"Dude, I'm screwed," Marcus groaned, tapping his head against the desk. "Coach is gonna bench me if I don't show I'm worth during next game, but I don't have time to train or do anything because of this shit ass exam. I fucking hate organic chemistry. I wish I had full sports scholarship so I wouldn't have to worry about this stuff"
Devin looked up from his desk. "You're being dramatic. You did well on all exams this semester. And you are a good player. You'll do well. I believe in you" he said trying to be a bit more supportive towards his friend.
"Yeah, but that's all thanks to you and your tutoring. Seriously, thanks dude. I don't know what would I do without you " Marcus said, grabbing his own bicep. "Look at this. I'm 6'2 and weigh, what, 175 soaking wet? I get bodied every time I drive the lane. I need to put on some weight."
"You could just… eat more?" Devin suggested ignorantly.
"Bro, I eat. It doesn't stick. If only it was that easy" Marcus sighed. "If I was like 185, maybe I could actually hold my own down low. Get some rebounds. Be a little more physical."
Devin pulled out his phone, half-listening. He'd downloaded some weird app his old roommate sent him. He was given a free trial to test it out. Supposedly you could type things and they'd happen. Probably bullshit, but whatever. He just wanted to test it and this seemed like a good time for it.
Marcus weighs 185 pounds.
Marcus was still talking, but something was different. Looking at him, his shoulders looked broader under his tank top. His arms, usually wiry, now had visible definition. Not huge, but… solid.
"-and then I could actually finish through contact, you know? Like if I was 195, man. That's the dream. Just ten more pounds of muscle and I'd be unstoppable on the field."
"Wait," Devin blinked. "You said you just wanted to be 185."
"185?" Marcus laughed. "Nah, I hit 185 few months ago, your math is wrong. Keep up, man." He stretched a bit , his shirt definitely a lot tigher than it used to be "Been stuck at 185 for months though. Plateau is real. But I don't think I could get that big and continue playing basketball. These babies would just be too big" he added flexing his biceps that was now definitely more noticable.
Devin looked down at his phone. Then back at Marcus. Then at the phone.
Marcus weighs 195 pounds.
"That's why I switched to football, honestly. Able to get a lot bigger"
Devin's head snapped up. "Football? But didn't you play basketball"
Marcus was bigger now. Noticeably bigger. His tank top was straining. His neck had thickened, his chest pushing the fabric outward. He cracked his neck and kept going like nothing had changed.
"Yeah, played. Past tense dude. Back in highschool. You are supposed to be the smart one here" he laughed, his voice deeper "But I could never get this big and stay at basketball" Marcus leaned forward, and Devin could see the way his pecs bunched together. The tank top seams were working overtime. "I've been playing football since freshman year of college. You literally came to the homecoming game. Sat in the front row."
Devin had no memory of this. But it felt real. It felt true. Shaking his head after acquiring a new memory, Devin focused on more pressing matters... "You want to get even bigger?" He asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"Bigger?" Marcus stood up and stretched. The tank top rode up, revealing a tight stomach with the outline of his abs. "I mean… yeah. Honestly? If I could hit 220, I'd be a monster on the field. Tight ends are getting bigger every year. The guys I'm blocking are like 240, 250. I feel small half the time."
"Small." Devin's voice was flat. "You feel small."
"Bro, you don't get it because you don't play." Marcus turned as he heard a small rip. Looking at his tank top, he paused, frowning. "Fuck. I could swear this fit better the other day. I keep outgrowing my clothes lately." He said like it's the most normal thing that kept happening to him. Still, he quickly went back to the original topic... "220 is the goal. But 230?" His eyes got a little dreamy. "At 230 I could play defensive end. Always wanted to rush the passer. Just destroy quarterbacks."
Devin was already typing. He noticed the pattern so he was already a step ahead of Marcus. There was no way anyone would be disatisfied with 250.
Marcus weighs 250 pounds.
And Devin marveled at the change. Marcus's shoulders flared outward, his lats pushing his arms away from his body as the tank top gave up completely. His quads thickened, forcing his stance a little wider as his sweatpants almost tore apart. His chest expended every time he inhaled, but it didn't seem to get smaller when he exhaled. No... Instead it kept on getting bigger. His massive pecs forming a shelf that casted a shadow ober his abs. His jaw looked sharper, more defined. Everything about him was just… more. Was he taller? Perhaps the app changed his size a bit to make room for more muscle...
"Yeah," Marcus said, his voice dropping just slightly, like it had gained some bass. "Honestly being 250 is great. Defensive end is where it's at. The quarterback never sees me coming. Last game I had three sacks. The Coach said some scouts are already asking about me. NFL here I come" He grinned, and even his smile looked more confident.
Devin meanwhile stared at the man in front of him...the broad chest, the thick arms, the way he seemed to fill the room just by standing in it. He'd started this conversation with a lanky basketball player. Now there was a defensive end standing in his dorm room, talking about the NFL like it was inevitable. He couldn't help himself as his thumb hovered over the screen. Marcus was already massive. A 250 pounds of muscle packed into a torn tank top, looking like he could bulldoze through a brick wall. That was enough... at least for now. But Devin's mind started to wonder. What else could this app do?
Marcus caught him staring. "What are you looking at, bro?" He said putting on a new shirt since the last tank top gave up, casually flexing his bicep as it grew to the size of a football. "You've been on your phone all night. Texting some girl?"
"Something like that," Devin muttered. Looking at this muscle hunk he had just created, Devin got a little greedy. Marcus was looking so good, he had to adda few more things-
Marcus has a massive bulge. He's extremely well endowed. He's not shy about it.
"You know what's funny," Marcus said, shifting his weight and spreading his legs a little wider as he sat down, not seemingly not wearing any shorts. He was done with studying for tonight. "Playing D-end, you get a lot of attention. Girls love the big guys." He gestured down at himself and smirked.
Devin's eyes involuntarily dropped. The underwear that Marcus was wearing were suddenly… full. Very full. There was a prominent, thick outline of his bulge running down his thigh that definitely hadn't been there a minute ago. Devin felt his face get hot.
"Dude, my eyes are up here," Marcus laughed, but he didn't sound offended. If anything, he sounded proud. He leaned back on his hands, which only made the situation more obvious. "Not my fault I got blessed, you know? Genetics, man. Some guys get this or that. But I got it all. Muscle, height, dick. What more could man ask for" The man simply smirked
"Right," Devin choked out. "Genetics."
"I mean, you've seen it in the showers. You know what I'm working with." Marcus said it so casually, like it was common knowledge, as he stood up, moving to the bed behind them and the poor chair made a sound in relief. And suddenly... There was another memory in Devin's head. His brain supplied the picture. He had seen it. Marcus was famous for it on the team. Guys joked that he had to tape it down before games. A third leg. That's what they called him.
"Anyway" Marcus continued, adjusting himself without a hint of shame, "Coach wants me to move to offensive line. Says at my size I could be a hell of a left tackle. Protect the quarterback's blind side." He cracked his knuckles. "But I don't know. D-end is more fun. You get to be aggressive."
Devin was only half-listening. His eyes kept drifting down to Marcus's lap, where the thick outline seemed to pulse slightly every time the big man shifted his weight. It was hypnotic. It was also giving Devin ideas.
Marcus is extremely horny all the time. He talks about it openly.
"-and the thing about offensive line is the stance," Marcus was saying, then paused. He let out a low groan and adjusted himself again, more forcefully this time. "Sorry bro. I've been so damn worked up lately. It's annoying."
"Yeah?" Devin's voice came out squeakier than he intended.
"Dude, it's constant. I wake up ready to go. Practice is brutal because I'm chafing in my cup half the time. Showers after? Forget about it. I have to wait till everyone leaves or I'll poke someone's eye out." He laughed, but there was smugness in his expression. "Coach says it's all the testosterone. Guy at my size, lifting as heavy as I do, eating as much as I do… it simply natural"
"So you just… walk around like that?" He said pointing at the hard on he was having at the moment.
"Pretty much." Marcus didn't look embarrassed. If anything, he looked proud of it, like it was just another muscle he'd built. "Girlfriends love it at first. Then they get tired. I had one tell me I was 'too much to handle.'" He made air quotes with his thick fingers, before starting to casually stroke himself. Loking back at Devin, as if he wasn't just pleasuring himself, Marcus smirked again "You've got that look on your face."
"What look?" Devin asked, quickly shaking his head as he looked up from Marcus obvious bulge that was being stroked by those rough and collosal hands. He could see the thick outline of his new dick and the raging libido that came with it. It was... Mesmerizing. But he couldn't just stare at it-!
"The one where you're thinking too hard about something." Marcus studied him with those dark eyes... had they always been that deep brown? "You always do that. It's kind of cute, actually."
"Cute?" Devin's voice cracked. Did his straight roommate call him cute? He could feel it... The blood flowing through him and making his face fed.
"Yeah. That's the word." Marcus said it with a shrug. "You get all flustered. Your ears turn red. It's endearing." He leaned forward, hands still in his underwear . "Any girl would be lucky to have you."
'I'm not into girls' Devin thought as he looked as his phone, already with an idea on how to solve this situation. His thumb hesitated over the screen. Then he typed.
Marcus is bisexual. He prefers men. Specifically, he is deeply attracted to Devin.
A strange look crossed Marcus's face. He blinked slowly, as if seeing something or someone for the very first time. His gaze traveled from Devin's face down and back up again. The casual energy in the room shifted, grew charged.
"You know what?" Marcus said, his voice dropping into a lower register, "Scratch that. Any girl is the wrong thing to say." He stopped stroking himself as he stood up from the bed, all 6'5" of him, packed with 250 pounds of muscle, and crossed the small distance between them. "What I meant to say is... I've been thinking about you differently lately, Devin."
"You have?" Devin's voice was barely a whisper as he couldn't believe what was happening. He saw what the app could do, but this... This was on another level... Was he being too greedy with these changes? It startered out of joke, then goodwill but at the end was only fuffling his fantasies...
"Mm." Marcus was very close now, his face inches away from Devin's "I have. You're always here for me. You're smart. You're funny. And honestly..." He reached out and gently took the phone from Devin's nervous fingers, setting it aside on the desk without even glancing at it. "I find you incredibly attractive. I was just afraid to say it before. But this feels like the right moment, doesn't it? It feels... right." His hand came up, warm and solid, to cup Devin's "Tell me if I'm reading this wrong. Tell me you don't feel it too, and I'll back off. We'll go back to just being friends. No weirdness."
Devin's mind was racing through everything that had changed in the last fifteen minutes. The size, the height, the whole impossible wave of transformations. But looking up into those dark... And huge pecs, he found it hard to care about consequences. "You're not reading it wrong," he said quietly.
"Great." Marcus smiled "Because I was hoping that's what this meant" he said jokingly pointing out small bulge in Devin's pants and the smaller boy immediately blushed even harder. Taking him to bed, Marcus simply smiled "Since you are on board... I've got some ideas about what we should do tonight. And none of them involve studying."
A buzzing sound came from the desk. Devin's phone, screen still glowing. A text from his old roommate: "Did you try the app yet? Hilarious right?? Fair warning though, changes are permanent. LOL". But Devin didn't see. He was otherwise occupied.
You assume it on knowing that it has already happened. There is no “how” because it is not an effort, it is a natural state. You simply know that you already have it. In the same way that you know your name without having to constantly reaffirm it, you know that you already have everything you want.
If you feel yourself questioning or doubting, go back to the feeling of already being the person who has it. Ask yourself: If I already had it all right now, how would I feel? How would I think? What would I do? And just embody that version of you.
Just affirm it, feel it and don't contradict it. And if you have to do something contrary or think something contrary, >know< in the exactly same way that it doesn't change anything. Accept that It's simple and easy.
My head throbbed and I felt more sore than I ever had in my life when I woke up this morning the sun peaking bright through my window. My bed strangely creaked and groaned as I attempted to turn over but when I opened my eyes reality hit me like a truck. Looking down at my body I was giant and hairy, much larger than my normal skinny body of Alex Henderson that was maybe 130 lbs soaking wet. I threw off the sheet and a monster dick that bobbed up and down almost matching my heartbeat and the smell of sweat invaded my nostrils. I panicked because what had slowly been spreading to my family for the last week had finally happened to me. Last Tuesday we were all gathered at home. Summer had just begun. My twenty year old sister had returned from college to study fashion while I was getting ready to leave to study marketing once summer ended. The whole world seemed to ripple for a minute and the sky seemed to change color for just a second and at first we didn’t notice anything different until we realized the internet didn’t work and the weirdest part we couldn’t leave the house we would just wind up back inside and the world continued on outside without us. I could have dealt with all that but the biggest change involved my family members morphing into copies of some of the men around town that I found most attractive. Worst of all they acted constantly horny like they were living in a porno and kept trying everything to get me to have sex with them. Don't get me wrong it would have been great all these hot guys throwing themselves at me but these sex obsessed fantasy guys were my family members. Even more strangely they would switch between acting like their old personality and their new one usually with a blink and shake of their head, it all was completely normal to them if I brought it up they looked at me like I was crazy.
My dad who luckily worked as an astrophysicist, a job I never understood but it came in handy when he said he recognized the pattern of the sky changing color from satellite imagery he studied last week and got to work in his basement office looking for a solution. Now looking in the bathroom mirror I was greeted not by my eighteen year old face but by the shocked face of Mr. Brown, my senior year history teacher and coach of the soccer team. I’d spent my senior year captivated by him the way his dress shirts would hug his bulky frame or how the smell of his cologne would invade my nostrils when I entered the classroom. My favorite way to spend the class period was hoping a student would ask him a question so he would bend down over their desk and I could get a look at his ass in his tight pants. After school I would sit in the bleachers hoping to see him running drills with the soccer team and working up a sweat in his gym shorts and tight school t-shirt. Now I had a front row seat to his naked body and it was even better than I imagined. Legs and thighs like tree trunks and a hairy body that exuded masculine energy and smell. His ass was even bigger than it looked in his dress pants. It felt great just to stand there and grab it with my much larger hands, eventually I worked my hands around to my stomach and down to my new dick. It was the best feeling I had ever experienced. I'd never felt so much pleasure radiate through my body and I didn't want it to end ever. No, I had to stay focused this whole situation had to be reversed even if it meant I had to lose this gorgeous body, with none of the clothes in my dresser having a chance of fitting me now I went into my parents room and found a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that could cover me up. I had to find dad and see if he could help me, he said yesterday evening he was close to a breakthrough as he analyzed some more data last night.
After lumbering down the stairs which my new hefty body made difficult, I saw out on the patio the guy who used to be my sister Ashley now with the body of her boyfriend Brandon doing yoga. Who knew the soccer captain could be so flexible? He was out there doing the splits and several different yoga poses I didn’t know were possible especially for a guy. “Brandon, have you seen where dad is? I need to talk with him” I asked. “Oh hey Alex do you like the outfit I found in my closet? It's so cute and luckily it fits I don’t know why but none of my clothes seem to fit lately. I must have visited the dining hall too many times. Even my underwear is too small especially in the front and I don’t know why I’ve always crammed my dick and balls in there before and I never had an issue but now even my favorite pair almost ripped today, even these pants can barely hide my ass” he said his voice even in a noticeably higher pitch as he run his hands up his backside, his white pants stretched to their limit over his butt in the yoga pose he was in. He blinked and shook his head and smirked at me, his voice resuming its deeper pitch Brandon’s personality back in control, “hey looser come out here to stare at me while I stretch? Shit I would too look at me this body is perfection” he said flexing and rubbing his chest. “Here let me give you a better look”, then he began to remove his white pants and was now completely naked, his caramel colored body shining in the morning sunlight. “Take a look at this, all this yoga has really loosened me up. I’ve been working on this for hours pretty soon I’ll be able to entertain myself all day since you love to play hard to get.” He then sat on the ground and brought his foot up to his mouth and licked it all over with his large tongue, never breaking eye contact with me and I couldn’t look away. After each toe had been sampled he raised both his legs up and locked both of his feet behind his head and began to try and stretch his mouth toward the hard dripping appendage between his legs. I finally snapped out of it and ran inside. Well Brandon had been no help just like he was before all of this only caring about himself. I left him in the backyards legs behind his head damn that yoga really was helping I’m pretty sure I saw his tongue make contact with his dick although, I was distracted with him in that position I could clearly see his asshole and there something leaking out of it things just kept getting worse.
I tiptoed into the kitchen because my mom was a little unpredictable in her new body, a former twenty-seven year old convict Luke who worked at the mechanic that I took my cheap sedan to for tire and oil changes. I just had to spend those hours staring at him dripping in sweat while he worked on my car didn’t I. One minute he would be my happy mother asking me how my day was and calling me his sweet boy to Luke’s personality taking over swearing up a storm and scowling and asking me what the hell i was staring at. “Hey honey! If you wait just a second I can have a cupcake ready for you” It must have been a good day today, although it was still so weird to see his tatted up body wearing only my mothers apron and hearing his deep voice call me honey. Even more unsettling was the large protrusion below her waist that was sticking so obscenely in front of her it knocked over the can of baking powder on the counter when he turned to face me. “Sorry, stupid thing won’t go down. I already had Brandon let me release a load in his ass before I started baking but these balls are full again and I’m going to have to mop when I’m done baking, I’m dripping all over the floor. Be a dear and help me out, maybe just a little tongue action on my balls please” Then he lifted up his apron showing the giant dick and dangling balls I had seen too often over the last couple days. He was almost whimpering, biting his lip as his dick twitched and bobbed up and down and continued to leak on the floor. When I declined as I so often had to do in this house it was like a switch flipped and Luke’s harsher personality took over with a shake of his head. “You fucking ungrateful piece of shit, I work hard all day sweating my balls off cooking and cleaning and all I ask is for you to help me out when I need some release you’re fucking useless”. “Um yeah have you seen dad by chance” I asked hesitantly hoping to get out of here quickly. “Where do you think he is in his office downstairs fucking dumbass, God damn it I need a smoke”. He yelled, throwing his apron on the counter and pulling a cigarette from the front pocket, lighting up and blowing a large cloud of smoke in my direction, grumbling and flipping me off and beginning to work his hand rapidly up and down his glistening shaft. As I began to leave the oven timer dinged and Moms regular happy demeanor was back and as he bent over the oven to grab the cupcakes Luke shook his bubble butt and said, “oooooh yay cupcakes are done I’m going to save some icing you can lick it off my ass later honey. oh dang it, excuse my language son I just made more of a mess look at these new puddles on the floor” I needed to find Dad he said he was close to figuring out what was going on last night hopefully he had made a breakthrough because this house was driving me crazy.
My worst fear awaited me when I went down to dad’s office. There sitting on the couch was Jesse, a guy who worked at the local pizza place and was probably the worst body dad could have been put in. Yeah he was extremely hot, why else would he be here making things worse, he was also extremely dumb multiple times when I handed him cash for my pizza order it took him minutes to figure out my change. “Wait dude stop you’re cracking me up so, sure I’m some smart scientist whatever you say bro hahaha. Why would I use my brain for numbers and stuff that shit gives me a headache. You don’t need to use your brain when you look this good, check out these abs and this chest touch them if you want. Dude what the fuck stop crying you’re killing the vibes it’s bad enough my phone isn’t working can’t even pull up my favorite sites to take care of this problem” he said as he pulled down his grey shorts releasing his dick that smacked his stomach as it escaped its confines. “Can you send down the hottie in the yoga pants bro? I couldn't get enough of him last night he snuck down here and was doing the splits and shit while bouncing on my dick it was amazing.” “No dad please you can’t be stuck as this dumbass you’re supposed to figure out how to fix this mess, I don’t want to be old I’m supposed to be starting college in a few months” I began to cry even louder then Jesse blinked and shook his head an angry look appearing on his face as his nostrils flared and a vein popped on his forehead just like dad’s when we misbehaved as kids. “I will not have you swearing in my house young man, how dare you call me a dumbass. Get upstairs, I don't want to see you until dinner Alexander” I climbed the stairs, the stern and familiar expression of my dad already gone from Jesse’s face and replaced with his tongue rolling out of his mouth as he flexed and grouped his pecs any sign of my intelligent father gone. I arrived at the landing on the ground floor greeted by the sight of Brandon and Luke making out naked on the living room couch. “Finally he’s free, hurry up, let's get downstairs Luke, that guy down there is so hot we can share him” they high fived and ran downstairs giggling, their matching boners swinging between their legs with every step. I climbed the stairs back to my room, my only hope of escaping this nightmare gone.
You know I don’t remember what I was so worried about yesterday morning. I have this great body, huge dick, and a house full of hot guys who want to have sex with me everyday. This is paradise. I think this top really makes me look sexy. It kind of just appeared in my closet an hour ago how lucky is that!. I wonder if the boys will agree not that we’ll be in our clothes for a very long time. Damn it is that Luke moaning ugh only Jesse’s dick makes him squeal like that. I told them to wait for me.
Meanwhile in a galaxy three solar systems away…
“Sir Earth experiment 8076-A43 seems to finally be a success. All test subjects have succumbed to the newest reality altering invention although the personality modifier could still use some work; they're still switching between their original and new personalities randomly.” “ Excellent, expand this test to the entire neighborhood and give me an update on the other experiments soon, we need to know if there are any issues with our other test subjects.” “Yes sir right away” said the alien scientist pushing a button and causing another reality changing ripple to sweep across the planet.
Sinclair was a steadfast reporter committed to spreading the truth. This has gotten him some hot water and his bosses demand he return to grunt work. Four paths before him, which will he begrudgingly choose.
Partially inspired by a couple photos sent to me by MiscTF, this story includes my first inanimate/body part TF! Surely not to be to everyone's tastes but I'm sure there's something to every TF fan's tastes in one of these shorter stories. Hope you enjoy! -Occam
One of four headlines will determine the rest of Sinclair's life:
Pleasant Valley Pistols Find Their Home In State Of The Art Arena: Hockey Player
Fort Pleasant Repurposes Old High School: Soldier
Pan-Asian Community Center Places Capstone: Asian Gym Bro
New Talent Being Developed At Pleasant Valley Paper: Cock
After everything Sinclair’s done to keep this raggedy, well, rag afloat they decide to send him back into the field to do some reporting. Sure, it’s how he started out all those years ago, wandering into the streets, freshly earned degree in hand, to interview for puff pieces in the Pleasant Valley Paper.
Decade and some change of late nights writing and early rises to edit copy, Sinclair just wants to stay at his desk. And his bosses know that. ‘There’s just too much going on in town.’ As if he buys that. It just feels like punishment. Well, no, he knows it’s punishment.
He’s published stories on lemonade stands before and they wanted him not to report on the shady shell companies coming in to buy and redevelop half of town? The fact that one of them bought out the paper a week later is proof that he was onto something. At least, that's what he says to the few coworkers not avoiding him like the plague.
These days that’s mostly his assistant, Marcos, who just walked into his office with the higher up’s new projects for Sinclair. “At least they’re letting you choose, right boss?”
Somehow sighing and scoffing at the same time, Sinclair’s having none of it, “Sure kid. You spend a decade of your life pouring your blood into a typewriter for them to say ‘why dontcha pick between sports reporting a little league game and touring the new sewage treatment plant’ and get back to me.”
Glancing at said typewriter, Marcos holds his tongue from insulting his own boss’ performative proclivities; ones that result in him having to retype each and every article into a word processor. But his boss is right, they’re shafting him. He just needs to stay in the reporter’s good graces long enough to get a rec letter, “I get that Sinclair, but they did kinda tell me this is some last chance stuff. And I know you don’t want to do it, but I think they really found heat this week!”
Grimace plastered on his face, Sinclair awaits his options. Clearing his throat, Marcos does his best to sell them, “For starters, that new arena everyone’s been asking about is finally done and they need someone on the scene to interview the hockey team.”
“Hockey!? Well there are worse sports I suppose. Could be outside, ugh.” He can only imagine the mouth breathing, barely literate goalie he’ll be forced to parley with. “What’s the team?”
“Oh! Uhhh, looks like the Pleasant Valley Pistols.
“Ugh, awfully militaristic isn’t it? Just what small towns need, more gun themed branding …”
“Uhh yeah haha, well you’re not gonna like the next one either boss. Seems they’re converting the old high school into some kinda base? Fort Pleasant they’re calling it.”
Dumbfounded, Sinclair just stares at Marcos. Surely you can’t just do that right? They voted to build the new school, should there not then be a vote on what to do with the old one? Clenching his jaw, while he hates dealing with the military he can smell a story there.
“I can just cross that one off boss-man. Next is more like your old stuff, seems there's a new Pan-Asian community center opening near the park. Little wild since Pleasant Valley’s so well- you know.”
White. Honestly it was the biggest hang up on him moving here from the city. He hadn’t noticed an uptick in Asian locals enough to justify a community center, but hey not like he’s looking out for that stuff. Happy change as far as he’s concerned, and if he can do his part in bolstering that, well Marcos is right. Broken clocks and all that, he’d honestly be happy to.
Nodding Sinclair takes all this in, “Right. I suppose I agree this could have been slightly worse. Could have just canned me. They must not want me gone nearly as much as I thought!”
Marcos thinks about simply not mentioning the final task listed but in the end he can’t help himself, “Well there is one more option, uhm. One that would let you stay in office even.”
Interest piqued, Sinclair motions for his assistant to continue.
And he does, carefully. “Rather than going out they want you to know you can also take the opportunity to uhhhm,” he throws up his guard, “help develop new talent at the paper.”
Sinclair’s blood runs cold as he stares at his long-suffering assistant. Twice now he’s denied Marcos’ request to be promoted citing lack of experience and lack of professionality. Obviously he lied and told his assistant the hangup was elsewhere. “And I take it that you’re the new talent?” He makes no attempt to hide the venom in his voice.
“Look, sir, I wasn't going to mention it. I just figured you might prefer helping you know, the only coworker not ignoring you rather than wandering around a military base or whatever but it’s your call.”
And it is his call. “Of course, Marcos. Apologies for the implication.” Looking at the options, Sinclair makes up his mind with the haste of a man who doesn’t know he’s about to have his life and form wrest from him. “I’m gonna go with…”
The Hockey Team - Should be easy
Fort Pleasant - Something’s fishy over there
The Community Center - Think I could help their cause
Marcos. - Ugh, I do owe you something. I guess.
Pleasant Valley Pistols:
“Go ahead and let the coach know that I’ll be stopping by, Marcos.” Running the numbers, Sinclair decides this should be the simplest and easiest task offered to him. Well, besides mentoring Marcos, but the surly reporter certainly isn’t going to be training his replacement. Of this he is sure.
One routine email and a quick car ride later, Sinclair finds himself outside a robust new ice skating complex. The large construction zone had been slow-going for months and everyone in Pleasant Valley had been placing bets on just what it’s to be. Strange given someone in town must have had some prior warning that there’s an ice rink coming to town.
If not city planners then construction workers, Sinclair can’t help but speculate as he watches a crane lower a large hockey stick over the front entrance. Perhaps there’s meat on this bone yet. Crossing his arms the journalist looks at his scrawled plans to interview a player or two and publish profiles and crumples it.
This is connected to everything else, he bets. The Pistols must be connected to that shady company coming to take over Pleasant Vall-
“Hey there! You must be from the local paper eh?”
Sinclair almost jumps out of his skin as a hand the size of a baseball mit pounds him squarely in between his shoulder blades. Turning with fear in his eyes to find the source of this assault he instead finds a beaming man who clearly just intended to pat him on the back.
Apathetic or clueless to the clear grimace on Sinclair’s face, the bear of a man reaches out his mitt to shake, “Coach Whitlow, you must be Sinclair eh? Your bosses told me you were comin’ and to give you a Warm Pistol’s Welcome!”
Begrudgingly meeting Coach Whitlow’s hand, Sinclair frowns and does a poor attempt to butter up the man with all the power here, “Yes! I’m quite excited to learn of and spread the good word about Pleasant Valley’s new superstars. How’d you land on ‘Pistols’ anyhow?”
Notepad out, he prepares to take notes before instead watching a somehow even blanker look croses Whitlow’s face. Confusion seeps from the corners of his friendliness as he makes what is at best a guess, “Well it’s certainly fun to say right? Pleasant Valley Pistols! Nice and literar-ative like all you booky-boys say.”
“Right.” Eyes on the prize, “Well Coach I’m sure I’ll stop by for an interview before I depart. Would it be alright if I looked around the facilities first? My readers are simply dying to learn about your state of the art facilities!” He didn’t know he had this level of bullshitting still in him.
“Oh, great idea there son! Might as well stop by the weightroom while you’re at it, awfully scrawny for a sports writer. Should call you Shrimpclair, HAH!”
Indignant at being called a sports reporter moreso than the dig at his scrawny form, Sinclair flashes a smile and motions for Whitlow to lead him inside. Which the Coach promptly does, “Now don’t have too much fun poking around there Mr. Reporter, not unless you wanna stick around heh heh!” Turning towards his office while repeating Shrimpclair and giggling to himself, Whitlow leaves Sinclair to explore.
Spoiled for choice, the journalist is shocked at just how pristine this arena is. He was under the impression that this was some kind of below collegiate level team but the sheer size of the place alone that can’t be the case. Shoot he’d swear it’s bigger than some of the NHL arenas he’s seen- Of which he’s seen none. Obviously.
Sneaking around looking for proof of foul play or corporate espionage, it’s not long before he smells something suspiciously alluring in the air. Taking deeper and deeper breaths of the strange scent, Sinclair’s oblivious to his chest rising higher with every one. Exhaling slightly less with every inhale, he quickly finds his baggy shirt starting to awkwardly pull at his skin as he continues walking. As if he were beginning to inflate.
Quickly realizing he’s been following his nose like a dog, the proud reporter shakes off his stupor and scoffs. Scratching at his suddenly itchy jaw, Sinclair does his best to ignore the haze and focus on the sure scoop here. Unfortunately every breath continues to vie for his attention.
There’s gotta be some proof somewhere that this is owned by the same assholes who bought the paper. Gosh smells like new pads doesn’t it? His feet kinda hurt, why’d he wear such small shoes today. Shit for an ice rink it’s kinda warm in here isn’t it.
Prideful about his attention span as he is about anything else, Sinclair can’t believe how much he’s struggling to keep his train of thought on track. He doesn’t hear his fingers scritch in stubble that prickles underneath his chin as he looks at his notepad.
The only thing scrawled, in sloppier handwriting than he’d ever humor, is ‘Pistols = Gud?’
“My God!? I didn’t write that!?” Taking another quick sniff just to breath, the reporter feels a new itch in his pits and ignores the urge to give them a sniff. Shaking his head his dark hair begins to shorten into something sportier, Sinclair’s neck cracks thicker. Below the belt he feels his legs begin to balloon with every struggled sniff.
Feeling his jeans begin to strain against his legs as he notices he can somehow see his pale midriff exposed, Sinclair clutches at his mouth. It’s the smell, it must be. Ignoring the scratch of a stubbly mustache poking at his hand, he does the only thing he can think to stop smelling something. He breathes through his mouth.
Obviously this does not go his way.
Taking a far deeper breath through his mouth than he ever could with his nose, his body expands in every way it can. Arms that only ever strained from typing away at a keyboard suddenly rise like dough as biceps force their way onto his bones. Bulging against the sleeves of his shirt, slightly tanner skin is quickly visible through a number of tears.
Kicking off his shoes as soon as discomfort rises enough to register in his foggy mind, he finds feet so large he can’t even imagine finding shoes to fit them. Above ankles now prickling with thick hair his jeans are strained at the calves as well as his lower body grows even more impressive than his meaty arms and his chest still twitching larger.
Even more pronounced than the physical changes are those wreaking havoc in his mind. Mouth-breather is an insult the reporter had oft leveled at Marcos and anyone else he viewed as less intelligent than himself. And as his higher thoughts begin to dissolve into sand, it’s clear that uh, well nothing’s really clear to him anymore.
Besides hockey, duh. Smirking as the memories him shooting through the rink rush into his mind, he stumbles up to the locker room’s entrance on much larger feet. Taking heavy steps as his jeans tear more with every stumble, Sinclair quickly pushes open the door and enters his favorite place in the world, the Pistol’s locker room.
Taking the deepest breath yet, he feels the air, stagnant with the stink of sweat and industrially cleaned uniforms, fill him from head to toe. Scratching his chest as a manly coat of curls etches across pronounced pecs, his rough hand yanks off the rags and tosses them to the floor.
Looking to the mirror he’s surprised to find his pants have also completely fallen away, leaving him cock out in his locker room. Not that his teammates mind of course huhuh. Seeing his gleaming white smile reflected, his foggy mind tries to recall that he doesn’t have teammates but the thought shifts to confusion at his teammates simply not being here with him. No puck bunnies or twinks either…
Scratching his pubes and pits and barely abating an urge to helicopter his twitching dick, Sinclair figures he’s here for one on one practice or somethin. Hockey ass bouncing with every lumbering step, the Pistol’s new piston falls onto the bench and starts pulling on his pads commando. No time for that shit, not like his pads’ll stink any less after. Sides, Coach’ll be pissed if he’s late again.
Feeling the scratch of hard plastic on his thighs he feels his last sense of self struggle. Looking at meaty hands and feeling his defined abs twitch with every breath he tries to remember being a reporter. His deeper, thoughtless voice does little to help. “I’m not a, not a fuckin’ hockey… I’m a journaler, uh? I write, uhh, stuff. I’m Sink? Sin- uh?”
“Sinner!? That you in there boy? Should be out on the ice by now, I swear!”
Yanking his pants up to his sternum and shoving his sweaty feet into somehow already sweatier skates, any fight fades from his eyes as Coach’s voice reminds him who he really is. Leaning against the cold wall as Whitlow strides into the locker room, he smirks and awaits the reprimand.
“What am I gonna do with you… Shit you been using the new weight room eh Sinner? Settin’ a good example. Give me a flex there boy.”
Like he needed the command. Raising his arms into a double bi he takes a deep breath as the complexity of the world fades. He’s just a hockey star, and soon everyone in Pleasant Valley’s gonna be a fan.
Fort Pleasant:
“There’s something weird afoot over at the old high school right Marcos?”
His assistant shrugs, “I mean for sure, but the bosses want an, uh. Well it’s sorta an ad?” Marcos winces preemptively.
“An advertisement!? For the military?”
“They’re technically private security I thin-”
“They want me to- Well! I’ll tell you what Marcos. I’m going to go report on what I find and if the Pleasant Valley Paper’s not interested I’m taking all my fans and finally going indie! You just stay mum and look busy, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Watching his boss storm away, Marcos sighs knowing he certainly has no ability to stop Sinclair when he’s got his mind on a story. Good kid Marcos is he’s not even going to snitch on the turncoat, not like he wants a private militia kicking around town. Wordlessly wishing Sinclair pulls something off here, the assistant just hopes his overeager boss doesn’t just make his situation worse.
Nearing the base, Sinclair flashes back to his breaking expose of his university’s ROTC when he was in school. He can’t hold back a laugh at the memory, those wannabe schmucks never knew what hit them! This’ll be another walk in the park. Flashing a press pass at the gated entry, Sinclair grins as he’s just waved on through, already planning his brutal take down of the place.
Illegal appropriation of public land and goods. Lax security at best. That glorified doorman’s probably just jacking off in between dapping up his brainless coworkers.
Far off in the remains of a football field, Sinclair can see a few men clad in camouflage doing some exercise drills. Shuddering at the thought of whatever poor sods have been tricked into working for some shoddy soon to be bankrupt private security firm, Sinclair rolls his eyes and hopes they enjoy the paid workouts while they last
Collecting himself and his journalistic materiel, Sinclair sets a small recorder to just tape every moment of the next half hour. The first sound recorded is a muttered ‘Shit!’ as Sinclair immediately drops his notepad. Leaning down to pick it up, his blood runs cold as he hears a gruff voice shout-
“Ateeen-shun!”
His hands freeze just before grabbing the notepad as he feels his bent spine straighten. Eyes locked on the booklet, he feels his body shoot up to standing. Arms forced to his side, thumbs stuck to his shirt's seam as if they were magnetized. Puffing up his thin chest and fighting against raising his chin, Sinclair freezes in this pristine pose for a full second before breaking free.
Gasping, he stares dumbfounded at the man clad in fatigues. Stubbled chin wide and dimpled, tucked shirt straining against a lat wingspan Sinclair wouldn’t think possible, there’s a smirk clear on his face at his words having such an effect on some petty annoyance. The soldier watches as Sinclair collects his notepad and clears his throat.
Before he can get a word out, the burly, brusque man issues another order. “Follow me, recruit.”
“I think you’ll find I’m here for an interview, s- sir.” Sinclair scrunches his nose at the reflexive honorific, swearing himself to not utter one again. “Obviously I’m not one of your muscle-brained, violence hungry, lunkeys. The Pleasant Valley Paper sent me to find out exactly what this operation’s all about.”
Following behind the sergeant, what difference does it make if he’s doing so because he was commanded or because that’s the quickest way to get to the bottom of this mystery. Ensuring that his shirt is tucked in, as anyone would! Sinclair doesn’t notice as the edges of the cotton top seem to be staining a light green.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Sinclair, Sir- Ugh. If you wouldn’t mind, could you stop calling me soldier? I’m not-”
The man quickly turns with his arms crossed and stares down at Sinclair. Silenced by his steely gaze alone, Sinclair feels his lips trying to move as his body freezes into attention once more. This time his back is even straighter, he feels it straining his impeccable tuck as his shoulders seemingly raise higher. Hidden from sight as army green stains creep further up his shirt, his chest that was once but skin and bone begins to subtly widen.
Clenching his jaw until there’s an unmistakable cracking sound, Sinclair grunts as he finds his voice. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge the power this buffoonish jarhead cosplayer has over him, he tries to attack logically. Ignoring how his eye twitches as he even mentally insults the sergeant. “Look, obviously I’m too old to be of use as a soldier, just give me a couple quotes for the paper and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Rubbing his tight high-top, the sergeant smirks as he watches the army green fabric of Sinclair’s shirt continue to rise. At the same time the long sleeves begin retracting to reveal thin, hairless arms still stuck at attention. “Too old eh? Wouldn’t say you’re a day over 23 there soldier.”
Beyond stunned, Sinclair stands there in shock as the words sink in. “Th- nnn-” When he tries to speak the air is knocked out of him as a decade of his life is simply erased from his body. The wrinkles beginning to creep out around his eyes and on his forehead are ironed away as his skin tightens.
The slight paunch hiding under his regulation issued shirt is converted into rows of youthful abs as his hairline ceases retreating before rejuvenating altogether. Catching a reflection of himself in the floors polished to shine, Sinclair can’t recognize the man he’s becoming.
“And before you say it, I do believe you’re more than fit enough. You’ve been hitting the gym since high school, far more than you ever hit the books soldier.”
Breaking out of the trance enough to shake his head, Sinclair feels his arms begin to bulk up in their frozen state. Quickly piling on pounds enough to strain the sleeves of his shirt, he feels them darken with hair as the mop on his head curls into some G.I.’s coif. Thick sideburns creep down his cheeks as far as they’re allowed.
“S- Sergeant.” His voice cracks lower as the know-it-all timbre of the reporter gives way to the vocal fry of a younger man who’s ecstatic not to think for himself, “Ssssir. I swear, you don’t have to this. L- let me get back to the office. I know the perfect recruit for youuuu-”
Sweating from the stress, Sinclair feels his underarms stain sweat as his hairy arms lead to even hairier pits. The trimmed bush that usually hid under them gives way to a wild-straight patch of pit hair designed to collect musk. Trying to worm his way out of these changes only accelerates them as by the time he even attempts to throw Marcos at his sergeant’s feet his memories of being anything but a soldier begin to drain.
Irritated at the man’s pathetic scrambling as he watches Sinclair continue to fill out his uniform, jeans finally corrupting into a heavier camouflaged fabric, he barks orders to his newest recruit. “Go sit until I decide what to do with you maggot. And take that fucking shirt off, you’re sweating like a pig.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Twitching desperately with every ordered movement, Sinclair obeys the command as every reason not to begins to rapidly disappear. Tearing off his shirt he feels dog tags fall back onto his chest, square between his enticing new pecs. His widening nipples harden as he pristinely folds his sweat-stained shirt and stows it under a wooden chair that creaks when he sits down.
Feeling his balls throb, Sinclair’s got a good guess where his thoughts and personality are draining to as he stares ahead. Trying to hold on to wispy memories as they fade, it’s not long before he can only assert what he knows he isn’t. He’s not a soldier. He’s Sinclair, he works for Fort Pleasant. No. He was here to? He’s not a soldier. He’s twenty- No he’s thirty- uh? No, he’s twenty three. Yeah.
The sergeant watches as his soldier at last begins to settle, pupils twitching with resistance slowly fade as he tosses around potential new posts for this handsome little lap dog. Not like they don’t have enough officers to guard every business in town. Why shouldn’t this one be just for him.
“Soldier, what’s your position?”
Sinclair bolts up, his back somehow getting even straighter as his feet lance out to their perfect 45 degree position even when sitting. “I’m your assistant, sir!”
“Very good, at ease.”
The sergeant watches as, for the first time since stepping foot on For Pleasant’s grounds, the new soldier finally relaxes. Performatively sitting back so his sergeant can appreciate every new bulging muscle on his exposed torso. He exists to serve this man above all else.
“Put your arms behind your head, soldier.”
Beautiful. He’ll need to send thanks to the Pleasant Valley Paper. Though the way these things work he wonders if even their most diligent of records have any trace of ever having a ‘Sinclair’ on staff, after all, he’s never been anything more than a soldier.
Hidden in his fatigue pockets, ever so close to a thick cock doing its best to hold back pre that will stain them, a journalist’s tape record finally stops rolling. And oh what a scoop Sinclair found after all, shame the soldier's going to turn that into his superior as soon as he remembers he’s even wearing pants.
Pan-Asian Community Center:
“Screw it, if I’m being muzzled I might as well raise some funds for a community center right?”
Marcos genuinely smiles at his boss’ optimism, “I think that’s a great idea boss!”
“Yeah whatever. Hold down the fort then, I imagine I’ll have something typed up for you by the end of day.”
Sighing as he looks to the pile of other stories he still needs to type up and submit himself, Marcos prepares for a long day of trying to get any of his boss’ work approved as he watches Sinclair depart. “Huhhh… He’s been recommending me for promotion, it’ll all be worth it one day…”
For his part, Sinclair’s sure this is going to be a nice and easy trip. What fledgling foundation would be opposed to free press right? Evidently this one.
Walking past a small gated outdoor gym, Sinclair mutters judgementally to himself as he enters the lobby. “Who wouldn’t want to walk by a sweat factory to watch some foreign cinema…” Putting his attitude away, he forces a tight smile on his face as he approaches the receptionist, a younger woman who’s clearly bored out of her mind.
Dubbed Setsuna by her name tag adorned with a small Japanese flag, she looks up to Sinclair when the center’s front door slams shut. Frowning and rolling her eyes, she begins her spiel, “Konnichiwa and welcome to the Pleasant Valley community center. What can I do for you today.” Though it was ostensibly a question, her tone makes it clear that she is not here to help.
“Yes! Hello, I’m Sinclair from the local paper!” His smile creaks as his patience already wears thin.
“Okay?”
“And I’m here to help with your Community Center?” After she blankly stares he continues, “I mean, we both know that the town is as white as it gets. I guess my bosses figured you could use some help with fundraising?”
“Right. Well you can go ahead and let your bosses know that we’re doing fine on our own. Thanks.”
“Heh. Well, Miss. I think you’re being awfully blasé to the best reporter the Pleasant Valley Paper has.”
“死ね! I’m sure we’re really missing out.”
Sure whatever she just said was an insult, Sinclair goes for an old favorite, “Well! I’d like to speak with your supervisors.”
“Oooh so sorry, they’re busy, yeah. I can go ahead and summon security if you’d like?”
“Why I-”
“Thank youuuu~ Buhbye now.” Waving at Sinclair as he holds his tongue, the receptionist waits for the door behind him to close before getting back to scrolling on her phone. Were she anyone else she might wonder if Sinclair would be back sooner rather than later with a different name and nationality. But she’s certainly not paid enough to care.
Someone who cares even more than he’s paid is stomping away from Pleasant Valley’s latest community center. Steaming like he hasn’t since his last heated argument at work, Sinclair’d usually have worked himself up into weariness. For some reason, today the engine just seems to keep going. Each passing moment just fills him with more irritation and more energy.
Almost seeing red, the reporter looks to the outdoor gyms and spitefully decides to work off some of his newfound rage at this public resource. That’ll show them! Unsure what instinct he’s following, Sinclair is apathetic as he gets on something he thinks is supposed to exercise the shoulders and starts pushing.
Grunting as he quickly sweats up a storm, Sinclair grits his teeth as his arms burn with exertion he hasn’t felt since high school. Immediately finding himself dehydrated as he’s started working out in the sun having had nothing to drink today besides coffee, Sinclair figures his pathetic point made.
That is, until he sees a large water bottle sitting right by his feet. That he’s even humoring drinking from it should be proof enough he’s not in his right mind. Covered with stickers, he knows it can’t be his and yet scrawled on top of it is his name: Sonclair. In no time his sweaty hand brings it to his mouth as he enjoys the ichor of ice cold water.
Standing from the machine, the irate reporter finds the sweaty shirt sticking to his skin incredibly irritating. In further proof of his rapidly teetering state of mind, the journalist who’s so body shy that his chest hasn’t seen the sun since childhood begins to remove his shirt. It clings to his body like a second skin as it tears away to reveal an upper body far more impressive than it should be.
Still entirely untrained, there is raw power pumping through his limbs like it should not be. Sitting back down at what he now mindlessly recognizes as a chest press, he begins pumping at it until failure. With each heaving thrust his arms throb larger as his chest realizes that it can hold muscle as well as fat.
Under the afternoon sun his pallor begins to give way to a tan. Having to continually readjust his position as his arms creak longer and his back expands to completely hide the seat behind him, Sofclair watches as his hands are decidedly darker than his skin tone could be in any light.
Breaking him free from his ire-induced haze, Sofclair takes in what his arms have become. Even as he watches they continue to expand, veins trail down their length, throbbing with each beat of his racing heart. He should feel horror, calloused hands that are not his own feel the warm bronze skin that now make up his bulky forearms.
Looking down to a chest for the first time graced with pecs, he cannot hide the grin twitching onto his face. Darker, wider nipples point askew above a core designed for strength. Flexing his heavy new arms, Soflier takes another deep gulp of his water jug. Feeling it splash onto his face, he smirks even wider as he feels a thin mustache suddenly prickle onto his upper lip.
Discontent with his progress he splashes some of the icy liquid onto his face and feels as his whole face reconfigures itself. His jawline sharpens as his new tan finally creeps up his neck. Hair that has only been styled by barber’s hands thickens into a style that Soflier sees on all his magpinsan- uhh, cousins?
Shaking off whatever that strange fake word was, as Soflier’s eyes darken from their tepid blue into a brown darker than coffee, the journalist influencer scans the gym for his next machine. Scowling down at legs not nearly as impressive as his herculean chest and bis, Soflier stomps over to the leg press.
Pumped in a way he can hardly understand, with each step he grows all the more impressive. Rows of abs bulge through a gut maintained more for strength than aesthetics. Biceps bloat even larger as sweat streams off his bovine shoulders and drips down his sides from pits muskier than any two of his bros put together. Dreamily wondering where they are, he sits on the next machine and starts pumping.
At first embarrassed at the stick thin legs barely able to hold up his titanic torso, each rep packs pounds onto his thighs and calves. From the feet up his lower body changes to match its better half. Feet burst free from his cheap leather dress shoes before they’re promptly covered once more by ostentatious tennis shoes four sizes larger.
Shocked that he’s been working out in pants his whole time, when he blinks he finds he’s wearing his favorite gym shorts. Malinaw naman… Uhh, obviously, he never hits the gym without them! Probably slept in them after his sesh last night. Shamelessly giving himself a sniff as continues thrusting his legs larger, they quickly outpace even his upper body’s growth.
Sofiel bites his lip as he feels soreness burn deep in his thighs. Hungrily staring, he almost starts laughing as they fill his shorts to their breaking point. Only just formed socks slide down his calves as veins trail up from his feet to his heavy crotch. “God, sexy ako…” He moans to himself as the sun overheats his already steaming body.
Rubbing hands up and down his body, feeling the throbbing veins trailing across his form and the warm skin struggling against the growing muscle underneath, Sofiel’s shorts struggle against the new package within. Having bulked to as close to human perfection as he cares to, Sofiel’s feet slam to the floor as he closes his eyes and begins rutting into the air.
His publicly indecent reverie is interrupted as some mysterious force pours the rest of his ice cold water right onto his head. “Ayy what the fuck!?” Bolting up on the machine, the new Filipino gym bro sees none other than the Japanese receptionist who kicked him out.
“Answer your fucking phone next time! Jesus Sofiel, they’re gonna fire you if you don’t get your shit together.”
“Ahhh and I bet you’d hate to lose this eye-candy huh Suna?”
Rolling her eyes and yanking out her phone to performatively scroll at the accusation she goes on, “As if I’d wanna be with a dick who couldn’t find his way out of a finger trap”
“Ahh, ripping it in half counts! You’re just jelly…” Waiting for a response that doesn’t come, he looks up to see Setsuna gesturing inside.
“Did you not hear me, you oaf? Your horde of elderly women are getting impatient for their Zumba.”
“Ah shit! I owe you another one!”
She can’t help but stare at his ass and back as he leaves. Again she’d never bite but shit, if he isn’t hot. How’d he even get a body like that…
Marcos:
Though it’s the furthest thing from what he wants to do, perhaps ‘developing future talent’ will allow him to get Marcos more under his thumb. Maybe he can even get the kid to tag along when he’s inevitably fired by the end of the month. Sinclair’d hate to train another assistant up when he’s got an entirely passable one in Marcos.
“So, Marcos, what precisely did you have in mind for me to help you develop?”
Stunned that his bitchy boss is for the first time showing interest in him, Marcos accidentally crumples the list in his hands. “Really!? You wanna help me sir!?”
“Well don’t get so hysterical about it. It’s the least shitty option available.” Staring at his assistant, he’s already begun to second guess that. Marcos was never his first choice. The year before last the paper decided to hire all three of its summer interns as staff for the department heads, and while he’s been shafted out of that role his provided assistant remains.
That summer Marcos only applied to have something accompanying soccer and a high school degree on his resume. Taking an initial gap year before applying for college, the short internship has turned into a cushy enough gig and he’s long been angling for a more permanent role on staff.
While diligently working under the most obnoxious man in a relatively toxic workplace for two years and a bit now, Marcos has always known there’s a lot he can learn from the writer. If he could just catch him on a good day. And finally, he will get his chance to do just that.
“I mean, well, I guess what’s a day in the life like, right?”
“Wh- You know that Marcos, you’ve been working under me for years yes? Why don’t you tell me?”
Changing strategies, Marcos tries to shift the onus on him. Doing his best not to stoke an ever-rising temper, “You’re right, sorry boss. I guess, if you had any notes for me we could work on those together today?”
“Notes hm? Well for starters you could certainly care more about your appearance.” A shocking statement from someone wearing a coffee stained shirt to an assistant who clearly hits the gym regularly. Yet he takes it in stride.
“Right, that’s fair. Dress for the job you want right?” Oop, shit-
Sinclair’s eye twitches at this, “Right. The job you want. And what job is that? Marcos.”
Obviously aware what Sinclair’s asking, Marcos tries to salvage it, but one cannot simply wrangle this genie back into the bottle. “You know I don’t- I wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t okay working under you Sinclair.”
“Okay?! Just okay, is that right? Vouching for you to stay on as an assistant even after my position was erased. I- This is exactly why I tell them you’re not ready every time you apply for promotion.”
Marcos was prepared to walk everything back immediately until Sinclair confirms something the young man never even suspected. After everything he’s done for the jerk. Ignoring every spiteful comment and shitty assignment tossed his way so he can be near a writer he has always respected despite himself.
All this time it’s been Sinclair holding him back. His eyes well with tears as he feels his face burn with embarrassment and rage, “You what?”
“Oh don’t look at me like that, you weren’t ready. I was just the feather that broke the camel’s back.”
Biting his lip, Marcos has been deliberately holding something back from Sinclair. He’d explicitly told Sinclair that these jobs were a last chance, and that includes this one. He just didn’t think Sinclair would be such a callous asshole. His boss had always treated him like a tool. Well, Marcos is going to give him one last chance or he is going to literally become one.
“Say sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Sinclair. I would appreciate if you apologized for, on multiple occasions- no fuck that, for day in and day out making my life more difficult than it needs to be.”
So up his own ass he takes offense to the implication that he’s done anything of the sort, despite explicitly confirming he’s stopped Marcos from promotion just moments ago, Sinclair scoffs. “Now I’m sorry if you find the meager workloads I assign you too demanding, kid. But that’s life.” The writer eyes Marcos fingering something in his pants, “Go on, share with the class.”
Retrieving a small button Marcos has a severe look on his face as he presses it. “They told me to use this when I gave up on you.”
Laughing at the hysterics, Sinclair struggles to take someone he views as so lesser seriously. Before he can get out a full sentence chiding him however, he’s wracked with pleasure “Come now Marcoohsshit!” Suddenly every inch of his skin is burning hot. He feels his heartbeat in his head.
“Whuh, what did that- What did you just do to me Marcos!?” Staring at his boss with wide eyes, the assistant reaches towards his crotch as he is similarly filled with pangs of pleasure.
“I- I don’t know?” Reaching down to adjust his package as he is immediately rockhard, when his fingers manhandle his cock Sinclair again contorts in his desk chair.
“Gaahhhd Damnit Marcos! Stop?!” Pent up more than he can understand even as he starts cumming in his pants, Sinclair stares daggers at his assistant while drool begins pooling in his mouth.
Struggling to swallow the spittle rising more and more as he continues to rut and unload into his jeans, Sinclair feels his clothes sear against his skin as everything just feels too much. Face burning up, moving his limbs is suddenly more difficult as he looks down to find clothes that were already slightly too big for him draping across his thin body even more dramatically.
His shoulders slump slightly more as he sees his sleeves fall even limper. Taking another deep, struggled swallow, the reporter notices that his fingers are suddenly barely visible through the ends of his sleeves. Similarly when he shifts his weary legs his shoes just fall to the floor. Despite getting warmer by the second, it seems as if Sinclair has lost the ability to sweat everywhere save his legs which have already stained through his jeans with sweat.
Giving up on swallowing the still increasing pool in his mouth, the reporter allows himself to openly drool as he looks to Marcos. Lost in a reverie clearly more pleasant than Sinclair’s own, his boss has no qualms about interrupting, drool dripping down his cheeks he shouts. “Earth to fuuuhhking Marcos!? Help me get thesesh schlothes off!”
Taking his hands from his crotch Marcos quickly moves to help, shaking his head all the while “Right, sorry! I don’t-” He easily removes Sinclair’s top, though as it drags against his boss’ stomach, the man can’t help but cough up some drool as pins and needles tickle his every inch. Thicker than it previously was, the reporter begins to notice a distinct salty, acrid taste as it refuses to slow down.
The jeans give more trouble as they catch on his thighs which are for some reason bloating slightly. After a tug that dislodges another wave of spit from Sinclair’s mouth, the pants are off. Falling back into his chair as he feels his legs give out, they both apprise the empty crotch hanging between his still growing thighs. But Sinclair feels nothing from this, there’s a far more pronounced vacancy coming from his ass.
Sinclair’s mouth falls open and no matter how hard he tries it stays that way. He feels a pressure deep in his stomach, no lower- His legs are throbbing. It’s rising. Across his body he feels massive veins begin to throb larger. Arteries, blood vessels, and nerves once vital for him to move and think and act are instead being converted into nothing but sacks to hold blood, to make him feel more pleasure, to make him harder.
Liquid from his mouth gets cloudier as he feels his neck get tighter, bloating larger, racing his shoulders to match his torso growing more cylindrical. Throbbing up from his balls, from his legs, he sees the beginnings of a thick tube in the center of his stomach. Barely noticeable at first, he sees it getting more prominent as something seems to course up through it. Higher with every throbbing pump.
Gurgling for help he looks to his assistant who is yet again preoccupied with his own cock- No, even though it’s in his hand, Marcos’ attention is indeed squarely on Sinclair. Hunger in his eyes, it’s the only thing he can understand. Humping his hand, Marcos can’t help himself as he rushes to his boss and flips him over.
Pressure races through Sinclair as he feels his neck tighten and throb. He doesn’t even notice Marcos fucking him. He fails to produce anything besides wet heaving moans as he spits up more viscous pre, and then he hears nothing but blood rushing as every single faculty remaining within him tenses. He feels his legs pull and gags as he spews his first load as Marcos’ cock before blacking out.
When he comes too his vision is hazy. He feels a tickle on his ass that must be the jungle of Marcos’ pubes, straight and untrimmed, unlike his own. Looking down as much as he’s able with a neck that no longer moves he sees his skin tone has drastically darkened, even more than his assistant’s warm tone.
He doesn’t remember having arms to not have as he looks to see his legs balls have grown hairier. They look so big! He’s glad he’s given Marcos such impressive balls. At the thought he feels his skin get a little tighter as he gets excited. At the same time he feels two hands reach to hold him.
Slowly they start rubbing him up and down, “Shit… S*******? You awake?” Marcos' thoughts are so loud. The cock hears him say a word it doesn’t really understand, someone’s name maybe. It doesn’t care. It focuses everything in Marcos on what matters how horny he is.
“Ngggh, no Ssin- you- cock, When I cum again- When we cum again that’s it… I’ll get your, uhhh fuckin’ skills or whatever but you’ll just be…” Flexing its mobility, as Marcos slows down, the cock yanks the man’s heavier balls up as it forces itself to bounce. It can only imagine the quivering look on Marcos’ face as it yanks tight and spews pre in waves.
Looking down as thicker hairs begin to grow at the base of his cock, Marcos watches as whatever pale skin of Sinclair remains is washed away by that dark skin of his cock. It’s so much bigger than his used to be. Cupping his balls as he struggles to masturbate with one hand he sees his cock fully spurting pre as a foreskin quickly grows to fully cover his cockhead before being displaced as his cock gets even harder.
“Noooouh- You don’t understand if I cum that’s it!” But his oh so needy cock doesn’t care. It needs release. It has one button to press, and it is pressing it. Horny. Horny. Horny.
What remains of a boss Marcos can’t even remember is splattered on the door of his new office’s private bathroom. Shaking off a migraine he looks down at his ever so slightly hairier chest and tighter torso before pulling up his underwear. Filled with the pride of a man too cocky for his own good, Marcos looks down at his cock with the smirk of someone who will be a far more pleasant employee of the Pleasant Valley Paper.
“Good one little buddy, now let’s get some actual work done.”
The old wooden sign reading “Blackthorn Lake House” still hung crookedly from the rusted iron post at the end of the long gravel driveway, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. Joey’s truck rattled over the familiar potholes as the two men drove in silence for the last stretch. It was late May, the air thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and blooming wildflowers. Duncan stared out the passenger window, one elbow resting on the door, his expression unreadable.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Joey finally said, breaking the quiet. “Coming back here after all these years.”
Duncan nodded slowly. “Fifteen years. I still remember the last summer we spent here like it was yesterday. Mum cried for weeks after we left. She couldn’t even look at the place again.”
The house emerged from the trees like a ghost from their childhood. A large, two-story Victorian-style lakeside retreat with dark timber framing, wide verandas, and tall windows that once let in endless summer light. Now the paint was faded and peeling, the shutters on the upper floor hung at odd angles, and moss clung to the roof tiles. The garden had gone wild tall grass swaying in the breeze, rose bushes grown into chaotic thickets, and the old wooden dock stretching out over the dark water of the lake like a skeletal finger.
They parked and stepped out. The evening air was cool, carrying the gentle lapping of water against the shore. Crickets had already begun their nightly chorus.
“Still standing, at least,” Joey muttered, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. “Your mum never sold it?”
“Couldn’t bring herself to. It’s been in the family since my great-grandfather built it. After Uncle Richard disappeared… she just locked the doors and paid someone to check on it once a year.”
They climbed the creaky porch steps. Duncan pulled out an old key that still somehow worked. The heavy oak door groaned open, releasing a rush of stale, dusty air that smelled of aged wood, old books, and faint traces of pipe tobacco that somehow never fully faded.
Inside, time had frozen. The furniture was still draped in white sheets like ghosts. Duncan pulled one off the big leather sofa in the living room, sending a cloud of dust dancing in the golden evening light filtering through the windows.
“Jesus,” Joey laughed softly, running his fingers along the carved mantelpiece. “Look at this. We used to race Matchbox cars right here. You always cheated.”
“I did not,” Duncan protested with a grin. “You just sucked at it.”
They spent the next hour exploring the ground floor together, beers in hand. Every room triggered another memory. The kitchen where they’d made disastrous pancake experiments. The hallway where they’d slid down the banister until Duncan’s mother caught them. The study lined with dark oak shelves still filled with Uncle Richard’s old travel books, maps, and strange artifacts from every corner of the world.
Eventually they made their way upstairs, footsteps echoing on the worn hardwood. The door to the attic was at the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a tall cabinet. Duncan hesitated for a moment before opening it. Narrow stairs led up into darkness. He flicked on the old light switch. A single bare bulb hummed to life, casting long shadows across the vast, cluttered space.
The attic was exactly as they remembered it low rafters, trunks stacked high, old furniture covered in sheets, and shelves upon shelves of Uncle Richard’s souvenirs. Brass instruments, carved wooden masks, colorful textiles, strange coins, and glass bottles from distant lands.
They sat on an old Persian rug in the middle of the floor, legs stretched out, cracking open fresh beers.
“God, we were so sure we’d end up like him,” Joey said quietly, gesturing at the collection around them. “Traveling the world. No ties. Pure freedom.”
Duncan took a long sip. “Yeah. Remember how we’d play explorers up here? You’d put on that old turban and declare yourself Sultan Joey the Magnificent. I was always your loyal adventurer sidekick.”
Joey chuckled. “We swore we’d never settle down. No mortgages, no office jobs, no responsibilities. Just passports full of stamps and stories worth telling.”
A comfortable silence fell for a moment before Duncan’s voice grew heavier. “Instead, I’m turning thirty in two days with a wedding planned, a promotion that feels more like a cage, and a spare tire I can’t get rid of no matter how many times I join a gym. Kelly’s great, but… sometimes I wonder what the hell happened to us.”
Joey stared at the floor. “Tell me about it. Cynthia’s seven months pregnant. I love her. I really do. But I’m still pouring pints at The Crown six nights a week. No degree, no prospects, just scraping by. We were supposed to be different, Duncan. We had stars in our eyes.”
They talked for a long time about the girls, the jobs, the quiet disappointment that had crept into their lives like fog over the lake. The conversation eventually drifted back to Uncle Richard.
“You know… I still think about him,” Duncan said, voice low. “Mum never talks about it. The official story was that he just… vanished. Packed a bag one night in late August and was gone. No note. No body. The police investigated for months but found nothing. Some people thought he ran off with a woman. Others said suicide. But we both know that wasn’t him.”
Joey nodded slowly. “He was the happiest person I’ve ever met. Always laughing, always planning the next trip. Remember that scar on his arm he said came from a camel bite in Morocco? Or the way he’d tell stories about getting lost in the souks of Marrakech? Who would have thought this would be his last trip…”
Duncan stood up and walked over to a particular shelf. He picked up a small, ornate oil lamp made of aged brass with intricate oriental patterns sitting on a dusty box. It looked remarkably clean compared to everything else in the attic.
"This was his favorite piece,” Duncan murmured. “He told us once that it was special. Said it had… history.” He turned it over in his hands. “Funny. After he disappeared, Mum wanted everything cleared out, but she couldn’t touch this room. Said it felt like he was still here.”
What Duncan didn’t know what no one in the family had ever known was the truth. Uncle Richard had indeed found this lamp years earlier during one of his travels. He had become its master. He had made his wishes. And when the Genie had finished granting them in his own cruel, creative way, Richard had been transformed and rewritten into a new life far from this one. The Genie had neatly erased him from this world, leaving only mystery and grief behind. The lamp had returned here, waiting patiently for the next pair of dreamers.
Joey stood up and joined him, taking the lamp gently. “Crazy to think we used to rub this thing as kids, hoping a genie would pop out and take us on adventures.” He rubbed his thumb across the surface absentmindedly while continuing to speak. “Imagine if it actually worked. We could fix everything. Get our old bodies back. Have the careers we should have had. Live the life we always talked about.”
He tossed the lamp lightly to Duncan. “Your turn to make a wish, birthday boy.”
Duncan caught it with a laugh and rubbed it as well, playing along. “Yeah, sure. Three wishes to turn our boring lives into something legendary.”
The moment his fingers completed the second rub, the lamp began to vibrate.
At first it was subtle a faint tremor. Then it grew stronger. Duncan frowned. “Joey… it’s getting warm.”
Joey stepped closer. “What do you mean warm? Let me see…”
Suddenly the brass grew scalding hot. Duncan cried out in shock and pain. “Fuck! It’s burning me!” He tried to drop it, but for a terrifying second his fingers seemed stuck to the metal. Joey grabbed at it instinctively to help, and searing pain shot through both their palms.
They finally managed to fling the lamp to the floor. It clattered loudly against the wooden boards. Both men staggered back, clutching their hands. Their palms were bright red, already blistering, the skin looking raw and angry. The pain was intense, throbbing in time with their racing heartbeats.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?!” Joey gasped; teeth gritted. Tears of pain pricked at the corners of his eyes. “It felt like molten iron!”
Duncan was breathing hard, staring at the lamp on the floor. Thick purple smoke had begun to leak from its spout, swirling unnaturally, rising and twisting in deliberate patterns. The air in the attic grew heavy, charged, as if the temperature itself had shifted.
The smoke thickened, coalescing, taking shape.
A tall, powerfully muscled figure began to form bronzed skin, bare chest, sheer blue silk pants. The Genie’s eyes opened, glowing faintly, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
The two friends stood frozen, pain and terror mixing as they stared at the impossible being now standing before them in the dusty attic.
The Genie tilted his head slightly, regarding their burned hands with mock sympathy. He raised one finger as if to say “wait,” and the purple smoke around him stirred again.
Then, very slowly, he began to move toward them.
The Genie stood before them in the dimly lit attic, towering and impossibly real. He was easily six and a half feet tall, with broad, powerfully sculpted shoulders and a chest that looked carved from warm bronze. His skin glowed with a healthy, sun-kissed tone. The only clothing, he wore was a pair of sheer blue silk pants that hung low on his narrow hips, the fabric so thin it revealed the heavy outline of his cock and balls with every subtle shift of his body. A faint, exotic scent of sandalwood, spice, and something electric filled the air.
Joey and Duncan pressed back against an old trunk, hearts hammering. Their burned hands throbbed with fierce pain.
“This isn’t real,” Joey whispered, voice shaking. “This can’t be real. Duncan, tell me this is some kind of fucked-up hallucination.”
Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the being. “If it is, we’re both having it.”
The Genie’s lips curved into a slow, amused smile. His eyes a deep, piercing amber studied them with predatory interest. “Fear not, Masters. I mean you no immediate harm.” His voice was rich, cultured, with a faint accent that seemed to shift between languages. “You rubbed the lamp together. You freed me together. Therefore, you share three wishes. No more. No less.”
He took one graceful step forward. Joey flinched.
“Stay back!” Duncan shouted, cradling his blistered right hand against his chest. The pain was excruciating, like someone had pressed a hot iron into his palm. Blisters were already forming. Joey’s hand looked just as bad.
The Genie tilted his head, clearly enjoying their terror. “Such small injuries… and yet you tremble. How fragile humans are.” He raised his right hand slowly, deliberately, fingers spread. Purple smoke began to drift lazily from his fingertips. “Allow me to demonstrate my sincerity.”
Joey’s breathing quickened. “Don’t touch us! We don’t want anything from you!”
But the Genie ignored him. The smoke drifted toward them like living tendrils. Duncan tried to scramble backward but hit the trunk. The smoke gently coiled around both men’s injured hands without touching their skin. A strange warmth not burning this time, but soothing, almost silky enveloped their palms.
“Oh God…” Duncan breathed.
At first, nothing visible happened. The pain remained sharp. Then, very slowly, the Genie closed his eyes as if concentrating. The smoke pulsed. A tingling sensation spread across Duncan’s palm, like thousands of tiny needles dancing just beneath the surface. The redness began to fade from the edges inward. Blisters that had started to rise flattened gradually. The raw, angry skin lightened from crimson to pink, then to healthy flesh. The deep throbbing eased into a gentle itch, then disappeared entirely.
Duncan stared, wide-eyed, as he flexed his fingers. No pain. No mark. Nothing.
Joey’s healing was even slower, more theatrical. The Genie clearly wanted them to feel every second. Joey watched in horrified fascination as the blisters on his hand shrank, popped without fluid, and the skin knitted itself back together. The process took nearly a full minute. When it was done, both men’s hands looked completely untouched, as if the burns had never happened.
The Genie lowered his hand. The purple smoke dissolved. “Better?” he asked, voice dripping with mock politeness.
Duncan examined his palm under the attic bulb, turning it over and over. “How… how did you do that?”
“I am a Genie. Healing is among the simplest of arts.” He smiled again, but the expression never reached his eyes. Those eyes held centuries of cruel entertainment. “Now. You have three wishes. I suggest you use them thoughtfully. Many before you have regretted hasty words.”
Joey swallowed hard. His mind was racing. Part of him still screamed that this was impossible a prank, a dream, gas leak, anything. But the healed hands were undeniable. The being in front of them was undeniable.
He looked at Duncan. “We should just leave. Run. This thing is dangerous.”
Duncan hesitated, breathing heavily. “And if it’s real? If we actually have three wishes?” His voice dropped. “Joey… we’ve been talking all night about how we fucked up our lives. This could be our only chance.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Fear and desperate hope warred on both their faces.
“Fine,” Joey said finally, voice hoarse. “But we think carefully. No rushing. We discuss every wish.”
The Genie crossed his powerful arms over his broad chest and waited, clearly entertained by their mortal panic.
Duncan spoke first, choosing his words with care. “Before we wish anything… what are the limits? Can we wish for anything?”
“Almost anything,” the Genie replied smoothly. “I cannot raise the dead in their original form. I cannot force genuine love where none exists. And I cannot undo wishes already granted. Everything else…” He spread his hands. “Is negotiable.”
Joey ran a hand through his hair, thinking hard. “Okay. Okay. We need to be smart.”
They sat down again on the old Persian rug, keeping distance from the Genie. For nearly twenty minutes they talked in low, urgent voices, weighing possibilities while the Genie watched silently, his smirk never fading.
Duncan went deep into his regrets. “I’ve put on nearly thirty pounds since university. I feel old. Slow. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a guy who gave up. If I could just have my twenty-year-old body back lean, strong, full of energy that alone would change everything. I could actually enjoy life again instead of feeling like I’m already declining at twenty-nine.”
Joey nodded slowly. “I get it. For me… it’s the wasted potential. I dropped out after first year. If I’d stuck with it, gotten my degree in finance like I planned… I could’ve given Cynthia and the baby a real future. Instead, I’m pouring beers and worrying about rent. I wish I had actually succeeded. That I’d become someone.”
They kept talking, circling the same fears. What if the wishes backfired? What if the Genie twisted them? They tried to add safeguards, but every condition they imagined felt clumsy.
Eventually Duncan stood up, lamp in hand. His voice was steady despite the fear in his eyes.
“I wish I had the body I had at twenty.”
The Genie’s amber eyes flashed with dark delight. He bowed his head slightly.
“As you wish.”
A faint pulse of energy passed through the attic, but no visible change occurred yet. Duncan exhaled shakily. “It… it didn’t do anything.”
“It will,” the Genie said softly. “When all three wishes are spoken.”
Joey took the lamp next. His hands were trembling. He thought of Cynthia, of the baby on the way, of all the nights he lay awake wondering how he’d provide. His voice cracked slightly.
“I wish I had gotten my degree and made something of myself.”
“As you wish,” the Genie repeated, the same hungry smile playing on his lips.
Another subtle pulse. Joey felt a strange flutter in his chest but pushed it down. He handed the lamp back to Duncan.
They stood shoulder to shoulder now, holding the lamp together. The weight of the moment pressed down on them. This was their last wish the one that had to count.
Duncan spoke carefully. “We’ve spent our whole lives dreaming about this. Travel. Adventure. Real excitement. No more boring routines. No more feeling like we settled.”
Joey finished the thought, voice firm despite his fear. “We wish for the exciting life full of travel and adventure we were always meant to have.”
The Genie was silent for several heartbeats. His smile slowly widened into something predatory and ancient. For the first time, both men felt a chill run down their spines, as if they had just stepped off a cliff.
“As you wish,” the Genie finally purred, each word dripping with satisfaction.
He raised his hand dramatically.
The air in the attic grew thick with purple smoke and electric tension. A low humming filled their ears. Both Joey and Duncan felt a strange warmth bloom in the center of their chests pleasant at first, then rapidly intensifying.
They looked at each other, eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and exhilarating hope. For a short moment, they felt like they were on the edge of the greatest adventure of their lives. They had found the long-lost spark that animated their hearts and days.
In front of them, the genie was standing straight, a malicious smile covered his tanned cheeks and with a sweet movement of his wrist and fingers, he snaped.
Purple smoke exploded outward like a living storm, choking them in thick, electric heat. Joey gasped in surprise first shortly followed by an intense sensation of discomfort followed by pain as the agony ripped into his legs.
“AHHHHHHH THE FUCK IS THAT!!! IT HURTS! MAKE IT STOP!” His thighs and calves shattered and swelled violently, bones lengthening with wet cracking sounds while powerful new muscle tore through his flesh. He collapsed to his knees as his feet followed, toes breaking and stretching, arches rising painfully as his shoes split apart.
Joey tried to look around with the hope to see his friend ready to help him or the genie about to snap his fingers again to cancel this clearly bad outcome of their wishes but he saw nothing, only purple glittery smoke bocking everything from his view.
“HELP ME!” He screamed one more time with the hope of finding help but he only heard a villainous laugh back in return echoing through the smoke and mist and coming back to his ears.
What has been granted cannot be taken back, master…
Duncan roared in terror as well. In the blink of an eye, the attic was gone and now all he could see was purple smoke all around him. He could still feel the wooden floor under his shoes but he couldn’t even see it.
“Joey! Joey, are you alright? Where are you?! JOEY!!” he creamed for his friend feeling the anxiety skyrocketing through his veins. “JOE… AAAAHHHHHH!!” his sentence was cut short as he felt a rush of heat followed by pain of breaking bones crashing through his legs.
Joey could feel his legs ballooned next, muscles exploding with brutal force far beyond anything from his youth.
The Genie hovered closer, smiling with dark amusement. “Begging already? How precious. This is only the beginning, Masters…” his voice echoing to both of them through the smoke.
The burning surged upward. Both men gasped and screamed as their chests expanded with sickening pops. Ribs widened, pectorals ballooning into thick, heavy slabs of muscle that stretched their skin painfully tight. “It’s breaking me apart!” Duncan howled. “Please… make it stop!”
Coarse dark hair erupted in their armpits as fresh sweat glands activated, flooding the attic with a thick, pungent masculine musk, heavy testosterone and raw male sweat. A dense treasure trail raced up from their groins, spreading across their newly carved abs and fanning over their swollen pecs.
Joey whimpered brokenly, “I can’t… I can’t breathe… please…” as he was feeling his overheating body starting to shut down and his vision blurring darkly because of his restarting nervous system and rearranging organs.
Duncan was crying and screaming in pain as he could feel his limbs starting to spasm on their own, muscles activating by forced electric signal sent by his brain drowning in a cocktail of hormones. He could feel his heart beat in each of his cells and could hear the sound of his pumping heart. Duncan was starting to dissociate when he heard the genie snap his fingers one more time. Out of nowhere, he felt his senses coming back to him as he heard the genie talk directly in his brain.
“We don’t want you to miss the best part of the show, do we?”
Out of nowhere, Duncan felt blood coursing through his body in one central position as he could feel his cock straining his jeans and getting trapped against his muscled and hairy thighs.
His cock surged forward with vicious intensity, thickening and lengthening into a massive uncut cock and with one more spasm from his un-controlling body and pumping heart, his cock contracted and torn apart his fly as he felt it slap hard against his hard rock forming abs. in the blink of an eye, it started to feel active and soon he could feel precum pumping out of his urethra and slushing all around his hairy abs.
Joey could feel changes happening to him as well. He was screaming in pain and fear as he could feel his cock straining against what was left of his Calvin Klein underwear. He could feel his heart beat in his hardening cock head as he could feel his foreskin starting to tighten around it because of the pression caused by his blood system. He could feel his nuts pulling lower and lower as sperm started to be product in huge proportions. His cock head was starting to look downward because of its weight and now was permanently bent down and slightly on the left side because of his left ball which were bigger than the right one.
“Please…. Stop, thi… iis” Joey said as he could feel his throat starting to heat up shortly followed by his chin and whole face. His features twisted in agony as his jaw sharpened, cheekbones rose, and his eyes tilted.
“HHAAAAaaAaaAaaaAAaaa… UUUHHHHhhhhHHHhH “screamed Joey as his voice cracked and shattered mid-scream, shifting into a younger, melodic tone thick with a heavy Arabic accent.
“MAkE iT stoP!!” Joey screamed one more time as his voice settled for a younger one.
Duncan’s own face hardened into something rugged and commanding, heavy stubble exploding across his jaw while a thick mustache appeared above his upper lip.
“What is happening?!” he screamed as his voice dropped into a deep, authoritative baritone.
“You two already sound way more in character!” said the genie to himself as he could see the possibilities opening for both of his masters in front of his eyes, appearing and disappearing in the purple mist.
Joey was still crying in fear and pain, his knees still on the ground when he felt the heat coming back.
“GOD NO, NOT AGAIN… PLEASE!!” the heat continued to climb and hike all around his tightened skin, leaving behind a rich golden-bronze hue, turning his skin into smooth coffee-toned perfection while Duncan’s deepened into a reddish sun-bronzed, powerful athletic glow.
Joey was crying as he could see his transformed and tanned hands in front of him, no sound coming out of his mouth because even the sound of his voice was terrifying to him now.
Creeping behind him, he heard the low baritone voice of the genie once again and felt chills running up his elongated spine.
“Something is missing… I don’t see your character fully… But what is it…” the genie continued as Joey turned around trying to face him and thinking that maybe if he did, he would be able to beg him face to face to turn him back but when he did, he saw nothing except the purple void.
“Found it!” he heard once again coming in front of him.
Joey’s eyes opened wide as he saw the genie materialized in front of him and with the flick of his wrists, he felt his torn clothes disintegrate into glitter that swirled in the mist.
Joey was hoping to see the kind face he saw when the genie first appeared to them but all he saw was the manly face wearing a vicious smile.
The genie opened his hands and Joey could feel pressure building in his dick.
“What are you doing?” He asked shaking in fear of what was about to happen.
“Please tell me, what are you do… AAAAHHHHHHH” The genie reached down and roughly seized Joey’s foreskin still covering the head of his enlarged new cock. Joey’s eyes widened in pure panic.
“No! No no no… IT’S GONNA BREAK, STOOOOO!!!” he screamed.
Duncan stared in horror and fear as he could hear the deep accented voice of someone echoing back to him, slightly muted by the mist hugging his modified body. He could feel his body continuing to spasm on its own without him having any control on it. He could feel his dick exhaling drops of precum with every heart beat, smashed against his hairy abs and leaking along his muscled thighs.
The Genie turned his back to Joey and smiled as he saw Duncan was still lost in the haze of his hormones and sensations while continuing to tear on Joey’s foreskin.
“I’m begging you… Please… Stop teari…”
SCRATCH
With one flick of his wrist, the genie torn out the foreskin as it detached in a snapping motion, releasing Joey’s cock that flopped back down against his legs, pointing downwards. His cock head now fully uncovered and extremely sensitive as he could feel the particles of purple dust touching his extremely sensitive skin. Joey was crying in fear as he realized the pain was completely gone.in fact, in a couple of second, all sensations were gone. It felt like his nerves had been numbed by years of frictions and movements against his now hardened cock head. He looked down and realize a neatly crafted scar was circling the base of his cock head.
He tilted his head back up to the genie as he watched the genie looking with a smile at the palm of his hand.
“Why have you done that… What have you done to me…” Joey continued to ask in a febrile voice.
The genie didn’t even look at him. He just continued to smile as he grabbed back his thick veiny cock in the palm of his left hand.
The Genie held the twitching piece of foreskin in his palm, exhaled a stream of purple smoke over it. The piece of foreskin started to levitate and rotate faster and faster in the palm of the genie. Joey could start to feel like his cock head was getting jerked off even though no one was touching it. The faster the foreskin went, the more he felt he was on the edge of cumming.
Joey tilted his head back up with almost out of breath as he could feel the orgasm rushing to him and his mouth barely open to let his breathing flow out.
The genie was looking at him and with a quick movement, he closes his hand on the foreskin.
Joey could feel pressure building in his groin as it felt like he was getting jerked off faster and faster.
Then as he was about to cum, his eyes starting to revolve inside his skull, the genie opened his hand again and all the sensations were gone, leaving Joey out of breath on the edge of orgasm.
In the palm of his hand, the foreskin was gone, reformed as a shiny golden loop earing with a blue sapphire on it.
Joey didn’t understand any of what happened, his brain still trying to function properly as it still was lacking oxygen from the forced edging session.
“What was that… what have you… done… Where is it…” Joey asked out of breath but the genie never answered, he just snapped his fingers and suddenly the golden foreskin earing disappeared in shimmer. Instantly, Joey felt a pressure building on his left lobe as he could feel it heating up with a pinching sensation.
joey was left flabbergasted, not understanding any of what just happened and what happened to his foreskin. He tried to look around, maybe catching his reflection in a shiny surface or something, but he didn’t see any of it. All he could feel was the cold wind on his numb cock head and the sensation of something dangling from his ear.
The Genie laughed softly, stroking his own massive erection. “I knew something was missing, master… now you look exactly like you should have, ready for your next big adventure.”
The genie took a step back and snapped his fingers one more time. Both Duncan and Joey felt like a weight had been lifted from their shoulders and like they could breathe again for the first time since the mist invaded their lungs.
As the two men collapsed, gasping and twitching in their new bodies, their old clothes finished to dissolve away. They stood there naked and, on the ground, as they could see the mist starting to fall to the ground and with them changing the dusty attic into a new room. Something with white industrial lights handing from the rooves. Then tiles started to appear on the walls soon followed by the ancient wooden cabinets turned into metallic lockers covered with stickers and grim.
as the mist finally reach their heads, new clothes started to shimmer into existence around their transformed bodies. A tight pair of black sport shorts for Duncan and a fitted V collar T-shirt with a black baseball hat. Then a pair of well used white trainers and high sport socks appeared on his bigger feet.
On Joey, a white jockstrap appeared on his body, forcing his cock to look downwards again, now fully entrapped inside the cotton prison and almost nudging against his own ass hole. The pouch being extremely prominent. Then a pair of tight-fitting black soccer shoes appeared on his tanned musky feet as socks finished to materialized against his legs climbing up to his knees.
The Genie kept lazily stroking his enormous, throbbing cock, veins pulsing under his bronze fingers as he watched the two broken men on the floor. His smile widened with sadistic pleasure.
“Look at you both… already so pretty in your new skins.” He then grabbed Joey by his thick, dark hair and yanked his head forward. “Open up, stud. Time to taste your new reality.”
Joey tried to pull away, eyes wide with terror. “No! Please don’… I’m not… I won’t…!” But the Genie’s grip was iron. He slapped his heavy, leaking cock against Joey’s plump new lips, smearing sticky precum across them.
“That’s it… fight me. I love when masters start to realize I am the one holding the cards.” The Genie laughed, low and cruel, then forced the thick head past Joey’s resisting lips and deep into his mouth. Joey gagged violently, eyes watering as the massive shaft stretched his throat. The Genie held his head in place and began thrusting with slow, deliberate strokes, fucking his face with relish.
“Mmmph! Mmmghh!” Joey’s muffled screams vibrated around the Genie’s cock. Tears streamed down his bronzed cheeks as he choked and drooled.
The Genie groaned in pleasure and taunted him between thrusts. “Yes… just like that. Suck it, stud. This is what your exciting new life tastes like. Keep crying… I love how your throat squeezes when you panic.” He laughed again, deep and mocking, pushing even deeper until Joey’s nose pressed against his hairy musky shimmering pubes.
After several long, brutal minutes of face-fucking, the Genie’s balls tightened. “Here it comes, boy. Drink every drop like the good little whore you’ve always been.”
With a loud, satisfied roar, the Genie came hard. Thick, glowing ropes of purple-tinged cum flooded Joey’s mouth and throat. Joey thrashed, desperately trying to pull back, but the Genie held him firm while laughing in pure pleasure. “Swallow it all. That’s it… good boy.” Joey continued to resist, gasping for air as he could feel cum rushing directly in his stomach. A weird feeling invading his throat and mouth as it felt like his tongue was numbing a bit.
After a couple of minutes frozen like that, the Genie slowly pull his still rock-hard cock free with a wet pop. Joey immediately tried to scream for help and gasping for air.
“Air, I need air…. Huuuuuuuuuu. I couldn’t breathe…” But the words that came out were completely different: “هواء، أحتاج إلى هواء... هووووو ...!”
His eyes widened in pure panic. He clutched his throat, trying again. “What the fuck?! Why can’t I speak English?! WHAT THE FUCK!!” Only fluent, desperate Arabic poured out: “يا إلهي! لماذا لا أستطيع التحدث بالإنجليزية؟! يا إلهي!”.
No matter how hard he tried, English was completely gone. He kept repeating frantic Arabic pleas, voice cracking with rising hysteria.
“أرجوك… أعدوني! أنا لا أريد هذا!” (Please… change me back! I don’t want this!)
Duncan stared in the distance, his head still spinning and still feeling dizzy from the smoke leaving his older lungs, taking more time to regain his senses.
“Joey? Are you ok? Where are you, where are we?! What happened to us...”
The Genie turned away from Joey’s sobbing of incomprehension. He took a look at Duncan and with a happy smile of work well done, he snapped his fingers.
Duncan suddenly gasped, clutching his head as memories began flashing violently before his eyes. Kelly smiling at him on their first date suddenly appeared clearly in front of his eyes, he felt like reliving this moment in the smallest detail but as his lips left her, he opened his eyes only to realize Kelly was now burning from his memories as in her place stood a very muscled Latino athlete looking at him with eyes full of admiration and hungriness. He couldn’t understand what happened or why that happened, suddenly he blinked and he was no longer on a bench in the park but instead in his living room with his computer on his laps, Kelly hugging him as they were planning their honeymoon, the house they wanted to buy, lazy Sunday mornings together… One by one they ignited and disintegrated. In their place, new memories flooded in with brutal clarity: the thrill of sneaking young athletes into hotel rooms during tournaments, the wet sound of tight asses stretching around his thick cock, the addictive taste of sweat and submission, the roar of stadium crowds mixed with moans in locker room showers.
“No… no, stop!” Duncan screamed, voice breaking.
“Kelly! Stop that please… KELLY!! I … I… Get out of my head! That’s not me… I’m not… I want to marry her… I love her… I… love her? Fuck… I love… her tight… No that’s not me, STOP IT!!! I love… his… ass? I LOVE FUCKING ASS!! NO Please… don’t…. do this…. Kelly… I love…” He fell to his knees as more of his old life was ripped away. The memory of proposing to Kelly burned to nothing and was replaced by the image of him balls-deep in a muscular exchange student after a late training session. Every time he tried to cling to who he was, another piece turned to ash. His personality was shifting, getting confidence, dominance, and an insatiable hunger for male bodies overwriting his old shy, settled nature.
“Please… I don’t want this… I’m Duncan, I’m not…” His resistance grew weaker as the new identity took root. Suddenly a new memory appeared in flashing color in front of his eyes, a new name appeared and engraved itself in his brain. Noah. He is Noah, he has always been and always will be. He is the coach, Noah. The traveler. The predator who lived for the next tight hole and the next victory.
The Genie watched with dark delight, lazily stroking himself again. “Welcome in your new life, master Duncan.”
The man who used to be Duncan, now fully Noah, stepped up as his manly hands caressed his hairy pecs, a dominant smile appearing on his cheeks as he took his first step into his new life, his cock rock hard and pressing against the front of his shorts, leaving nothing to imagination. He took another step and suddenly Joey heard the Snap echoing again. Suddenly, he felt his body starting to levitate from the wet musky tiled floor to the seat of a wooden bench that had seen thousands of athletic asses through the years.
Joey tried to resist but his body was completely immobilizing by the purple magic controlling and positioning him, his legs then were positioned up, giving free access to his tight hole.
Joey tried once again to scream for help but was still in incapacity to talk anything else then Arabic. He heard the genie laugh as he saw Duncan getting closer and closer to him, positioning himself between Joey’s forcibly spread legs.
His thick, veiny uncut cock throbbed angrily, already drooling precum onto the boy’s smooth, tight hole. Joey’s heart hammered in terror.
“Duncan, please don’t do this. We are friend, remember about Kelly. No don’t please, DON’T!!” he begged in fluent Arabic, voice shaking.
“أرجوك... هذا ليس أنت! أنا جوي! توقف!!!” (Please… this isn’t you! It's me, I’m Joey! Stop!).
Noah didn’t understand a word. He just grinned, spat on his cock, and pressed the fat, leaking head against Joey’s virgin entrance. With one brutal thrust, he forced half his massive length inside. Joey screamed, back arching off the bench as his hole was violently stretched open.
“AAAAAH! ألم! أرجوك توقف! إنه يؤلمني!” (It hurts! Please stop! It hurts so much!). Noah groaned in pleasure and kept pushing deeper, inch by thick inch, until his heavy balls rested against Joey’s ass. “Fuck… so goddamn tight. This Moroccan bitch was made for cock.”
Joey’s eyes rolled back as Noah started fucking him with long, powerful strokes, each one slamming harder than the last. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping skin filled the locker room. Joey’s heavy circumcised cock bounced uselessly against his abs, leaking despite his horror.
Suddenly, Joey noticed movement above them. The Genie hovered near the ceiling, lazily stroking his own enormous cock and watching with cruel delight. Their eyes met. The Genie smirked, raised his hand, and snapped his fingers.
In that instant, the Genie’s form disappeared in shimmer. Then Joey saw from the corner of his eyes the air near the lockers next to the door starting to move and agitate. He then saw the genie’s silhouette appear and stated to melt and shrink, transforming into a tall, muscular young athlete with short black hair and a cocky grin. At the same moment, the locker room door swung open.
Captain Josh and four of his teammates walked in, already half-hard in their shorts thanks to the very intensive training and the overdose of testosterone and horniness running through their veins.
The newly-transformed Genie simply stepped forward and joined them, laughing with them all like he had always been a part of the group. No one else noticed anything strange and then even started to laugh back and talk like they truly know each other from years of practices and friendship.
“Coach! you already started without us?” Josh laughed loudly. “Look at Ahmed. Little slut can’t even wait.”
The players quickly stripped, tossing their clothes aside. Thick, hard cocks sprang free. Joey tried to plead with them, eyes wide with panic.
“أرجوكم، أتوسل إليكم، يجب أن تساعدوني. أنا لست أحمد، أنا جوي، لدي حبيبة وسأرزق بطفل قريبًا. أريد العودة إلى بيتي، ساعدوني، أرجوكم!!” (Please I’m begging you, you have to help me. I am not this Ahmed, I am Joey, I have a girlfriend and soon a baby boy. I want to go back home, Help me, please!!!).
The players just chuckled, not understanding a single word that came out of Joey’s mouth. One of them then took a step forward, his thick veiny cock in hand as he lazily jerked off. Joey opened tilted his head only to realize it was the genie now in the jock’s body.
“أرجوك لا تفعل ذلك، لا أريد هذه الحياة، لم أتمنَّ ذلك... مممم ...” (Please don’t do that, I don’t want this life, I didn’t wish for that… mmMMMmmGGgMGgggGG) Joey couldn’t even finish his words as the genie grabbed Joey by the hair and shoved his thick cock straight into the boy’s pleading mouth, cutting off his words. “Shut the fuck up with that Arabic shit,” he laughed. “Good little cumdump doesn’t need to talk.”
Everyone roared with laughter as they surrounded him. “Let’s go guys, we have a tanned bitch to fuck!” Josh mocked while lining up his cock at Joey’s already-stuffed hole alongside Noah’s.
“Maybe you’ll start to pick some words up after taking so much American cream!”.
They descended on him without mercy. Noah and Josh double-penetrated his ass, stretching him brutally wide while two others took turns fucking his throat once the genie was done with him. Hands roamed over his sweat-slicked bronze body, slapping his ass, pinching his nipples, and constantly tugging on the golden earring. Every pull sent humiliating jolts of forced pleasure through his cock.
“Fucking perfect exchange student,” one player grunted as he hammered into Joey’s throat. “Came all the way from Morocco just to be our team bitch.”
“Bet his family would be so proud seeing him like this,” another laughed. “He truly lives his American dream!”
Joey could only sob and gag around the cocks in his mouth, tears streaming down his face. “مممغhhh— أرجوكم… أنا لست مثل هذا… أريد Cynthia… أريد طفلي…” (Please… I’m not like this… I want Cynthia… I want my baby…). None of them could understand him and they didn’t care. They just kept using him harder, rotating positions, filling every hole, painting his bronzed skin with sweat and spit.
After what felt like an eternity of relentless pounding, the Genie still wearing the jock identity saw that Joey was on the edge of losing himself, his cock played with like a joystick by the one currently fucking him. He felt like he was on the edge but never close enough so he could be forced to cum.
The genie then grabbed the athlete that was hard fucking Joey by the shoulders and tapped his scapula as he asked for him to give him the space so he could finish inside the bitch.
The athlete laughs and then took his cock out of Joey’s opened ass.
“أرجوك... لا أستطيع فعل ذلك بعد الآن... أرجوك...” (Please… I can’t do …that, anymore… Please…).
Once again, Joey was cut short as the genie got his mouth closer to his ear and murmured.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your new life, Master!” Suddenly, he grabbed the earing between his calloused fingers and Joey felt like someone was directly playing with his cockhead and whole length. It felt like he was getting jerked off by the most delicate hand ever, it felt like he was getting sucked by the warmest mouth. His breath started to path faster and faster as he we slowly losing his sight, invaded by a pure feeling of pleasure. In front of his blurring vision, the genie smiled as he started to fuck him faster and faster, enjoying the view of Joey slowly losing his grip on reality and falling into dissociation.
With one more thrust of his cock deep against Joey’s prostate and a pinch of the hearing, the genie came hard and deep inside Joey’s welcoming hole, and as he did, Joey felt the orgasm finally rushing past the point of no return as he could feel his length starting to contract and in an instant, starting to release the only trace of his Britannic DNA.
A devastating orgasm ripped through him. His circumcised cock exploded hands-free, shooting thick ropes of cum across his own chest and abs while every muscle in his body spasmed around the cocks buried inside him.
In that exact moment, his mind shattered and reformed.
Memories burned away in purple fire: the old house at Blackthorn Lake… the summers with Duncan… proposing to Cynthia… the ultrasound pictures of their unborn baby boy… nights at the bar dreaming of travel… all of it turned to ash. New memories flooded in to replace them, a sun-drenched childhood in Morocco, arriving in Huston at 21 as an exchange student, struggling with English, quickly discovering he was gay and addicted to getting fucked and used like the sextoy he truly was. The endless locker room sessions, the hotel rooms during away games, the thrill of being passed around by the team. He was Ahmed now. A 21-year-old power bottom who lived for cock, especially Coach Noah’s and his teammates’. English was hard for him, but his body spoke fluently.
When the orgasm finally faded, Ahmed blinked slowly, a slutty, satisfied grin spreading across his cum-covered face.
“Coach Noah…” he moaned in heavily accented English; voice hoarse but eager. “المزيد... مارس الجنس معي بقوة أكبر، من فضلك...”.
The players laughed and kept going, knowing their favorite cumdump was ready for another round.
Coach Noah was waiting behind them, his arms crossed as he felt his cock jump in anticipation knowing he would require a private session with Ahmed later on in his office. Only Ahmed and him.
In the months that followed, Noah and Ahmed lived the exciting life full of travel and adventure they had wished for so desperately in that dusty attic.
They flew from city to city, country to country, following the demanding schedule of international university tournaments. New hotels every week. New locker rooms. New opponents, and new teammates, eager to celebrate victories deep into the night.
Noah’s powerful 6’3” body, thick with muscle and commanding presence, was everything Duncan had once dreamed of and more. He thrived as the dominant, respected coach who lived for the game… and for bending young athletes over whenever the mood struck him.
Ahmed, the 21-year-old Moroccan exchange student, had become the star attacking midfielder everyone wanted. He had gotten his degree in the form of a sports scholarship and was well on his way to making something of himself and his life, at least on the pitch and in the bedroom. His bronzed, athletic body and eager, talented hole made him the team’s favorite power bottom. He barely spoke English, but he didn’t need to. His body communicated perfectly.
Every night after training or matches, Ahmed found himself exactly where he now belonged: legs spread wide, moaning sluttily in Arabic and broken English as Coach Noah and the boys took turns wrecking him. The golden earring made from his former foreskin remained his most sensitive spot, one playful tug and he would cum hands-free, shaking and begging for more like the perfect cumdump he had become.
All that remained were sun-soaked memories of Morocco, the thrill of arriving in Huston, and the addictive rush of being passed around by his coach and teammates. He was happier than he had ever been, a gay, cock-hungry 21-year-old who lived for the next load and the next victory.
The wishes had been granted and they would finally live the lives they craved for.
They no longer remembered Cynthia and Kelly.
They no longer remembered the baby and their bored lives.
They no longer remembered Duncan, Joey, the attic, or the terrified man they used to be.
High above, safely tucked away in the ornate brass lamp that now rested on Coach Noah’s office desk, the Genie leaned back in his lamp with a contented sigh. Once known as Uncle Richard many decades ago, he had learned this lesson the hard way himself after wishing for a life full of magical adventures and being able to help people while having a long and joyful life full of pleasure and happy moments. Now he made sure others learned it too, slowly, thoroughly, and without mercy, one wish at the time.
I hope you’re having an amazing day! This is the story you guys voted for, with a little twist from my side. I had a blast writing it, and I think this one might be one of my all-time favorites to this day.
Thank you so much to everybody who voted in the poll, and thank you so much to @bremenmask for sending me this ask. I really appreciated it, and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
This story officially marks my first step into my thirties, and I hope they’ll be just as good as the previous decade. I want to thank all the friends I’ve made along this journey, and I can’t wait to meet new ones.
To everybody who has sent me kind messages, please know that even if I don’t reply to all of you, I read everything, and I love interacting with you as much as possible. So please continue to send me messages if you want to talk about ideas or simply if you feel lonely :)
A huge thank you as well to @mystrangetfs for his very useful help in brainstorming and putting this story together, especially for helping me create and find the pictures.
I can’t wait to hear your feedback, and I hope you’ll appreciate this story as much as I do.
“Letting go“ in shifting doesn’t mean to stop trying to shift. It’s just knowing that you were meant to shift and accepting that you’re gonna shift one day, no matter how long it takes. You shouldn’t put pressure on yourself to shift “faster” because time is not real and the months/ years you spend in this reality are incomparable to the infinity you will spend shifting and exploring other realities.
shift. now. no other choice. I’m forcing you. Go to your DR now. I don’t wanna see you get out! Your people wanna see you. You need to go home. Go shift why’re you still here? Shift to your DR. Go away!!
