toby stops dead in his tracks once more, heart racing. Team Captain. His biceps pulse larger to his sleeves limit. His underwear would tear to shreds if he wasn’t already commando. Instead his athletic shorts reveal his instant hardon themselves. The cleft of his pecs are as clear as his nipples as his breathing stretches the fabric of his shirt enough to make it sheer.
Then he realizes, when did he even join the team, “B- But coach? I’m not even..?” No, he for sure is? What is he if not a wrestler?
“Don’t worry too much ‘bout it Tobe. You just focus on rehearsal and we’ll talk after. Callin’ a special training at about 7 PM. Remember, break a leg.”
With that, Toby jogs at an even better pace down the road, buff chest held higher from pride if not from his spine creaking longer and his shoulders spreading wider. There’s certainly a skip in his step as he rounds the block back to his apartment complex before bolting up the stairs back to his place. Meaty fists cutting through the air of a stairwell only he and Cal use, he yanks open his usually unlocked front door and shouts for his bro.
“Caaaaaaaaal!”
“Bro shhh! You know the neighbors asked us to chill a little!”
Before Cal can get another word in, Toby throws his sweaty arms around a waist thin perhaps to him alone. A waist that not a month ago would have had him drooling for its overwhelming size and muscular density. Now the brute lifts him in the air with ease and spins with excitement.
“Dude! Coach just said they wanna make me Co-Cap!”
Grinning, Cal feigns surprise, “Y’don’t say? Any idea who suggested it, Big-T?”
Staring blankly, mouth hanging ajar, it takes a few moments for the idea to spark and his eyes light up. “Bro?” His dumbfounded confusion turns into a grin.
“Bro.”
Spinning once more as his chest widens enough to finally ruin one of his few remaining shirts, Toby squeezes Cal even tighter. “God I can’t wait to captain alongside my best bro.” Vibrating with excitement, Cal grappled against him, his heart racing like it’s life and death. Just like in the ring. His eyes fall on his best bros lips, “Fuck dude. I could kiss you!”
With a sharp gasp as Toby squeezes him tighter than life, the wrestler looks up to find Toby’s eyes hungrily staring. Hazy with need as his own eyelids droop, Cal meets him with a question, “Why stop there bro?”
Before a second passes Toby’s mouth is on his neck, tasting his sweat, feeling the sharp curve of his carved jawline as his tongue feels the scritch of his sandpapery cheeks. And then his lips find purchase, and as they do his face begins its final changes. His already impressive beard thickens as it scratches against Cal’s face.
His nose cracks bent before reshaping a couple times over as his skin loses whatever softness remained from a regimen from a life now forgotten. Scars scratch into his face from victories he can almost remember as he feels the shocking sensation of one of his ears puffing up from a far more recent injury. Whatever style remains in his once-deliberately coiffed hair dissipates as it flops onto his head lifelessly and perpetually greasy.
All the while he keeps breathily grunting and moaning as he leads Cal to their couch and falls onto his back. Cal giggles as much as a baritone’s able in between pecks as the sofa creaks and starts to give, unable to bear their overwhelming load. Feeling the lightning rod of Toby’s need poking into his abs, Cal steals a beat to sit up and once more take in the intense hazy need filling every inch of his soon to be co-captain’s face. No thought in his head besides ‘why Cal stop?’
Apparently coquettish despite his otherwise masculine demeanor, Cal puts his hand under Toby’s jaw and clenches slightly, grinning at the massive man moaning with need at the action. “Bro I think we should bone later, you don’t wanna be spent addressing the boys for the first time!”
Groaning as he doesn’t hear anything but Cal saying not now, the ‘actor’ throws his head back in annoyance and frowns. Struggling to cross his arms yet again, he gives up and instead reaches towards Cal and rubs his calloused hands up and down the wrestler’s thighs. Biting his scarred lip as he feels his cock edge close to coming hands free, Toby whines as Cal straddles his waist, “Fuck bro you got me all riled up on purpose…”
Pushing up off Toby’s chest, happy to get a handful of his meaty pecs, Cal dismounts and adjusts his own visibly tighter shorts. “Look at you! And you say you’re not that smart dude,” turning back with a wink he heads off to the gym and leaves Toby to attempt to study his script before a rapidly approaching dress rehearsal.
It takes a full hour for the man to think about anything but sex with his bro, but after at last doing so he pulls out a script stained with sweaty handprints and food. Overnight his theater coach emailed him to say not to worry about all the word parts, apparently he’s just gonna focus on the wrestling part.
This, he’s more than happy to hear. No sense in him worrying to remember dumb fake words like morrow or acquit. He’s no acquitter, that’s for sure. Instead he focuses on the match he’s got with Claude. Sure, it’s just a practice today, but he wants to go all out. His theater coach was pissed at him for whatever reason last time and Toby needs to prove him wrong.
Struggling into his latest singlet, Toby makes his way to the Fine Arts Building with haste that has been quite lacking for his previous sojourns to the school. Thinking of this rehearsal as a match rather than some laborious play has done wonders for the man. And a match it certainly is to be.
Handled with the care of an explosive, fair given the power within those biceps, there’s a tech stationed at the entrance to lead him backstage. Everyone gives him a wide berth and a kind smile as he’s led, perhaps concerned that one of their department’s stars has had some kind of a mental break. Their shy grins are often replaced by a tight grimace when he gets near enough to sniff.
Led to a changing room where he stews in his still pent-up state from not getting some earlier, Toby watches Scene I with disinterest. Impatiently bouncing his meaty leg as he sees some tiny man in a singlet that must be the chump he’s going to be wrestling for, Toby frowns.
“That fucker’s tiny!” Are they treating him like some kind of joke? Eye twitching, his ire changes targets and he clenches his jaw when he sees Claude saunter onto the stage with his own petty irritation. That’s his challenger. Quickly busting through a few stretches to prepare for the match, he starts hopping to raise his heart rate. Doesn’t need to be on his A-game to beat that little nerd but he’s not going to leave anything out of the ring.
Hearing the scene end, Toby’s poor stagehand leads him to the wings to await his cue. Slightly distracted from breathing in his musk even before Toby started deliberately working up a sweat, the tech is struck woozy as they get in position backstage. Too confused to question the stance that makes it certainly seem like Toby’s about to pounce, when the new comedically twinkish Charles rushes off stage with a “break a leg!” to Toby, the stage hand barely remembers to tell him that’s his cue.
In the end it wasn’t strictly needed as Claude’s nervous eye-contact was more than enough to call the match to order. Toby charges the man who is already cowering in place “You’re supposed to lose you fucking animal!” He whisper-whines as Toby’s meaty fists find purchase.
As fuckin’ if he’s gonna choose to lose. He’s the best wrestler this stage has ever seen. If he’s alive it is to win. To dominate. And so he does with ease and aplomb. If Toby himself was handled like a ragdoll in his bygone first spar with Cal, Claude is thrashed like a plushie.
Legs flung through the air with a single one of Toby’s arms, he is then yanked back towards the stage floor with an unpleasantly loud boom. Pinning the moaning actor to the stage warmed by spotlights, Toby waits for a count that never comes. Hearing nothing but stunned silence, he starts doing it himself.
Slamming his padded fist into the stage he shounts a countdown, “One!” his chest heaves with excitement, pushing his singlet to new extremes as he weighs heavier on Claude’s crumpled form. “Two!” He feels his cock twitch against the lycra, not an infrequent occurrence when he’s on the precipice of victory, but this one feels special as a pre stain seeps visible. “Three!” He takes in the reeling face of his defeated foe with a wide grin before pushing himself to standing with impossible ease, raising his arms in victory.
The handful of actors and extras that were supposed to share the stage with him cower in the wings. Still they’re hesitant to return to the stage where the wild man who charged their lead still stands. Claude continues whining on the ground and Toby starts to feel a little confused. “What’s the problem? You guys wanted me to wrestle, yeah? Y’all’re looking at me like I just said Mac-” everyone gasps in fear, “guffin or whatever.”
Tremors of cast and crew saying ‘Jesus Christ, he almost named The Scottish Play’ in the audience sends Toby’s single remaining thespian neuron firing. Eyes light with the now infrequent feeling of him remembering something, he can’t help but speak it aloud, “Ohhh! Wait! I got it!” His innocent grin grows wider, “It’s MacBeth! Right?!”
Someone cries in agony as the wrestler is expedited from the stage. He doesn’t know why, nor does he really care anymore. Shoot he’s already forgetting whatever bizarre situation just happened. Weirdest wrestling ring he’s ever been in, that’s for sure.
Final growth spurt oncoming, Toby shrugs with a grunt as some nasally dweeb shouts “And don’t come back!” as he scratches his sore chest and begins his way to the gym for wrestling practice.
The final walk away from a building that’s apparently for art or something is a blur. His mind is instead focused on recalling the years and years of memories of doing what he actually does best washing over him. Wrestling and winning. Muscle groups surge even further with strength as he recalls countless victories, months spent in the gym bulking up, cutting to stay in his weight class, and sparring with Cal until it devolves into fucking.
That’s what bros are for.
By the time he arrives at the gym the vote is obviously a formality. The only reason he wasn’t captain the previous years was simply a matter of interest, Cal barely got him to sleep with how focused he was on the olympic trials. These days he’s only sticking around on the college team to help out with Cal and to otherwise hang with his best bro.
Sauntering up on stage next to Coach, only taking a moment to slap Cal’s ass as he walks by, Toby smirks as he looks out across his team. Can’t wait to whip them into shape and make this program a powerhouse now that he’s already proven himself the greatest at every turn.
Cal goes up to perform a speech for the pair of them about the year that is to come and the effort it is going to take to be the best. Toby tunes it out as Coach instead whispers in his ear. “Glad to have ya Tobias. Don’t know what you were ever thinkin’ struttin’ on a stage. Look what puttin’ all that effort into your body- into your sport led to.”
Having absolutely no idea what Coach’s referring to, Toby just turns with a confused look to his superior. Coach just smirks and ruffles his hair, feeling as it retracts into a short buzz cut, delighting as Toby finishes hardening into the greatest wrestler he’s ever trained. “Don’t you worry ‘bout it kid. You just focus on the gold.”
The day at the Sun Kiss Lake Golf Resort was going normal, old and rich and wannabe rich folks were putting their hearts out, occasionally a stray golf ball would plop right into the massive lake where kids and enthusiasts were swimming and playing and diving and occasionally getting hit or splashed by a golf ball.
Frank was relaxing by the lake, lounging in a chair still clad in his polo shirt and golf pants. The wet breeze blowing across his face while his toes were lightly pressed against the dirt and pebbles made the scene paradise for him.
And then a man clad in nothing but shoes and grey briefs came trodding by him. “Hey,” the nearly nude man said, his pecs bouncing as he jogged in place to keep pace. “Do you know the restrooms are? I’ve got a dildo I need to shove up my ass.”
Frank was utterly gobsmacked by the casual way the man explained himself, as if his actions were anything but perverse and depraved. He silently gestured toward the restrooms and the man thanked him before jogging away.
Before he could fully recover, another man clad in a wetsuit and shaggy wet hair emerged from the lake right beside where Frank was lounging. The wetsuit man smiled and said to Frank, “You see that, mate? Quite a fine specimen.”
Frank was already digging in his white designer hand bag, pulling out a small hand radio. “It’s fine, I’ll report him to staff. This is a resort for the first class and this is the decency people have when staying here.”
The wetsuit man said, “I think he’s enjoying himself more than most of us. Or at least about. G’day. Name’s Austin by the way, Austin Latex.”
Frank extended his hand out and shook Austin’s hand, used to keeping up appearances 24/7 especially in places like this. People are always networking and he is too. He said, “Frank Fansman. Can you give me a second to just report this really fast, my vacation is ruined and that man owes me for ruining it.” Frank extended the antenna of his pocket radio but stopped as it disappeared from his hand. In his hand where his radio had been was now a wicker palm leaf fan.
“You planning on yelling really loud, cause you seem like you want to blow me rather than report anything,” Austin chuckled at his crass joke.
Frank freaked out and dropped the fan. “What?” He said before digging in his bag. “I could’ve sworn I just had it, and I’ve never seen this fan before. Come on it has to be in here somewhere.”
Austin kept his smile as he snapped his fingers. In that moment, Frank’s bag disappeared too. Like it never existed. He looked around as if it had been misplaced, finding only the fan laying pathetically on the dirt. Frank looked up to Austin and spoke with shock, “How did you do that? Where’s my shit?”
Austin raised his hands defensively and replied smugly, “Language. That’s no way for a rubber servant to talk to the blokes they serve.”
Frank stood up defensively, squaring his shoulders and closing the distance between himself and Austin. “Who do you think you are talking to me like that?” Frank said in a deeper tone. “I’m trained in MMA and I will ruin your life you shaggy little—“
Austin made a whoosh sound with his mouth as he extended his hands out toward Frank, mimicking throwing a magic spell at him. In that second, Frank’s clothes changed into a tight, shiny black rubber catsuit in the blink of an eye.
Frank’s mouth curved into a smile as he lifted his arms behind his head, proudly showing off before saying, “A cutie like you deserves their feet rubbed and a rubber twink to play with. Let me just find my fan and I’ll make sure you’re as comfortable as possible, hunk.”
Austin shook his head and said, “Thanks but I’m actually off to the main building, I’m just taking the long way there because a wetsuit deserves to be used and there’s cute boys like you all over the place that are so fun and hot to change. Though, there’s plenty of hunky boys for you to service, mate.”
Frank gave a nod to Austin before turning and walking away. Austin continued waking toward the hotel of the resort, thoroughly enjoying himself without a care in the world. His wetsuit squeaking as he walked by.
He tipped a non-existent hat to the twin swan topiaries flanking the butterfly garden, muttering a faint “G’day,” the same tone he used when encountering the bodybuilder on the hiking trail earlier, the one now wearing a jockstraps and eager to please his ass.
The path from the butterfly garden to the main building wound through three distinct zones of the resort: the tennis pavilion, the members-only spa courtyard, and the terraced lanai where the afternoon mixer was already in full swing. Austin had no particular hurry. The wetsuit squeaked with every step, the sound almost rhythmic against the crunch of pebbled pathway underfoot.
He liked the sound. It was the sound of potential.
The first real obstruction came in the form of a golf cart doing approximately four miles an hour on a path designed for foot traffic. The driver was a woman in her sixties, pearls fastened so tight they looked load-bearing, steering with one hand while holding a gin and tonic in the other. A caddy sat in the passenger seat, a young man named Devon who was very clearly on his phone and very clearly not supposed to be.
"Young man," the woman barked at Austin without looking at him, "there is a walkway for pedestrians on the east side."
"That so?" Austin said, stepping off the path obligingly and onto the grass. He gave her a smile that was all teeth. "Beautiful day for a drive, isn't it?"
The woman finally glanced at him, did a full double-take at the wetsuit, and curled her lip. "This is a resort, not a dock."
Austin blushed and scratched the back of his neck. He always had a soft spot for women, not that he was anything but gay. "Sorry ma’am,” he said. “Just came from the lake.” She nodded and said, “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself out there. Tomorrow, I’m taking my sweet baby pumpkin out there to play with jet skis. Then we’ll enjoy champagne on a yacht.” Devon looked up from his phone, caught Austin's eye, and gave the universal expression of someone who was being paid fifteen dollars an hour to watch a woman drink her fourth gin and tonic before two o'clock. Austin winked at him.
Devon went back to his phone. He had bigger problems. Specifically, his girlfriend had just texted him a screenshot of his roommate's Tinder profile, which featured a photo of said roommate wearing Devon's sunglasses inside Devon's apartment, and Devon was composing a response that would either be calm and measured or would burn every bridge he'd ever crossed. He was leaning toward the latter.
Austin watched the golf cart disappear around the bend toward the pro shop and kept walking. He didn't interfere with that one. Not yet. Some people needed to stew in their own juices before they were ready for a new recipe.
The path narrowed after the tennis pavilion, forced between a low limestone wall and a stand of bottlebrush that had been trimmed into something resembling discipline. The air changed here—less open lake-breeze, more the slow, chlorinated breath of the members-only spa courtyard. Steam drifted in soft ribbons from the open-air plunge pools. Somewhere behind a screen of bamboo a woman was laughing too loudly at a joke that hadn’t been funny. Austin’s wetsuit answered every step with a soft, wet creak, the old rubber still holding the lake’s temperature against his skin.
He liked this part of the resort best. The people who came here already believed they were better than the ones still out on the fairways. That made the work cleaner.
Two men occupied the nearest plunge pool, both in their late thirties, both wearing the sort of swim shorts that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. One had the soft, expensive look of someone who paid other people to stay in shape for him. The other was tighter, tanned the colour of expensive luggage, and currently complaining about the temperature of the water as if the universe had personally offended him.
“I’m telling you, Marc, if they can’t keep the plunge at thirty-four degrees they shouldn’t advertise it as a thermal experience.”
Marcus floated on his back, eyes closed, gold chain glinting against the water. “You’re the one who insisted we come out here instead of the private cabana. I was perfectly happy with the champagne and the masseuse.”
Austin stopped at the edge of the pool, hands loose at his sides, and simply looked at them. The tighter one—Theo, according to the name embroidered on the towel draped over a nearby lounger—noticed him first. The glance lasted half a second too long, then flicked away with the automatic distaste of a man who had never had to share oxygen with someone in a twenty-year-old sponsorship wetsuit.
“Service entrance is around the back,” Theo said, not bothering to open his eyes fully.
Austin smiled the same easy smile he’d given the woman in the golf cart. “Not staff. Just taking the scenic route. Beautiful day for a soak, isn’t it?”
Marcus cracked one eye. “It’s a private courtyard.”
“Is it, mate?” Austin’s tone stayed light, almost curious. “Funny. I was under the impression the whole resort belonged to whoever was enjoying it most.”
Theo finally sat up properly, water sheeting off his chest. “Look, mate—” the word came out like he’d borrowed it to make fun of Austin but silently regretting it—“we paid for quiet. If you want to play rubber tourist there are docks for that.”
Austin’s fingers moved once, a small, almost lazy circle in the water. Nothing dramatic. No flash. Just the soft sound of rubber against itself as the temperature of the plunge pool dropped three degrees in a single breath.
Theo shivered hard enough that his teeth clicked. “Christ—what the hell?”
Marcus sat up too, frowning at the sudden chill. “Did they just change the settings?”
Austin stood, water dripping from his fingertips. “Maybe the system’s having a moment. Or maybe the water just decided it liked you better a little colder.” He tilted his head, studying Theo the way someone might study a menu. “You’ve got good shoulders. Shame about the attitude.”
Theo’s mouth opened to answer, but the words never arrived. In the space between one heartbeat and the next the expensive swim shorts simply ceased to exist. In their place was a single continuous layer of black latex so thin it looked painted on, glossy under the steam, sealing every muscle from throat to ankle. A pair of bright red briefs appeared over Theo’s groin and a harness settled itself over his chest and shoulders. The only openings were a small circular mouth zipper and a heavier industrial zipper that ran from the base of his throat straight down the centre of his chest, past the navel, and ended just above the crease of his ass.
Theo looked down at himself. For a long second his face stayed blank, the way a man looks when the world has rearranged itself without asking permission. Then the expression settled into something quieter, almost thoughtful. He ran both palms down his own latex-covered thighs, feeling the way the material moved with him, the way it already clung damp and warm.
“Going gimp,” he said, voice perfectly calm. He reached for a baseball cap discarded on his pool chair and settled itself atop his smooth, shiny head. “That’s better.”
Marcus stared. “Theo? What the fuck are you wearing?”
Theo turned in the water, the suit squeaking softly against itself. He looked at his friend the way he might look at a slightly disappointing dessert. “You’re still in those shorts. That’s embarrassing.”
Austin didn’t move. He simply watched, the corner of his mouth tilted.
Marcus’s face went through several colours. “Take that off. Right now. We’re leaving.”
Theo floated closer, latex thighs brushing Marcus’s knee under the water. “No, I’m a fuck toy now,” His hand found the open zipper at his own crotch and gave it a thoughtful tug, just enough to show the bare, hardening shape of him. “Besides… you’ve been staring at my ass for three days. And I need you deep inside me.”
Marcus recoiled hard enough that water slapped the stone edge of the pool. “I have not—Jesus Christ, Theo, what is wrong with you?”
Theo’s smile was the same polite, expensive smile he’d worn at dinner the night before. “Nothing’s wrong except that you haven’t put your cock in my mouth.” He said with a casual and certain tone.
Austin straightened, satisfied. The courtyard air had taken on a thicker quality, the steam hanging lower. He left them there—Theo already reaching for Marcus’s wrist with calm, latex-slick fingers—and continued along the path. Behind him Marcus’s voice rose, then cracked, then dropped into something closer to a whimper. Austin didn’t look back. Some recipes needed a little time on the heat.
The terraced lanai opened in front of him like a stage. White umbrellas, low tables, the soft clink of ice against crystal. The afternoon mixer was exactly what the brochure promised: old money, new money, and the people who lived off both. A string quartet played something inoffensive near the far railing. Servers moved between groups with trays of something pink and expensive.
Austin’s wetsuit announced him long before anyone looked up. Conversations stuttered, then resumed with that particular strain of people pretending not to notice the man in vintage rubber walking through their champagne hour.
He was halfway across the terrace when a voice called from a table near the edge.
“Excuse me, sir? The one in the, uh, diving suit?”
Austin stopped. The speaker was a man in his early forties, silver at the temples, wearing a linen shirt so perfectly pressed it looked hostile. Beside him sat a younger man, maybe twenty-five with had the carefully blank expression of someone being paid to look interested. The younger man’s name tag read Callum — Guest Relations.
The older man gestured with his glass. “I believe you’ve wandered into the wrong section of the resort. Staff entrances are clearly marked.”
Austin gave him the same easy smile. “Not staff. Guest. Just taking the long way.”
The man—Richard, according to the monogram on his cuff—looked Austin up and down the way one might examine a stain. “Guests do not typically arrive dressed for a shipwreck. And they certainly do not track lake water across the lanai.”
Callum’s eyes flicked to Austin, then away, then back again. Something in the glance lingered a fraction too long on the way the old wetsuit sat across Austin’s chest and thighs.
Austin stepped closer to the table, close enough that the faint scent of lake and warm rubber reached them. “You’re right about the water. I should probably dry off.” He rested one hand on the back of the empty chair opposite them. “Mind if I borrow your boy for a second? He looks like he knows where the towels are.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “Callum is not ‘my boy.’ He is a staff member assisting me with—”
The air around the table shifted—subtle, like the moment before a storm decides whether to break. Callum’s staff uniform: crisp white shirt, black trousers, the little gold name badge, simply stopped existing. In its place was a pair of white and red shorts. His body had shifted from a lanky young man like a skeleton with skin into a toned beach bod.
Callum looked down at himself. His hands rose, covering his chest, then lower, feeling the way the material of the shorts cupped and displayed his assets. When he looked up again his expression was that of worry. He asked, “My slides? My favorite slides—where are they?”
Austin looked over to where Richard had been and pointed at the ground, “Those ones, mate?”
Callum looked down to find a pair of blue slides, large enough to fit his much larger feet. His shoulders lowered and he kicked his feet into them. “Perfect,” he sighed. “I love these slides so much you have no idea weirdo, I cannot function without them.”
What Callum didn’t know, nor care to know, was that his favorite slides used to be his former client. Austin chuckled to himself before left. The string quartet played on, oblivious. A server passed with a tray of canapés and did not look twice at the man in the grey latex unitard now settling into Richard’s lap as if he had always belonged there. Austin kept walking.
The main building rose ahead, all white stone and glass, the afternoon light turning the upper windows into mirrors. Somewhere inside, the lobby would be cool and quiet and full of people who still believed the day belonged to them. Austin’s wetsuit creaked softly with every step, the sound of potential moving closer.
He had time. The lake was still full. The paths still held boys who thought they knew what they wanted. And the afternoon was nowhere near over.
"Become a Father, Today!" Read the poster on the window of a store called "Father Maker"
One day the store had mysteriously opened up, promising anyone to be ripe and ready to be a father. Wade, who was reading the aforementioned poster thought it was some therapy thing, but the pictures of pretty dilfs on other posters enticed him to atleast... go inside and see what happens. Hey who knows, maybe he'll be a dilf one day. Not that Wade had any plans of being a father.
Wade entered the store and found a very clean building with a male receptionist typing away at a monitor. Wade walks over to him and says hello.
"Ah, welcome welcome. You want to be a father?"
Wade shakes his head, he's just curious about the place.
"I see... well, we offer a high tech machine that takes answers from a provided survey and gives exactly what you need to be a perfect father. It's pretty cool!"
Wade was amazed at the technical marvel that was just described to him, he had to try it now. Wade said as much to the receptionist.
"Alright, perfect. We've been providing free consultations since we just opened so don't worry about payment just head to the hallway on the right and you'll see the machine. Enjoy!" Wade nodded and followed the receptionist instructions.
After some walking, Wade saw the device in the distance and got visibly excited. Wade increased his pace until right in front of the machine. The door automatically opened and Wade walked in. The inside looked very futuristic with a screen installed on a part of the wall
"HELLO. WELCOME TO THE FATHER MAKER. PLEASE FILL OUT THE PROVIDED SURVEY ON THE SCREEN"
The first question popped up and Wade began to answer the questions one by one. The questions asked were mudane and didn't feel related to fatherhood, but Dave guessed the algorithm was super smart.
"SURVEY COMPLETE. THANK YOU. NOW COMPUTING SUGGESTIONS"
Dave stood and waited for a couple minutes until something happened
"COMPUTING. COMPUTING. COMPUTING"
"COMPUTING..."
"COMPUTING COMPLETE. NOW ROLLING OUT SUGGESTIONS"
The moment of truth. Wade was dying to know what the machine would say.
"SUGGESTION 1: HAVE BIG STRONG MUSCLES. A FATHER IS STRONG AND NEEDS TO BE RELIABLE FOR THEIR CHILD."
Once the robotic voice began to speak, Wade suddenly felt really hot, his clothes felt tighter than he remembered. Wade was growing. The machine was doing something to Wade. Every muscle Wade had was packing on the beef. First the oh so juicy pecs that pushed out and filled. Wade's nipples also perked up. Any fat was eliminated on Wade's frame as a eight pack popped into the crevices. Then Wade's lats and back muscles widened out. Both of Wade's arm thickened and became large trunks with large biceps and triceps and big meaty hands. Wade's neck widened as his traps bulged into mini mountains. Wade's legs became enlarged, with thighs so wide they were almost touching one another. On the other end, Wade's flat ass grew immensely into a noticeable bouncy behind. The final touch was Wade's feet growing a few sizes. With that final growth, all of Wade's clothes ripped off.
The adrenaline of the transformation left Wade dazed, unable to speak or react. All he could feel was pure euphoric strength. That left the machine to keep going
"SUGGESTION 2: A STRONG FATHER MUST HAVE A STRONG FACE SO THAT NO ONE MESSES WITH THEM."
Wade's face reacted immediately, morphing into an older masculine look . A beard began to form connecting to his hair, which stylized into something flat and basic but still very manly.
"SUGGESTION 3: HAVE A BEAUTIFUL WIFE. A FATHER MUST HAVE A LOVELY WIFE."
Flashes of memories entered Wade's mind. The image of a woman forming. bit by bit, Wade remembers meeting this woman, falling in love with this woman, and eventually marrying this woman. His... Wife. His wife Mary. Just thinking about Mary made Wade's groin stir. So much so, his average sized dick began to elongate into a thick nine inch beer can ready for anything. Such as...
"SUGGESTION 4: HAVE A BEAUTIFUL CHILD. A CHILD IS A TRUE SIGN OF FATHERHOOD."
Wade remembers the day fondly. Of Mary giving birth to her beautiful baby girl, Lily. Wade felt so proud to have a child. A child to continue his legacy and to teach and learn about the world. Wade loved being a father. Just thinking about his wife and his child and his muscles and his looks and his everything. Wade felt ready to burst. Wade subconsciously used one of his mitt hands to grab his dick and started to pump, the machine he was inside not even a thought to him. He kept going, closer and closer to climax, when the machine spoke one more time.
"SUGGESTION 5: CUM INTO YOUR NEW LIFE AS A FATHER"
Wade released and everything went white. When Wade opened his eyes again, he was in the middle of a gym, wearing a cross necklace, a tank top and shorts surrounded by some of his buds. Oh right, he was just about to workout. Wade fidgeted his necklace reminding himself of his faith in god and his beautiful wife and child.
"Earth to Wade, You there?" One of the guys chimed.
"Oh, yeah, sorry was just thinking about my wife and child!" Wade explained to the group.
"Always thinkin' about them, huh?"
"Of course, they're everything to me! But enough chitchat let's get to work!"
Everyone else nodded and all got up from their resting spots doing various stretches, Wade included. it was time to get the pump on!
Wade began the workout routine he had refined over the years like clockwork. From chest to shoulders to arms and more. This is what Wade loved doing. Whenever Wade felt like he couldn't finish his rep, he thought of his wife and child to get through and finish it. He loved them so much. Being a father was his true calling alongside being a bodybuilder.
Many hours passed and the pump today was extraordinary. Wade's chest felt just a bit bigger and the bodybuilder reveled in that fact with a flex in the mirror. Wait till his wife sees this!
It was time to change and rest returning to his wife and child, one of the best things to come home to.
Years passed since the transformation and Wade had gotten even bigger. Many competitions entered, some won, some lost, but nothing ever brought him down. Thanks to the wife and child by his side. He really become a true father.
Just Pretending By Varian Milagro In a long line of extremely lame birthdays this one had to be one of the lamest. It wasn’t the lamest,
Always been a fan of Varian Milagro's work. A lot of their other writing is in the corruption vein, but this was the first story of theirs I encountered, and I love how sweet it is and how it really takes its time with the consequences of the change. It's a long one, at like 25,000 words, but certainly worth the time.
