#racial tf

[rubberdisguise]

Into pooltoys 1/2 🦌 🛟

[rubberdisguise]

In Jr.’s body 🧪

His gaze fell upon a photograph of his son, Ronaldo Junior, in his football kit, a radiant smile on his lips, the future shining in his eyes. Cristiano felt a pang of jealousy, a deep and gnawing envy for his son's youth and the promise of glory that awaited him. He knew he should be proud, but at that moment, he felt only the bitterness of his own aging body.

Cristiano's obsession with returning to the pitch drove him to make a desperate decision. He picked up his phone and dialed a number he'd found through his extensive network. It was a secret laboratory that manufactured mixtures, syringes capable of transforming humans, disguising them under a new skin. He paid a fortune for this service and was promised a miracle.

The day arrived, and Cristiano watched the lab technicians prepare the syringe. His heart pounded as they explained the process, how the mixture would work, transforming his skin, his voice, and even his body odor. He nodded, his eyes fixed on the syringe, a cold determination burning within him.

He found Ronaldo Junior in the garden, training. The boy looked up, wide-eyed, as his father approached. Cristiano's heart sank at the sight of the confidence and admiration in his son's eyes. He hesitated, overwhelmed by the weight of his action. But the desire to play football again, to feel the adrenaline rush of the game once more, was too strong.

Cristiano lunged forward and injected the syringe into his son's neck. Ronaldo Junior gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head from the mixture. Cristiano watched, breathless and panting, as his son's body transformed. His skin metamorphosed, his voice changed, and a scent of youth filled the air. It was a grotesque metamorphosis, a theft.

Cristiano's hands trembled as he reached out to touch his son. His boy had become flat and lifeless. It was quite strange to see his own son sprawled on the ground, his skin so supple and elastic. He decided to disguise himself, slipping into his son's skin. It was pleasant and sticky; the skin slid effortlessly. Cristiano's body adapted quite easily to his son's shape. He began to experience a different sensation; his skin was different, more tanned, vibrant with the vitality of youth. He felt a strange sensation, a mixture of guilt and excitement. His gaze traveled over the body, absorbing the changes, and he felt a burning desire awaken within him. He couldn't hold back: the urge to experience new sensations, to feel the thrill of youth, was too strong.

He looked at himself in the mirror; seeing himself in Junior's body was a very strange sensation. Breathless, he began to touch himself, exploring this new body with a mixture of wonder and guilt. The sensations were different, heightened, and he felt a wave of pleasure. He couldn't stop: the need to feel, to live, to experience, was pushing him to the edge of the precipice.

Orgasms washed over him in waves, each time releasing the tension, the guilt, the desire. Cristiano's body trembled, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He had done it. He had stolen his son's skin, his youth, and he was going to use it to further his career.

Lying there, panting and covered in sweat and his own bodily fluids, Cristiano knew he had crossed a line. But the idea of ​​playing football again, of feeling the crowd's cheers once more, of being a hero, was worth the price. He would now step onto the pitch, no longer as a fading legend, but as a youthful phenomenon, ready to conquer the world once more.

[rubberdisguise]

| RONALDOTIFICATION |

In a small Tennessee town, a 17-year-old named Jamal woke up with a strange sensation. He felt a bulge between his thighs—something unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Intrigued, he slipped his hand into his boxers and was surprised not to recognize the shape of his genitals. "What's going on?" he whispered as he got up to look in the mirror. He was startled by his new voice, which was deeper than before.

He was surprised being a black man seeing his completely white hands pushed him to get up to check his appearance.

His reflection came as a shock: it wasn't him anymore. He had a clean-shaven face, short hair, and the muscular physique of Cristiano Ronaldo. "Wow, this is crazy!" he exclaimed, admiring every detail of his new body. He began to explore his new contours, his firm muscles, and the sensation of his new anatomy. A growing curiosity took hold of him, and he decided to touch himself more intimately.

Jamal closed his eyes, savoring every new sensation. His hands explored his body with an intensity he had never known. He felt a rising heat—an arousal he had never been able to experience in his teenage body. "It's incredible," he whispered as he continued to caress himself. Every movement was a discovery; every shiver, a new experience.

The idea of feeling Ronaldo’s hand on his penis the excitement only went up again, he also put a finger in his anus something he would never have thought being a straight man he felt Cristiano’s tight hole it was like discovering his sexuality for the first time.

Semen began to surge through his urethra, culminating in a massive jet erupting from his new penis. "Oh my God, that feels so good," he moaned, feeling his body shudder. He lay back on the bed, exhausted but incredibly satisfied. He used a finger to scoop up a warm, sticky glob of semen he had accidentally sprayed onto his chest—now slick with fluid and sweat—and licked it off. "I never thought I could feel something like this," he whispered with a smile. "My sperm is so tasty..." 💦 🥵

Jamal knew his life was about to change. He now possessed the body of one of the world's greatest athletes, with capabilities and sensations he would never have dared to dream of. "I'm going to make the most of it," he told himself as he stood up, ready to face this new reality with a smile.

[next-gen-men]

Can you transform me into a muscular, hairy, dominant man, where I'm being changed without my consent and without realizing it at first?

When you got the notification that a package had arrived at your door, you were confused by the sleek black box sitting right outside your place. You didn’t remember ordering anything, and unlike most cardboard deliveries, this one had an expensive design. You carefully brought the strange package inside and opened it. Inside was a black-and-gold envelope resting atop a few expensive items. You knew it wasn’t something you would have ordered, but the address on the box was yours.

Picking up the envelope, you ripped open the flap and pulled out a black card with gold lettering. There was a scent to the note, almost as if it were lightly spritzed with some cologne or perfume. The note didn’t offer much explanation, either about what this box was for or why it was sent to you.

From Your Secret Admirer. A Self-Improvement Box.

On the back was a scribbled phone number, clearly handwritten by whoever sent the strange gift to you. You tried calling it a few times, but whoever was on the other end didn’t seem to bother picking up. Texting the number yielded no response either, and you were left stumped about what to do with the surprise gift sitting on your kitchen table. Before you could decide anything, you looked more closely at the items inside. There seemed to be a bottle of cologne, a dark liquid glimmering back at you inside the glass. There was also a sleek signet ring, although you weren’t exactly someone who really bothered dressing up or wearing jewelry. And finally, perhaps the most expensive of the three items: a smartwatch. It looked quite minimalistic in design, like one of those fitness watches you would see on a fitness influencer or athlete to track their physical progress. And while it was tempting, you still weren’t exactly convinced that this box was meant for you.

You sighed as you picked up the smartwatch, admiring its fancy design. The metal felt cool and smooth, and for a moment, you entertained the idea of having something like it. Even if you weren’t going to use the items from the strange gift box, it didn’t hurt to imagine what it would be like. Slipping the smartwatch over your wrist, you found yourself enjoying its weight. It might have been great in another life, but right now it didn’t fit your personal aesthetic.

As you moved to remove it, you were surprised to find the device properly latched to your wrist. You grunted as you tried to pull off the new piece of techwear, but it didn’t budge. The strap stayed tight; it wasn’t uncomfortable, but the watch wouldn’t move, no matter how hard you tried. Resigning yourself to the gift, you sighed and left it alone. Not wanting to deal with the weirdness, you closed the box and set it aside, hoping to forget about it. Whoever sent it clearly meant it for someone else, and it was best not to touch another item that wasn’t meant for you.

The rest of your day went by uneventfully. You had a few errands to run, but thankfully, you still had the whole weekend before work. As you went about your tasks, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that you were more energized and invigorated. By the time you got home, you felt an extra bounce in your step, like you could run a mile or two. Glancing down at your new smartwatch, your eyes widened at the tracked steps. You certainly got a lot done today, and the light whiff of sweat from your pits told you as much. Once home, the change felt even harder to ignore.

Making your way to the shower, you found it a bit more difficult to pull off your clothes. Maybe it was the sweat making them stick to your skin, but you couldn’t help twisting and turning your shoulders as you tugged your shirt off. Leaving your clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor, you cast a quick glance at your naked body in the mirror. There were glimpses of definition there, and flexing your biceps showed off some nice peaks. You didn’t pay much attention to it, though, just posing as if it were natural. The last thought you had was that your gym workouts were really starting to show, even though you had forgotten it had been some time since you had even set foot in a gym.

It had been some of the most restful sleep you had ever had that night. The shower was soothing, and you practically dreamed of the slippery sensation of soap bubbles sliding down your back. When you blinked open your eyes, the first thing you noticed was that you seemed much lower than normal. Swinging your thick legs off the side, your large feet thumped along the floor. It seemed that your bed frame had broken again, but this was a common occurrence for you. You struggled to find something that could hold all of your muscular weight. For now, you would have to leave the indented mattress on the floor until you figured out something else. You sighed as you stood to your towering height, ducking your head under the doorframe out of habit. From there, you headed toward the bathroom.

Lumbering toward the bathroom, you raised your hands to scratch and rub at your meaty pecs. It was always a welcome sight to wake up and see such a delicious view each morning, with the valley between your pecs leading down to a chiseled set of abs. Of course, cutting and bulking routines were practically second nature at this point, as your physique was something you put your whole life and soul into. You positioned yourself in front of the mirror once more, your naked body on full display. Sleeping naked was really the only comfortable way for you to get good rest now. Clothes always felt restrictive, particularly when they did very little to conceal your hefty, sizeable bulge. A stray hand slid down to fondle your swaying cock as you admired your physique. It had become a bit of a morning routine, with your admiration for the hard work you put into your body.

A soft beep from your smartwatch reminded you of the brunch you were getting later with some friends. Grateful for such a convenient device, you rarely took the watch off. It felt like second nature to have it on you. As you washed up and prepared for the day, you reached over to grab some cologne to spray on. Your hands found an unfamiliar bottle, practically unopened, with the amount of black liquid still inside. Before you even had a chance to register what was happening, you applied a few quick spritzes to your chest and neck. The smell was rich, dark, and musky, like bergamot mixed with leather. Your eyes widened as your brain began to register the bottle in your hand. It came from that strange box you found yesterday, though you didn’t remember taking it out and setting it in your bathroom.

Your brows furrowed at the strange mystery, but the beeping alarm from your smartwatch quickly interrupted you. You didn’t have time to think about that now; you’d have to deal with it when you got back home. Hurrying out of the bathroom, you turned to the side to let your boulder-sized shoulders and wide back through without bumping the frame. Throwing together a quick, easy streetwear outfit, you took a moment to admire how the clothes clung to your skin. The shirt was almost a crop top, so small, and you could practically see the seams starting to rip. One simple bicep flex and it would burst into a flutter of tattered fabric. Ignoring your intrusive thoughts, you hurried out the door, leaving behind a deliciously thick scent.

Meeting up with your friends was always enjoyable, and you were glad that everyone had enough free time to grab a meal together and catch up. Today seemed a bit off, though, as more than one person kept complimenting the way you took care of your facial hair or how nice a tan you had. You weren’t really sure why they were so hung up about that. Your skin was a rich caramel tone, covered with a healthy dusting of coarse, dark hair. When you first met your friends, you had told them about your summers in Pakistan visiting family. The facial and body hair was an absolute must for you; there was no way you were ever shaving it off, especially when it was part of your manly, masculine appeal. While people kept pointing out the obvious, you noticed how one of your friends seemed particularly infatuated with your scent. He made small comments about how nice your watch looked or how the new cologne really suited you. His attention made the whole outing feel more charged.

He hadn’t been someone you had noticed before, really, but even you couldn’t deny the way his eyes lingered on the dark hair peeking out from under your shirt sleeve, leaving very little to the imagination with the growing sweat stain under your pits. The summer sun wasn’t exactly kind to your darker complexion as you all sat outside, and you could feel the top of your head grow warm under the rays. But a quick wipe on your forehead with the back of your hand, and you were back to catching up with your friends about what they had been up to. By then, the moment had settled into the afternoon.

Brunch ended rather uneventfully, with a few promises to meet up again soon. Your smaller friend seemed to linger back to give you a hug goodbye, and you couldn’t help but notice how his head seemed to slip up between your pecs comfortably, like a missing puzzle piece finding where it belonged. You offered him a strong, hearty squeeze, making sure to press his slim frame up against all your heat. The other man squeaked in surprise at the feeling of your flexed muscles pressed up against his backside, and he scurried away just as frantically as he appeared. Shaking your head in amusement, you scratched at your hairy chest as you made your way back home. It was finally time to just kick back and relax.

With nothing else planned for the day, you began peeling off the sweaty clothes and tossed them to the side for you to deal with later. Flopping down on the couch naked, you could still catch a whiff of the dark cologne you sprayed on this morning. Mixed in with your natural musk, the scent was actually quite overwhelming. The spiced scents flooded through your nostrils, and your eyes rolled back at the rather intense smell that rattled your brain. Dazed in the moment, your head lolled to the side to stare out at your coffee table.

There, perched upon the glass, was that simple black box. Before, you didn’t want a single thing to do with it. You hadn’t even had time to look into who it might actually belong to. But now, there seemed to be this strange pull that enticed you closer. It was like your body was moving on autopilot, with you, a passenger, watching a movie. As you pulled back the box lid, you saw the note with the phone number lying inside next to a signet ring. Pulling out both objects, you felt a sensation in your chest that made you focus more on the ring.

It was a simple, golden band with a nicely designed crest on top. It certainly looked expensive, which fit your style perfectly. Without much thought for anything else, you slipped it onto your pinky. The new piece of jewelry made things begin to click into place, like a fog of confusion lifting from your mind. In that moment, you knew that this was who you were meant to be. A beefed-up, hairy, hunk of a man that was in control of everything in his life. All the decisions, the guidance, the permission granting… it lingered in the back of your throat like a cough. Dominance never felt like a personality trait or a role you had to fill. It was just who you were as a person, and people loved you for it.

Twiddling the note between your fingers, you flipped the piece of paper over to read the hand-scribbled number on the back. In that moment, you remember why that number seemed so familiar to you. A small, knowing smirk formed on your lips as you grabbed your phone off the coffee table. It seemed there was a rather naughty, needy boy who needed to understand what his role was in your new dynamic. He would have to become reacquainted with the new you, given that he did so all on his own, without your permission. You turned on your phone camera, taking a picture of your naked body. Making sure to include your heavy set of balls, hairy chest, and half-chubbed cock, you texted over the photo to the person who sent over the box. It was ridiculous that he even thought you needed self-improvement. You were perfect the way you were, like a god who decided to walk amongst the mere mortals.

get over here, boy. it seems you’ve done something without my permission again. you’ll have to earn my forgiveness.

The reply came back fired back just as quickly, a simple “Yes, Sir,” giving you all the confirmation you needed. It made no difference. If he didn’t come, it was his loss. And if he did, you would show him the fruits of his labors. Until then, you reclined on the couch and made yourself comfortable. It was going to be a long and eventful rest of the day.

[merryy3dbhsjsk]

Project THC: Edible Division

1

File name:FBO-ED-Doritos   

Manufacturing details: Produced by the lays Frato-laid (formerly known as frito-lay).

Key transformation components: 

Chip dust mixed with powdered Natty Light residue

Corn masa soaked in used pong table water

Seasoning blended with late-night pizza grease and microdoses of testosterone

Plastic bag interior coated with dorm-room pheromones

Crunch vibration calibrated to lower IQ by 40 points per bite

Testing: “Ok, guys. This one was sent by. . .looks like a Doritos. Thanks for sending this, Doritos! Let’s open.”

In Johnathan’s hands is a large cardboard box with the Doritos logo on it. He was filming an unboxing video for his YouTube channel. He didn’t even like chips but his viewers (and his sponsor) didn’t need to know that. Opening the branded box, he found maybe a dozen packs of Doritos chips. 

“Ok, these look amazing. What flavor are these? Oh, looks like there's a new flavor: Super Cheese.”

He opened one of the bags and took a performative sniff. He had to suppress the urge to gag, it smelled distinctively like old socks and overripe cheese. He smiled wide at the camera and plucked one out. When he placed it in his mouth he was hit with a powerful taste of nacho cheese and chipotle peppers. 

“Wow!” He exclaimed, “That's hot. Like really hot.”

Despite his better judgment he went in for another, then another. Until maybe half the bag was gone. He wiped his hand carelessly on his t-shirt, leaving an orange streak. The orange powder seemed to spread across the shirt. Growing into a larger and larger stain until his whole shirt crumbled into cheese dust. 

Johnathan glanced down, too absorbed in his bag of chips to care. His skin began to take on a deeper tan and his body inflated with lean muscles. His brand new vans began to wear down, becoming years old in a matter of seconds. Jewelry wrapped itself on his wrists and fingers.

As he chewed, his jaw shifted. Withers can but it became slimmer and any beginnings of wrinkles vanished. His face now one of aloof hotness, his mind soon matched. The cheese rewrote his sense of self entirely, making his brain foggy. So foggy he could recall, well, anything. He didn’t remember putting up that camara. Didn’t even remember what year it was. 

When the bag was empty he pounded on his chest in a show of bravado.  

“Soooo good bros. LETS GOOO!!!!” He glanced around at the bags and bags of Doritos. “Like, Where did these even come from, bro? I don’t remember things for shit.” He laughed.

Then he remembered what time it was: 10:35. Shit, he was late for school. He couldn’t fail senior year for the third time. 

2

File name:SJ-ED-Peanut butter cup

Manufacturing details:produced in partnership with Graystone Athletics and the Hershey company.

Key transformation components:

Peanut butter whipped with extracted sweat from used shin guards

Chocolate shell spiked with “goal celebration hormones”

Cups constructed using molds from designer jockstrap factories

Packaging microperforated with muscle pheromone mist

Filling enriched using stadium air from Saturday night matches

Testing: Walking home after school, he was extremely hungry. The long day of studying and learning had taken it out of him. Thankfully he had grabbed a pack of peanut butter cups from the old vending machine outside the school gym. 

As he walked by the athletic field he had just gotten the sealed package open. He took a large bite and was hit by the strong flavor of peanut butter. He polished off the first cup with relish, but was soon hit by the feeling of vertigo.

His height shot up, bones cracking to give him broad shoulders and a wide set of hips. He felt a slight pinch in his ears as a pair of fake diamond studs materialized. His long messy wave pulled back into his head into a trendy sporty style. His jaw sharpened to create a strong profile. 

Muscles pumped into his body faster and faster till his crappy cardigan and jeans burst to shreds. Sharp cut abs and pecs were revealed and he rubbed them without hesitation. Dark hair growing unto muscled arms and legs. He stood shaking on massive feet trying to remember what he was doing. 

He saw the last peanut butter cup on the ground and grabbed it, eating it without hesitation. His discarded school bag shifted into a soccer ball and nylon workout pants formed around his thick thighs. He ran onto the field with excitement, kicking the ball as he went. 

3

File name:RN-ED-Cereal

Manufacturing details: Produced by Graystone Labs, Georgia division. 

Key transformation components:

Cornflakes made with real silo dust from Nebraska farm co-ops

Milk powder mixed with authentic barn musk

Natural sugars replaced with “clean organic” sweetener

Box lined with hay-scent aerosols

Oats treated with UV radiation to simulate outdoor farm labor

Crunch-timbre calibrated to trigger “country-fried brainwaves”

Testing: Cassie sat down with a bowl of cereal. As a nursing student, she rarely had the time or money to go to the grocery shop. She had woken up knowing she had already eaten her last eggs the other morning. But in the back of the cabinet she had found an old box of off-brand cornflakes and had poured herself a bowl. 

Her first bite was chalky and obviously a bit stale, she continued chewing as she looked over yesterday's notes. As she chewed her clothes began to shift, scrubs becoming loose white pants and shirts that didn’t fit correctly…yet. 

She shifted in the orange chair, trying to accommodate for her body that began to change. Still, she was too absorbed in her notes to notice anything amiss. Her feet began to grow out of her socks, revealing long white arches. Limbs lengthening into sun tanned muscle. She tabbed her long fingers on the table as her mind began to wander. 

Her throat became instantly thicker as the changes spread up to her face. Her tight bun exploded into a roughly cut mullet. Face becoming longer, a long nose and thick eyebrows appearing. A small scattering of body hair grew like she had never shaved before. A permanent smell of livestock formed around him.

She lost focus in her schoolwork entirely as a course of pleasure coursed through her body. Her brain started to rewrite itself, memories and instincts changing. Ambitions of becoming a pediatrician were replaced by much smaller dreams of farming and living simply in the south. Skills changed as she gained knowledge of agriculture and home cooking. The source of pleasure became obvious as she reached down to her crotch feeling for the growing penis that was pushing its way into existence. Becoming fully formed and erect as she became he. 

A cap plopped onto his head as he fully embraced his new self. A ruddy, stinky, dirt-under-the-nails midwestern teenage farm boy.

4

File name:(RC)AS-ED-Sprite 

Manufacturing details: produced in partnership with Graystone International.

Key transformation components:

Lemon-lime flavor adjusted with Kabosu limes

Bottle plastic mixed with recycled Chinese take out containers

Liquid aerated using pheromone enriched air from Japanese gyms 

Sugar blend calibrated for maximum speed + minimum brain activity

Carbonation spiked with cultural spectrum chemicals

Testing: He cracked it open mid-commute. He needed the boost trying to walk the seven blocks to the office. 

The fizz exploded in his mouth, way too strong. His body jolted in shock. Energy flooded him instantly, his legs twitching, heart pounding, lungs expanding like they could never run out of air.

He chugged it. Big fucking mistake.

His cubby frame began to skim down, he also lost at least multiple inches. The fattiness in his limbs changed into lean muscle. Lean abs formed under his clothes as his skin began to take on a lighter tone. His face lost all roundness as it became lean, sharp and youthful. 

His brain… didn’t keep up. Memories of being another office worker replaced by being an international transfer student. His internal thoughts were in Mandarin instead of English. His suit melted away, replaced by a black t-shirt and baggy jeans. His hair becomes messy and straight. 

“Yo—yo—yo—” he laughed, bouncing on his toes. “Gada’ get to school”

He didn’t remember where he was originally going. Already on route to a school in the opposite direction. Sipping on his sprite like it was the best thing in the world. He was so glad 妈妈 had sent him his favorite 雪碧 from china, all this American soda was garbage anyway.

(Going to do more streamlined theming for this series from now on. This one was a lot of fun, lots of cool stuff a racial change, southern tf, and a couple classic jock transformations. I’m not sure if I’ll add to this series again for while, but enjoy this yummy blend of shorts)

[merryy3dbhsjsk]

The Island

The humid air clung to their skin like a second layer of clothing as the small boat nosed against the island’s wooden dock. Jonathan, the self-appointed leader of the group, lifted himself up from the wet humid stickiness of the wooden bench. looking into lush, breathing wilderness that rose before them with excitement. On either side of him were his best friends, Daniel and Matthew, both bright-eyed college students, excited but nervous. The three of them had been planning to take a gap year to “find themselves” as they put it, and now they were here—an unmarked island far off the coast of Central America, the start of their world traveling adventures. 

They carried supplies in waterproof packs, some local money they had traded their American dollars for and a determination to explore the “unknown”. Jonathan especially felt the elation of seeing someplace new. He believed his whole life had been steering him here. Daniel, on the other hand, was more interested in trying to save the locals than adventure, he even had brought Bibles translated into the language of the native tribe. and Matthew was tagging along partly for the experience and partly because he didn’t want to be left behind.

The island greeted them with green silence, broken only by birdsong and the drone of insects. As their boat drifted away, leaving them for a month with only their supplies and the company of people they had never met. The air stirred faintly, though no wind came from the ocean. The three young men didn’t notice that the jungle had gone quiet, listening it seemed like. 

The boys found the village after two hours of trudging through thick undergrowth. Huts built from palm and wood curved around an open space where smoke drifted lazily from a firepit. Children stopped their games to stare at the pale, sweating newcomers. Soon, adults emerged: tall, bronzed men with broad shoulders, women with hair braided and adorned with flowers, all barefoot, all staring in silence.

Daniel smiled awkwardly. “Hey. Uh… hello?”

To their surprise, one of the men responded in broken Spanish. “You… come… visitors?”

Relief flooded Jonathan. “Yes. We came to know about this place. We come to help.”

The man only nodded and gestured them forward. “Come. You… stay.”

That first night, the three sat by the fire while food was brought, fish roasted over coals, fruits cut open to reveal red and golden insides, roots mashed into something thick and starchy. The villagers ate with their hands, laughing and talking in language the foreigners didn’t understand. They ate carefully, watching. Danial tried to speak of God, of Christ’s sacrifice, but his words were clumsy in translation. The villagers listened politely but with bemusement. When one old man finally spoke, all he said was: “We have all gods needed here. Strong gods. The island gives us all.”

The villagers laughed and the conversation moved on. Danial bristled. But the other two, however, felt their stomach warm with the food and their hearts light with laughter, and smiled in spite of their friend’s annoyance.

Days passed into weeks. The three learned the local custom slowly. But the people remained patient yet unmoved in their foreign ways. The boys found themselves being taught how to weave palm leaves, how to spear fish in clear pools, and how to move silently in the jungle. Johnathan embraced it first, eager to prove himself. Matthew followed, charmed by the village girls(and boys) who giggled when he stumbled over their language. Even Danial, though stern at first, felt something loosening inside him as he watched the men wrestle in the sand, their bodies shining with sweat, or as he joined a nighttime dance where flames lit painted faces and voices rose in hypnotic chants.

The island’s worship was everywhere: in the way the people thanked the river before drinking, bowed their heads to the ocean before swimming, and touched the bark of certain trees reverently. They spoke of gods not as distant figures but as present forces: the River Mother, the Sky Father, the Fire Brother, things the boys had never heard of until now.

Danial argued with them, quoting scripture, but even as he did, he felt his words ring hollow. At night, he dreamed of water wrapping around his body, not cold but alive, stroking him, pulling him deeper.

The month came quickly. On the morning the boat was supposed to return, Jonathan, Daniel, and Matthew stood at the river’s edge. None of them wanted to leave.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Matthew said quietly, digging his bare toes into the earth. “Back there… everything feels so so so. . . compared to this, Here, I feel alive.”

Daniel nodded fiercely. “I don’t wanna go back to school, to stupid classes and dorm rooms. I wanna stay here. With them. With this.”

Jonathan looked at the empty waterway, trembling. He should rebuke them. He should demand they leave, head to the next stop on their adventure . But instead he whispered, “What if we asked? What if the gods… let us stay?”

The words startled him, but they felt right. The villagers had spoken often of how the gods sometimes claimed outsiders, drawing them into the island forever. It was said that if you begged earnestly, the island would answer.

So the three knelt by the riverbank, heads bowed, voices trembling. “River Mother… Sky Father… we beg you. Let us remain. Make us yours.”

The jungle hushed. The water rippled though no wind stirred it, and then, in what only could be a sign from the gods. The water glowed warmly blue, the boy stared and knew what they must do. 

Jonathan swallowed hard. “We have to… go in.”

Daniel was already pulling off his shirt. “Then let’s do it.”

Naked, they waded into the river. At first it was just cool water lapping their thighs, their waists. Then it felt thicker, grew almost viscous, curling around them like hands. Matthew gasped as something stroked his calf, his hip. Jonathan felt a pressure kneading his chest, his arms, as if unseen fingers molded him. Daniel laughed breathlessly. “It’s touching me—oh Gods—it feels—”

Jonathan tried to say something, but his voice was shaking. His body writhed with pleasure as the water caressed him like a lover “It’s. . .Ugh.”

The water surged, lifting them, cradling them like infants. They moaned as warmth seeped into their muscles, softening, reshaping, strengthening. Their hair grew thicker, darker, curling in the humidity. Skin deepened to sun-bronzed hues, the red burns gone. Their bodies stretched lean and powerful, muscles carved by the river itself.

Danial’s cross slipped from his neck, sinking. He didn’t reach for it.

When at last the current stilled and released them, the three staggered to the shore, dripping, laughing, trembling with the aftershocks of transformation. They looked at one another and froze.

Their faces were no longer the pale, narrow ones of American tourists. They were young men of the island now: strong jaws shaded with stubble, wild hair clinging in wet curls, eyes dark and bright. Their bodies gleamed, sculpted by the river’s embrace.

Daniel whooped and threw his arms around the others. “Look at us! Look—we’re… we’re. . .” He trailed off as his thought of being changed vanished as soon as it came, their memories of collage, life in the US, and their plans of traveling the world fell away.

Matthew touched his face, his chest, disbelief melting into familiar confidence. “I… I look good. . . As always”

Jonathan should have been horrified. Instead he felt joy so sharp it bordered on pain. He felt… free. “The gods have given us a gift,” he whispered, although he couldn’t recall whatnot that gift was exactly. “We are perfect tribesmen, what could be a greater gift them to live in a place so hollowed”

From the village came the sound of drums. People emerged, smiling as though they had been waiting. Hands reached out to welcome the three boys back. The villagers chanted words Jonathan now understood perfectly, though he had never learned them: “Brothers. Sons of the River. Chosen.”

Jonathan, Daniel, and Matthew laughed with them, voices carrying into the thick green air. That evening, the three sat together by the fire after their coming of age ceremonies. their wet hair clinging to their shoulders, their bronzed skin glowing in the flames. They no longer thought of themselves as anything but tribesmen. 

And when the boat returned the next morning, searching for them, it found no trace. 

(This one was a fun write, really like the idea of a place you just can’t help but stay. . .forever! Obviously this isn’t rooted in any sort of actual religion or culture, it’s really up to your interpretation. Please don’t take it to seriously, hope you enjoyed!)

[willysswapfactory]

I love black bodybuilders mate. Turn me into a big one with big farts

Skinny white twink wants to become a huge black bodybuilder? Now this is something I can get behind. Let’s start with the obvious and add some melanin to your skin till you’re no longer white to any extent. Now your body’s adjusting you watch as your hair starts to fall out but don’t fret I’ll give you some hair, I’m thinking a buzz that falls on the longer side of things. Your “muscles” if we can even call them that are non existent so let’s give you that “I go to the gym for 5 hours a day 7 days a week look”. Next we gotta add some height to make sure you’re hulking over everyone else. I’m going to slowly stretch your legs and thighs upwards til you reach 6’3 which seems like the perfect height. Now with such long thighs I’ve gotta do something so they dont look awkward and I’m thinking a massive muscle butt does just the trick hehe. Don’t expect to fit into anything under a size 38 bro. Now you almost done with the physical transformations but I’m feeling like you’re missing something and that something is tattoos. Let’s give you some to make sure you fit the bodybuilder aesthetic.

Now for mental changes it’s time to dumb you down a bit, I think 77 is good for you. Still smart enough to do most things but not enough to pursue college which is fine cause you’re going to spend your days at the gym. I’m making you addicted to protein to the point that you can’t eat anything without having a protein shake to help down it and boy does that lead you to have some intestinal issues. You can’t stop farting giant stink bombs wherever you go but you don’t care cause your secretly turned on by your musk. Your farts smell of raw beef and sewage but you enjoy the smell as it makes you feel manly. I hope you enjoy your time as a hulking gassy bodybuilder cause I know I might have to hookup with you soon broski

[tuggerinthasea]

It's a Deal - Chulo and Ricky

The syringe glinted under the blacklight, the blue liquid swirling like antifreeze in C-Lo's grip. He rolled it between his fingers—slow, deliberate—letting the kid in the Louis Vuitton belt buckle sweat. "Aight," C-Lo drawled, tilting his head so the gold "PIMP" pendant swung like a pendulum. "You wanna be famous famous? Or just IG famous?"

The kid—Chase or Chaz or some shit—licked his lips, eyes darting to the OnlyFans dashboard still glowing on C-Lo's phone. Thumbnails of ex-frat boys with newfound BBCs and prison tats cycled past, their captions screaming "SUBSCRIBE FOR THE REALEST CONTENT". "I wanna be him," the kid breathed, jabbing a finger at the top earner—a caramel-skinned demon with snake eyes and a dick that cast shadows.

C-Lo smirked. "Twelve inches. Thug as fuck. Switch." He ticked the requirements off on his fingers, each word landing like a hammer. "You ain’t scared of dick, right?"

The kid swallowed hard, but the hunger in his eyes didn’t lie. "Nah. I—I can take it."

Lisa snorted from the corner, her blunt trailing smoke as she scrolled through fresh DMs. "They all say that."

C-Lo popped the cap off the syringe with his teeth. "Aight then." He nodded to Marcus, who yanked the kid’s polo up over his head. The skin underneath was pale, untouched—virgin canvas. "First rule," C-Lo murmured, pressing the needle to the kid’s bicep. "No turning back."

The kid gasped as the plunger depressed, the blue liquid vanishing into his vein. For three seconds, nothing.

Then—

His spine arched like a bowstring, tendons standing out in sharp relief as his shoulders broadened. The sound of denim splitting filled the room as his thighs swelled, seams popping like firecrackers. His Jordans—pristine white before—scuffed themselves against the concrete as his feet grew half a size.

But the real show was lower.

The kid’s khakis strained, then burst, shredded fabric falling away to reveal boxers stretched taut over a thickening outline. His hands flew to his waistband, panic flashing across his face—right before the pain hit. His scream guttered into a groan as his hips widened, pelvis reshaping with audible pops.

Lisa whistled. "Damn."

C-Lo didn’t blink. He’d seen it a hundred times now—the moment the transformation clicked. The kid’s blond waves darkened to espresso, tightening into coils that sprang free from his scalp like Medusa’s snakes. His jaw squared, gold caps erupting along his teeth as his lips plumped, settling into a permanent smirk.

And the ink—

Black tendrils snaked up his arms, forming murals of glocks and grim reapers and kneeling figures with their mouths pried open. The panther on his chest moved, its claws digging into his pecs as the words "MONEY OVER BITCHES" etched themselves beneath it in jagged script.

The kid—no, the talent—collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. His voice, when it came, was bass-heavy, the vowels stretching like taffy. "Fuck."

C-Lo tossed him a durag. "Welcome to the roster."

Marcus handed him a phone—already buzzing with subscription alerts. The screen flashed: @ThugPrince69 - 10K FOLLOWERS.

The talent stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. His hands—now rough-knuckled, a knuckle duster tattooed across the fingers—drifted to his waistband. He hesitated, then tugged.

Twelve inches.

Thug as fuck.

C-Lo grinned, lighting a Dutch as the next customer shuffled in—some cornfed linebacker with sweat beading on his upper lip. "You ready to get paid, baby boy?"

Outside, the line stretched around the block.

And the world?

It couldn’t look away.

The first thing Chaz lost was his knees.

He toppled forward mid-scream, palms slapping concrete as his joints rewrote themselves—patellas grinding upward to accommodate the new thickness of his thighs, tendons snapping like rubber bands before reforging into steel cables. His Vineyard Vines polo split down the back, seams surrendering to shoulders that broadened with each shuddering breath. His blond curls darkened to pitch, tightening into braids that grew as they snaked down his back, beads clicking together like a rattlesnake's warning.

Lisa crouched beside him, her phone capturing every twitch. "Say cheese, baby boy," she purred, zooming in as his jaw unhinged—gold caps erupting along his molars with the wet pop of champagne corks. His lips swelled, the pink fading to a permanent bruise-purple as cholo-style crosses inked themselves beneath his left eye.

Chaz gagged, fingers scrambling at his disintegrating khakis. The denim melted into low-slung Dickies, the cuffs riding high enough to show off fresh prison tattoos—"MOM" in gothic script above one ankle, a weeping Virgin Mary above the other. His boxers—now waistband-straining XXL—strained against what was happening underneath.

Then came the sound.

A wet, meaty schlop as his dick unfurled, thick as a forearm and darkening to a deep espresso shade. Veins rose like subway maps beneath the skin, the head flaring wide enough to make Lisa blink. "Fourteen inches," she whistled, nudging it with her sneaker. "Damn. Kid's gonna need a wheelbarrow."

Chaz's gasp morphed mid-breath into a bass-heavy chuckle. His voice, when it came, was pure South Central—vowels clipped, consonants sharp as switchblades. "Ain't no kid no more, mamacita." He flexed, the teardrop tattoos under his eyes glistening as his new memories settled—12 years in San Quentin, three drive-bys, a fondness for strawberry Backwoods rolled tight enough to choke a nun.

Marcus tossed him a Newport. Chaz caught it between gold-capped teeth, lighting it with a Zippo that materialized from nowhere—the flame reflecting in eyes that had gone black from edge to edge. "Fuckin' rookie pack," he muttered, exhaling smoke that curled into the shape of a 69. His fingers—now knuckle-dusted with "SUCK IT" tattooed across the digits—drifted to his waistband, adjusting the monstrosity with practiced ease.

C-Lo tossed him a burner phone. The screen flashed—@SouthSideChulo - 50K FOLLOWERS. "First scene drops in twenty," C-Lo said, nodding to the studio setup in the corner—a king-size mattress draped in red satin, a tripod angled for maximum dickage.

Chaz—no, SouthSideChulo—grinned, cracking his neck with a sound like snapping celery. "Ain't my first rodeo," he lied smoothly, the words dripping with fabricated nostalgia for a childhood he'd never had in Barrio Logan. He palmed a fat blunt from his pocket, rolling it between fingers now permanently stained with nicotine. "Who's my co-star?"

The door creaked open.

The kid standing there—pink-cheeked, sweater-vested, reeking of trust-fund sweat—gaped at the transformation. "Oh god," he whispered, knees buckling at the sight of the 14" problem straining against Chulo's Dickies.

Chulo blew smoke in his face. "Nah, mijo." He grabbed the kid's chin, forcing eye contact with his void-black pupils. "Call me daddy."

The mattress groaned under their combined weight five minutes later, the tripod capturing every angle—Chulo's "MISUNDERSTOOD" back tattoo rippling as he power-stroked, the kid's Ivy League vocabulary reduced to whimpers.

C-Lo watched the subscriber count climb in real-time.

The pipeline was flowing.

And Chulo?

He was born for this.

The first English word Chulo forgot was "library."

It slipped his mind mid-sentence—his mouth open around the L sound, tongue poised to shape the vowels—when Marcus tossed him a fresh Dutch. The synapses misfired. Instead of crisp consonants, what came out was a graveled "¿Qué chingados es… ese pinche lugar con libros?" His brows furrowed, not at the lapse, but at how natural the Spanish felt curling off his tongue, thick as smoke from a burning tire.

Lisa laughed around her blunt. "Ya se está poniendo bueno," she murmured, tapping ash onto Chulo's expanding chest. The tattoos there—fresh since yesterday—twitched under the heat: a skeletal Santa Muerte riding a lowrider across his pectorals, her bony fingers gripping a steering wheel made of human spines.

Chulo's fingers drifted to his waistband, adjusting the 14-inch problem with a grunt. English felt like someone else's language now, the words clotting in his throat like spoiled milk. When the Nebraska kid whimpered "Please" from the mattress, Chulo's response was automatic—his hand fisting in the kid's hair, yanking his head back to expose a pale throat. "Cállate, puto," he growled, the accent rolling from someplace south of a border he'd never crossed. "Aquí hablamos español."

The Nebraska kid's lips trembled around unfamiliar syllables.

Chulo's phone buzzed—a DM from @ThugPrince69: "Yo G u got more of that blue?" The letters swam before his eyes, the text suddenly foreign as hieroglyphics. He tossed it aside with a snarl, reaching instead for Marcus's arm, his fingers tracing the "Vatos Locos Forever" tattoo he knew they'd gotten together in TJ after that botched drive-by in '09. (Never mind that Chulo had never set foot in Tijuana. Never mind he'd been taking AP Calculus this time last year.)

The memories felt real—the stench of burnt gunpowder, the sticky warmth of someone else's blood on his knuckles, the way Rico had screamed when the chota clipped his femoral artery—

Rico.

Chulo's breath hitched. His fingers twitched for a pistol that wasn't there. (Hadn't ever been there.) "¿Dónde está mi carnal?" he demanded, scanning the room for a face he'd never met.

Lisa exchanged a glance with Marcus. "Está pacheco," she muttered, tapping her temple.

Chulo didn't care. The craving hit him like a bat to the knees—sudden, vicious. He needed Rico's lips around his dick, needed to fuck the memories back into place, needed to taste gunmetal and Tecate on someone else's tongue. His hands found the Nebraska kid's jaw, thumbs pressing insistently against molars. "Ábrela," he commanded, hips already rolling forward.

The kid gagged. Chulo sighed.

His phone buzzed again—@ThugPrince69 had sent a voice note. Chulo played it on speaker, the voice dripping with that same South Central drawl that now lived in his throat: "Mira, cabrón, I got these putos at USC begging for the glow-up. You down to franchise?"

Chulo's golds flashed in the dim light. The English barely registered—just noise between the mira and the cabrón. But the hunger in the message? That translated perfectly.

He palmed a fresh syringe from the duffel, the blue liquid sloshing like ocean in a storm. "Diles que se preparen," he rumbled, already reaching for his waistband.

Outside, the line stretched around the block.

And Chulo?

He was home.

Rico eyes Chulos cock and understands the requirement is to undergo his tranformation on camera before feasting on his homies cock.

Rico's fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his Oxford shirt—slow, like each pop of the fabric was a landmine detonating in his past life. The collar fell open, revealing skin so pale it looked blue under the blacklight. Chulo's grin widened, gold caps glinting as he rolled the syringe between his fingers. "Mira este puto," he chuckled, nodding to the trembling veins in Rico's neck. "Parece que nunca ha visto el sol."

The camera whirred to life, its red eye blinking as Lisa adjusted the tripod. Rico swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing above the starched collar still clinging to his shoulders. His voice cracked when he spoke—half pre-law student, half desperate convert: "¿Cuánto—cuánto va a doler?"

Chulo's laugh was a bassline rattling the loose screws in the studio lights. He stepped closer, the scent of Dutch Masters and Axe body spray (the cheap kind, the kind that burned your nostrils) rolling off him in waves. "Duele más quedarte como un pinche gringo," he murmured, thumb pressing into the hollow of Rico's throat. The needle hovered, blue liquid catching the light like antifreeze.

Rico's breath hitched. His eyes—still Dartmouth-green, for now—darted to Chulo's waistband, where the outline of 14 inches strained against Dickies. Something flickered in his expression: fear, hunger, the dawning realization that pain wasn't the worst thing waiting for him. He tilted his head, exposing his neck like a sacrifice.

The needle went in smooth.

For three seconds—nothing.

Then—

Rico's spine arched so violently the chair legs screeched against concrete. His fingernails blackened first, keratin thickening into claws that scraped grooves into the armrests. His polo melted into his skin, the fabric stitching itself into a chest tattoo of a skeletal Chicano Jesus riding a lowrider made of human femurs. The sound of denim splitting filled the room as his thighs outgrew his khakis, seams bursting to accommodate quadriceps thick as fire hydrants.

Chulo watched, rapt, as Rico's jaw unhinged—literally, with a wet pop—to accommodate gold molars erupting from his gums. His lips swelled, the pink fading to a permanent bruise-purple as "ESÉ" inked itself across his knuckles.

Lisa zoomed in with her phone, catching the exact moment Rico's eyes flooded black—pupils swallowing the iris whole. "Goddamn," she muttered, panning down to where Rico's belt buckle strained against the real transformation.

Chulo didn't blink. He'd seen it a hundred times now—the second the serum hit the bloodstream and rewrote DNA like bad code. Rico's scream guttered into a groan as his hips widened, pelvis reshaping with audible cracks. His Jordans—pristine white before—scuffed themselves against the floor as his feet grew half a size.

But the show was just starting.

Rico—no, Ricky Locote now—collapsed forward onto his knees, hands braced on Chulo's thighs. His voice, when it came, was pure Boyle Heights—vowels clipped, consonants sharp as shivs. "¿Esa es tu pistola, carnal?" he rasped, nodding to the bulge in Chulo's Dickies.

Chulo smirked, palming the back of Ricky's neck. "Nah, mijo," he purred, watching Ricky's new gold grills flash under the studio lights. "Ese es el cañón."

Behind them, the studio door creaked open. Another pastel polo shuffled in, eyes wide at the scene.

Ricky didn't glance back. His fingers were already working Chulo's zipper.

Lisa hit record.

The pipeline was flowing.

Ricky's scalp itched as the hairline receded with surgical precision, his blond waves darkening to asphalt-black before vanishing entirely—leaving behind a faded high-top fade so sharp it looked drawn with a razor. The chinstrap beard erupted next, coarse hairs sprouting like barbed wire along his jawline, connecting to a pencil-thin mustache that curled at the ends. His nostrils flared wider, cartilage reshaping with wet cracks until his nose hooked slightly—the kind of nose that had been broken twice in alley fights he couldn’t remember (but felt in his marrow).

His hands moved before he registered the motion, fingers hooking under his own eyelids to stretch them—widening the almond shape until his gaze turned permanently hooded, pupils swallowing the green of his irises whole. The tattoos came last: "VATOS LOCOS" in Old English across his throat, a dripping "13" on his left eyelid, a crudely inked "FUCK 12" beneath his right collarbone. His posture settled into a permanent slouch, shoulders rolling forward like he was bracing for a shiv to the kidneys.

Ricky—no, Ricky Locote now—grunted as his back molars exploded into gold grills, the metal cooling against his tongue like freshly minted coins. His voice, when it came, was gravel wrapped in cigarette paper: "Chale, ese." He flexed his newly tattooed knuckles—"SUR" on the left, "13" on the right—and spat on the concrete between Chulo’s Timbs. "Pinche suavecito tenía que irse."

Chulo’s grin was all gold and menace. He grabbed Ricky’s freshly shaved head, forcing him to stare at the tent in his Dickies. "Aquí está tu bautismo, puto."

Ricky didn’t hesitate. His hands—now permanently stained with mechanic’s grease and imaginary gunpowder—yanked Chulo’s waistband down with a snap. The thing that sprang free was monstrous, veins pulsing under skin darkened to match Chulo’s own espresso hue. Ricky’s new memories supplied the taste before his tongue even made contact: sweat, Newport smoke, and the copper tang of a split lip from a fight behind a 7-Eleven in ’08.

The camera caught it all—Ricky’s blackened nails digging into Chulo’s thighs, the way his fresh teardrop tattoo glistened under the studio lights, the gag that rattled his gold-capped teeth when Chulo bottomed out. Lisa zoomed in on the spit string connecting Ricky’s swollen lips to the glistening head, the mic picking up his wet, punched-out grunts: "¡Chingada madre, qué chingón!"

Behind them, the pastel polo kid—still clutching his crumpled twenties—whimpered. Chulo’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. "You’re next, gabacho," he growled, yanking him into frame as Ricky came up for air, lips slick and swollen. The kid’s knees hit the concrete with a thud, his horrified gaze locked on Ricky’s transforming face—the way his cheekbones sharpened under newly inked "XIII" tattoos, the way his earlobes stretched to accommodate inch-thick gauges that hadn’t existed five minutes ago.

Ricky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the motion practiced. He glanced at the kid, then at Chulo, then at the needle Lisa was already uncapping. The grin that split his face was all gold and gangland. "Pónganlo en cuatro," he rasped, cracking his knuckles. "Voy a enseñarle cómo se hace en el barrio."

The kid’s scream was muffled by duct tape. The camera rolled. The syringe glowed blue.

And Ricky?

He was ready to suck some Chulo dick fo sum OF cred.