I've always wanted to use Chronivac, but I could never decide what I wanted to become. Last night I had a strange dream. I think the devil appeared to me. But he was really nice and asked me what I wanted most. We talked and talked, and eventually he got me to say, “I wish my intelligence would turn into beauty.” Well, being a hot model has always been a dream of mine. Luckily, it was just a dream, because otherwise I'd be hot, but also dumb as a brick. And who knows if the wish wouldn't also have side effects on my character 🤦🏻♂️
You feel the transformation penetrating deeper into you, and with each step, not only does your body become more perfect, but your desire becomes more intense. The Chronivac hasn't just taken your wish literally – it's spiced it up with a touch of devilish malice, turning your sexual hunger into something insatiable. Let's dive deeper into the sexual moments of this weekend, while the rest of the transformation continues. You'll become dumber, hotter, trickier, and your life will revolve around these raw, animalistic encounters.
Friday Evening: The First Spark of Lust After pulling off that little online scam – you tricked your friend out of 50 bucks with a fake story and chuckle dumbly about how easy it was – you scroll through Grindr. Your head is already a bit foggy, your IQ dropping, and instead, your cock throbs at every profile pic. You match with a guy nearby, a regular dude with a beard and tattoos. He comes over, and you notice how your new looks work: Sharper cheekbones, smooth skin – he stares at you like you're a god. You barely talk; you push him against the wall, your hands gripping firmly into his pants, feeling his hard cock. You rip off his clothes, lick over his chest, bite his nipples until he moans. Your own body feels stronger, more athletic, and you lift him effortlessly, lay him on the bed. You smear on lube – or wait, no, in your new dumbness you almost forget it, but you don't care. You thrust into him, hard and deep, pounding rhythmically while he gasps and begs. Your mind is empty, only instinct matters: Fuck, cum, then the next one. He shoots over your new six-pack, and you pump into him until you explode. Afterward, you send him out, already hunting for more. Your character is changing – you're no longer the nice guy, you take what you want.
Saturday Morning: The Athletic Rush With your new body – broad shoulders, defined muscles rolling under your skin – you go for a jog. Every step makes you feel how athletic you've become, and the stares from the guys in the park turn you on. Your IQ is now so low that you barely think about work or books anymore; instead, you plan your next trick: You call a colleague, lie about needing money for a "charity," and he sends it because your charm and dumb grin are convincing. Back home, you shower, and the water runs over your perfect muscles. You masturbate under the shower, thinking about the jogger from earlier – your hand wraps around your thick cock, rubbing hard until you cum and splatter the wall. But that's not enough. You invite two guys you met online. The first arrives, a slim twink, and you throw him on the sofa, strip him, and lick his ass, shoving your tongue deep in until he trembles. Then you fuck him doggy-style, your strong hands holding his hips, thrusting brutally while he screams. The second knocks on the door – you let him in, and it turns into a threesome. You take them both: One sucks your cock, the other rides you, your bodies sweaty, sounds of slapping and moaning filling the room. You cum in one while the other shoots over your face. Your dumbness makes it perfect – no thinking, just pure sex. You trick them out of some tip money afterward, laughing dumbly.
Saturday Afternoon to Evening: The Insatiable Hunt Your face is now model-like: Intense eyes, a smile that makes anyone weak. You head to the club, your athletic body in tight clothes, and the guys stare. Your mind? Empty as a straw – you forget what you said five minutes ago, but it's enough for scams: You convince a bartender to give you free drinks with a lie about your "birthday." Then the hunt: You spot a muscular guy, push him into the bathroom. No foreplay – you kneel down, take his cock in your mouth, suck deep, feel it pulsing in your throat. He grabs your hair, fucks your face until he cums and you swallow it all. Outside, you grab the next one, an older daddy type. In the car in the parking lot, you rip down his pants, sit on him, ride his hard cock, your muscles tensing as you bounce up and down. He digs his nails into your back, and you cum together, your seed mixing with sweat. In the evening at the club, you fuck three more: One in the darkroom corner, where you press him against the wall and take him from behind, hard and fast; another on the floor, 69-style, licking and sucking until you both explode; and the last one in the taxi home, where you blow him while the driver doesn't notice. Anyone who doesn't run away fast enough is yours – your new character is a hunter, tricky and sex-obsessed.
Sunday Morning: Total Surrender By Sunday, you're the epitome of beauty: An athletic god with a body made for sex. Your IQ is rock bottom, but you keep scamming – you con online, sell fake tickets, and chuckle dumbly over your easy money. You start the day with a hookup: A neighbor comes over, and you fuck him on the kitchen table, your strong arms lifting him up while you thrust deep into him, your bodies slapping rhythmically. He bites your shoulder, and you cum with a roar. The rest of the day? An orgy in your apartment – you invite a group, four guys, and it gets wild: You lie in the middle, one fucks you while you blow another, hands everywhere, cocks in every hole. You rotate through them, take them all, cum multiple times, your body glistening with sweat and semen. No regrets, just dumb, pure ecstasy. The devil has turned you into this: Hot, dumb, a trickster con artist and a fuck machine.
At the end of the weekend, you lie there, surrounded by chaos, and think only: "More." Your new life is here, and it feels damn good. If you want even more detailed adjustments, let me know! 😈
From NYC to London, the Webcrawler gets around, he just didn't know what they had going on in London.
A new brand of Tabaco that's taken hold with all the youth. Taking mild mannered, bright young men and turning them into thugs on the street and it seems to have gotten to Spidie too, just a few breathes of the new strain seems to be changing his whole world view.
Rather than saving people, now all he thinks about is going out with his mates and bragging about how much bigger he is than all the other lads at the bar.
Regardless, this young man won't amount to anything anymore, just another cash cow for the Company.
(I am still taking your requests, hope you enjoyed this one!)
Ethan Cole adjusted the cuffs of his pristine Lila dress shirt as he stepped into the dimly lit bar. The scent of aged whiskey and faint cigar smoke clung to the air, mixing with the hum of conversation and the low thrum of music. It was a place he wouldn’t typically set foot in; too raw, too unrefined for someone of his stature. But after the week he had endured, he needed something different, something to drown out the stress clawing at his mind, and this bar was the closest to his apartment. Which mean he’ll be able to go to sleep fast after he drank some glasses.
Sliding onto a barstool, he signaled the bartender and ordered a whiskey neat. As he sipped, letting the amber liquid burn down his throat, he barely noticed the man who had taken the seat beside him and gestured the barman too for a drink.
“Rough day?” his voice drawled.
Ethan glanced sideways. The man was striking, dark-haired, well-built, dressed in shirt and suit adjusted to his size perfectly. His tanned skin and rough face showed the years in a perfectly natural and mainly way.
There was something about him, an effortless confidence, a magnetism that felt both inviting and dangerous.
“You could say that,” Ethan replied not intending to as he exhaling sharply. “More like a rough week. You?”
The man smirked, swirling the drink in his glass before taking a sip. “Oh, I’ve had my fair share of long weeks. Name’s Adrian, by the way.”
“Ethan.” They clinked their glasses in an unspoken toast before Ethan continued, “So, what do you do, Adrian?”
Adrian tilted his head, as if considering his words carefully. “I guess you could say I’m in between things right now. Figuring stuff out. Trying to sign a deal for a new job. I just need my client to show up in time, but he tends to be … late.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Clients and punctuality. Am I right?”
“Yea.” Adrian said with an easy grin as he took another sip. “And you? You look like you’ve got your life all figured out.”
Ethan huffed a small laugh. “I’m a lawyer. A lot of long hours, negotiations, and making sure clients gets the best deals possible.”
Adrian studied him for a moment, then smirked. “A real man of order and control, huh?”
“I try to be,” Ethan admitted, downing the rest of his whiskey. He felt the warmth settle in his chest, loosening the stiffness in his shoulders.
Adrian leaned in slightly. “And yet, here you are. In a place like this.”
Ethan exhaled through his nose. “Guess even control freaks need to unwind sometimes.”
“Well,” said Adrian as he downed the remains of his glass “to the pressure we need to unwind then!”
Adrian chuckled, flagging the bartender for another round.
As the drinks kept coming, their conversation flowed more freely. They discussed everything and nothing, places they had been, people they had met, philosophies on life. Ethan found himself enjoying the company more than he expected. Adrian had a way of listening that made him feel like the most interesting person in the room.
As the hours slipped by, the edges of Ethan’s mind began to blur. His thoughts felt sluggish, his limbs heavy. The warmth of the alcohol had morphed into something thicker, more clouded. He tried to focus on Adrian’s voice, but the words became distant echoes.
“You alright?” Adrian’s voice broke through the fog.
Ethan blinked, realizing he had swayed slightly on the stool. “Yeah… just a little out of it.”
Adrian smiled, slow and knowing. “Maybe you should call it a night.”
Ethan nodded absently, attempting to push himself up. The floor felt uneven beneath his feet. The world tilted, shadows stretching unnaturally under the streetlights as he stumbled outside. The cool night air did little to clear his head. His breath came slower, heavier. He barely registered Adrian’s silhouette lingering near the entrance, watching as Ethan staggered down the empty street.
After a couple of meters, Ethan turned left on the empty dark streets to cut to his apartment as fast as he could. His head spinning and his vision blurred by the alcohol. Ethan took a pause, holding himself against a brick wall just behind the bar he spent the night in, his eyes were heavy and his breath getting slower and slower and then, darkness.
The last thing he felt was the sensation of the ground rushing up to meet him before everything faded to black.
A dull throbbing pain settled in Ethan’s skull as he regained consciousness. His body felt heavy, sluggish, his limbs refused to obey him. Blinking against the dim light filtering into the room, he tried to move, only to realize he couldn’t. Panic jolted through him as he became aware of the tight restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. He was bound to his bed.
His breathing quickened, heart hammering against his ribs as his eyes darted around the bedroom only to realize it wasn’t his bedroom either. It was modern but minimal, dark walls, a single dresser. The lights of the late dark night casting shadows through the velvety curtains. As his sight ran left and right, he saw a chair in the corner of the room, standing still in the shadows. A tall figure sat hidden in the darkness, watching him. Only the eyes were glowing in a weird alluring reflection, something Ethan couldn’t take his eyes off. Something dangerous and alluring at the same time.
A slow, deliberate smirk spread across the shadow’s face as he leaned forward into the faint glow of the bedside lamp. “Morning, mister lawyer. Or should I call you, jury 28?.”
Ethan swallowed hard; his throat dry. “Adrian? W-what the hell is this? Let me go.”
Adrian tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t do so. Not yet.”
Ethan struggled, yanking at the restraints, but they held firm. His breathing turned ragged. “If this is some kind of sick joke…”
Adrian stood, his presence looming as he took slow steps toward the bed. “It’s not a joke, Ethan.” He reached for a weird looking device sitting on the bedside table looking like a pair of high-tech goggles. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you, if that can reassure you.”
Ethan thrashed, a fresh wave of terror coursing through him. “No! Don’t you dare! I’ll sue you. You don’t know who you came for. No get your hands away from me. Fuck off, don’t!”
Adrian pressed a firm hand against Ethan’s chest, pinning him down with ease on the soft mattress. “Shhh. Relax. Fighting won’t change what’s coming.” He lifted the headset over Ethan’s face, ignoring the muffled protests. “Just let it happen.”
The world went dark as the device settled in place. At first, nothing but pitch black. Then, a spiral. Slowly turning, hypnotic in its endless motion. A low hum filled his ears, rhythmic, steady, invading his senses.
“Ethan,” Adrian’s voice was different now, calmer, smoother, slipping into his thoughts like silk. “Just breathe. Focus on the spiral.”
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut beneath the headset. “I-I won’t…” but as hard as Ethan tried, his eyes opened and started to focus on the spiral in front of him. He tried to stop listening to Adrian’s voice but he couldn’t. it was like it was speaking directly in his brain. Ethan felt like he was losing his grip on reality and he was terrified about what could happen now. His body started to relax. It felt like thousands of ants were crawling on his legs, getting higher and higher as long as Adrian’s voice was echoing in his ears. Ethan hated how much this sensation was getting harder and harder to fight. It was like he was slowly but surely falling asleep without being able to fight this urge to close his eyes and to listen.
“Ethan, I’m going to count from five to zero. With every number, your body will get more and more relaxed. You’ll stop thinking, you’ll feel good and relaxed. When I’ll reach zero, you will fall asleep, but you’ll still be able to listen to me and do everything I tell you to do. Let’s start now, Ethan.
Five.”
A sudden pressure wrapped around his skull, a weight sinking into his mind. His muscles slackened slightly.
“Four.”
His heartbeat slowed, his mind fogging over, as if something was gently pressing against his thoughts, making them heavier.
“Three.”
His struggles dulled. The spiral pulled at him, luring him into its endless depths. His breaths became shallower, steadier.
“Two.”
A deep warmth spread through his limbs. A strange, heavy calm wrapped around his mind, thick and inescapable. He knew he had to resist, had to fight, but… it felt so much easier to let go.
“One.”
His lips parted slightly. His thoughts drifted, floating like dust in the air. Something inside him frayed, unraveling at the edges. His body was still awake, still bound, but his mind…
In a last attempt to ask for help, a faint moan, barely audible, escaped his opened and relaxed mouth. “Please…”
“Zero.”
Ethan’s mind slipped away, sinking into the black void of sleep. His body remained, breathing steadily, waiting.
Adrian leaned down, whispering against his ear, his voice the only thing tethering Ethan to reality. “Good boy.”
Ethan did not react.
Adrian grinned, trailing a finger along Ethan’s cheek. “You hear me, right?”
“Yes, master.” Ethan’s voice was monotone, distant.
“Interesting, the whole Master thing wasn’t planned, but I won’t complain about it” said Adrian with a smile creeping on his manly cheeks. “You will listen. You will obey.”
“Yes, master.”
Adrian took a step back, admiring his new puppet waiting for his orders. “Perfect.” He said as a bonner started to grow the front of his pants.
“Stand up.”
Ethan’s body obeyed without hesitation as Adrian finished to unfastened the restraints.
Like a marionette on strings, Ethan rose from the bed, his movements slow, precise, guided by an invisible force. His vacant eyes stared ahead; his mind still locked away in the depths of obedience. Adrian watched with satisfaction, adjusting his coat before motioning toward the door.
“Follow me and don’t talk to anyone.”
Ethan’s legs carried him forward, his shoes padding against the cold floor. The dimly lit hallway stretched before them, and he moved mechanically, shadowing Adrian’s every step. They exited into the quiet, empty streets, the neon glow of a hidden tattoo parlor flickering just ahead. Adrian led him inside, exchanging a knowing glance with the heavily tattooed man behind the counter.
“This the one?” the tattoo artist asked in a deep rough voice, eyeing Ethan’s blank expression with curiosity.
Adrian smirked. “Yeah. Let’s get started.”
The backroom was small, cluttered with ink bottles and buzzing machines. A single chair sat in the center.
“Get your clothes off and sit down on the chair” said Adrian as he watched Ethan taking his suit off piece by piece until his athletic naked frame was standing still in the middle of the room. Ethan’s body then turned left and sat on the cold leathery chair without moving.
“You won’t move no matter what happen. You’ll stay still and you’ll wait for my orders.” Continued Adrian as another vicious smile creeped on the corner of his lips.
“Yes master. I will wait for your orders without moving.” Answered Ethan in a monotonous tone.
Adrian leaned in, brushing his fingers along Ethan’s forearm. “Time to give you a proper look, Ethan.”
“Damn bro, remind me not to piss you off. This dude is gone” said the tattoo artist in a cheerful tone as he grabbed his tattoo gun.
“Don’t worry bro. Ethan here is having a special treatment.”
The hum of the tattoo gun filled the air as the artist began his work. Ink soaked into Ethan’s pale skin, swirling into intricate designs, dark and bold. Adrian watched as his canvas took shape. Sleeves covering his arms, ink snaking over his chest, his ribs, his thighs. Black and gray patterns wrapped around his thin frame, etching a new identity and personality onto his flesh.
Hours passed. Ethan’s body sat still, accepting every stroke of the needle without a single flinch. His pristine skin was gone, replaced with artwork that exuded raw masculinity, danger, desire, dominance. Adrian ran a hand over the fresh tattoos, admiring the transformation before turning back to Fernando.
“That’s perfect. I just think some more modifications could perfect it all. What do you think?” Adrian said in a cheeky vicious tone as his sight landed on Ethan’s untouched cock and shaved pubes.
“I got you!” said Fernando as he turned around to grab a gun looking device.
“I knew I could have trust in you!” said Adrian as he fists bumped Fernando gloved hands.
In the blink of an eye, Fernando positioned the gun at the tip of Ethan’s cock head and with a syringe and a bit of pressure on the trigger, a loud SNAP resonated in the room as a huge silver Prince Albert was now lodged at the tip of Ethan’s cut cock.
Fernando then went higher on Ethan’s body and grabbed his left ear as he Snapped a golden earing on his lobe before doing the same with the right ear.
Adrian took a step back to admire Ethan’s tattooed and pierced body. He smiles as he saw Ethan still breathing but disconnected body standing still on the chair, still waiting for Adrian’s next orders.
“Step 1 done.” Said Adrian as he started to walk back close to Ethan’s limp body. “Now let’s start Phase 2.” He continued as he grabbed a vial full with a shimmering green liquid in his front right pocket.
“Can I borrow you this?” He asked Fernando as he grabbed an empty brand-new syringe sitting on the counter next to him. “Thank you, my friend.” He said as he emptied the full vial inside the syringe.
He tapped the side of the needle, then pressed the tip against Ethan’s arm. “This is where the real fun begins.”
The injection burned as it entered Ethan’s veins. A slow pulse rippled through his body, spreading from his core outward. His muscles twitched, tensing involuntarily. His breath hitched as heat surged beneath his skin, his frame trembling as unseen forces took hold.
Adrian stepped back, watching eagerly. “Can’t wait for you to wake up and see this new you.”
Ethan’s shoulders jerked as his collarbones cracked and widened, his frame forcefully expanding. Muscle swelled beneath his skin, his pale complexion darkening slightly as veins thickened beneath the surface. His arms spasmed, biceps ballooning outward, triceps growing dense with corded muscle. His forearms pulsed as tendons strengthened, his once-slender fingers stretching longer before thickening, his palms roughening into something rugged and powerful. His nails darkened slightly, the tips squared and strong, as if built for labor.
His spine arched violently as his torso grew, his ribs reshaping to accommodate his new bulk. Each vertebra popped in succession, elongating him inch by inch until his feet dangled over the edge of the chair. His chest heaved, expanding outward with each deep, shuddering breath, his pectorals thickening into powerful slabs of muscle. A dusting of hair spread across them, brown curls sprouting and thickening at the center. His abs rippled into sharp definition, each ridge of muscle perfectly sculpted, his obliques cutting deep lines down to his widening pelvis.
His legs then started to crack before getting longer and thicker, his thighs surged with power, tearing the fabric of his skin as muscle bulged outward, letting some stretch marks along the way. His calves tightened, taking on a hardened, athletic shape, while his feet stretched, toes curling as they expanded in size. The skin thickened slightly on the soles, his heels broadening to match his newfound proportions.
Adrian’s smirk widened as Ethan’s groin started to pulse, his cock twitching as the change overtook it. His length shifted, shortening slightly but growing far thicker, veins protruding along what remained of the length. His balls swelled heavier, fuller, resting against his inner thighs with a new weight. The prince Albert got closer and closer to his thickening balls and the skin and muscle around the fresh wound started to heal like the cauterization process had taken place years ago. His pubic hair darkened, thickened, curling wildly in an unkempt display of masculinity. A rich, musky scent began to rise from his body, sweat forming at his chest, his pits, his groin. Something earthy, raw, undeniably masculine.
Ethan’s face was the last to change. His jawline cracked and restructured, sharpening into something chiseled and strong. His cheekbones grew more pronounced, his nose widening slightly to match his bolder features. His lips swelled subtly, taking on a more natural pout beneath the shadow of his thickening facial hair. His brown eyes fluttered momentarily, shifting in hue; turning a deep, striking shade of steel blue before cooling down into a bluey grey. His once-light hair darkened, roots shifting to a rich, dirty blonde, strands thickening and taking on a slightly tousled, effortlessly rugged appearance. Stubble then started to grow on his new cheeks as his face finished to shift into this new appearance.
Ethan’s body then started to spasms and twitch on the chair. His muscles spasming and relaxing again and again. His brand-new tattoos engraved in his flesh started to glow a faint green, the same color as the vial. The stretch marks all over his body that appeared because of the sudden growth started to disappear slowly but surely. And after a couple of minutes, Ethan’s body stood still on the chair, as relaxed as before. But his skin was now a healthy golden hue. All the freshly engraved tattoos were now healed perfectly and his prince Albert Albert was now there for good.
Adrian exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he admired his work. “Damn, Ethan… I have to say, prison did me good, but this?” He smirked, gripping Ethan’s chin and tilting his head to inspect his new face. “This is art. I’m sure you’ll be a favorite!”
Ethan remained still, brain still asleep and trapped in his new changed body, body settling into its new form. Adrian chuckled, dragging his fingers along the thick ridge of Ethan’s bicep before giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re gonna be perfect.”
“Well, I guess we can go now. Thank you Fernando. And as always,…”
“Yes I know the song Adrian. You were not here and I haven’t seen you since you got out of jail.”
“Thank you my friend.” Answered Adrian as he gave Fernando a stack of money before turning back to Ethan still laying in the chair in his new modified body while Fernando got out of the room.
“Now Ethan, get up and put this on!” Adrian said to Ethan’s relaxed body.
Still trapped in a trance, Ethan moved with robotic precision, reaching for the pile of clothes Adrian had laid out for him. A pair of tight, worn-out jeans, their denim stiff with sweat and musk. A black tank top, just as ripe, the fabric clinging to his muscular torso, a pair of well-worn converse shoes and a black and white hat. Lastly, a metal cock ring and a thick buttplug sat on the table. Ethan grabbed them. For the first time since all of this happened. Ethan’s body stood there for a couple of seconds without moving the plug and the cockring in hands. Almost like he was hesitating on putting them on. But only one word from Adrian was enough to put Ethan back into the stated of obeisance. Ethan plunged the plug in his tight ass in one soft move before grabbing his thick short cock, passing his Prince Albert through the ring and then locking it around his girth.
Adrian leaned in close, inhaling the scent of submission clinging to Ethan’s newly transformed body. “Perfect. Now, follow me.”
The night air was thick with the scent of the city as Adrian led Ethan through the winding streets, neon lights flashing in puddles along the pavement. The bass of a distant club thrummed through the ground, growing stronger with each step they took. The entrance was unassuming, just a black door with a crimson light above it, but the moment they crossed the threshold, the world shifted.
Inside, the club pulsed with life. Men, drenched in sweat, bathed in dim lights, moved against each other, their bodies slick with heat and pleasure. The air was thick with the mingling scents of cologne, liquor, and raw masculinity. Ethan followed Adrian through the crowd without question, weaving past wandering hands and hungry eyes, until they reached a private changing room in the back.
Once inside, Adrian locked the door and turned to face Ethan’s waiting body. “Sit.”
Ethan dropped into the chair in the center of the room. His new body was still unfamiliar to him, the weight of his muscles shifting with every small movement. Adrian pulled out his smartphone from his suit pocket, his fingers tapping against the screen.
“This part,” Adrian murmured, stepping closer, “is where I make sure you fell what I felt. Trapped in a jail and forced to be fucked. knowing I wasn't strong enough to break free.”
The spiral appeared on the screen, glowing faintly in the dimly lit room. The moment Ethan’s eyes locked onto it, his body stiffened, his mind immediately drawn into the swirling depths of light. Adrian crouched beside him, whispering into his ear.
“You’ve already come so far,” he cooed. “But now, it’s time to let go completely. Because of you, I have lost five years of my life. And you thought you could go ahead with yours like nothing happened?
No… You took five years from me and because of you, jury 28, I was put in jail for five fucking years!! I think it’s only fair to give you a bit of your own medicine. With a bit more for the mental struggle you indulged. That’s what you asked for, remember?
Now don’t worry. I’m not a monster.
I won’t do anything bad to you. In fact, I think you’ll enjoy your time a lot.
In jail we have something we call the biatch. Basically, it’s someone not too muscled, not too strong. And we fucked the shit out of him to get our nerves down, doesn’t matter if he wants it or not.
Well, let’s say. I didn’t want it at first. But I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy it after a while. At least I hope for you. You were straight, right? Yea not for long anymore …
Now listen to me Ethan, from now on, you are not Ethan anymore. You are Joey. The brand-new gay biatch at this club. You’ll come here and dance and get fucked every night for the next five years and after every shift, you’ll come to my apartment and give me the money you made. You love to get fucked by men. For Joey, every cock is a gift and you want to honor them all in any way you are asked. When I or anybody will call you a good boy, you will cum handsfree and it’ll be the best orgasm you ever felt. Also, when someone touches your nipples, you’ll feel like you are fucked by the biggest cock ever in all the right places. It’ll be painfully orgasmic for you. To finish, every time you’ll cum, you’ll fall back into this trance state where you’ll remember your mantra and that Joey is your new reality: I am a gay biatch who loves to get fucked on stage for money. I love cocks. Cocks are my only focus in life. I love to get played with.
Now I’m going to count down from five to zero. With every number, you’ll feel those instructions cementing themselves in your brain. When I will reach zero, it’ll become permanently ingraved in your brain. When I say wake, you will wake up from that trance you are in and be mentally free but your body will still belong to me. And when you’ll cum, you’ll go back into a trance like this one where your new personality and identity, Joey, will be the one in control. You’ll be able to feel everything but you won’t have any control in the situation. Say I agree if you understood everything.”
“I- I agree m-aster” answered Ethan in a monotone voice interrupted with fear undertones.
“Perfect. Let’s starts the countdown then”.
“Five”
Ethan’s muscles tensed as he unconsciously tried to fight it, his jaw clenched as drops of sweat started to form on his forehead.
“Four”
His breath hitched, his pupils dilating as the spiral filled his vision.
“Three”
His body slumped slightly, tension giving way to relaxation, his mind sinking deeper into the void.
“Two”
His lips parted, a soft exhale slipping through. Thoughts slowed. Resistance faded.
“One”
His shoulders dropped, his head tilting slightly forward.
“Zero. Wake up boy.”
Ethan’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. His hands trembled as he ran them over his body, his fingers pressing against his foreign skin, his unfamiliar face. “No… no, this isn’t real. This…” He looked up; his eyes wild. “What did you do to me?” Seeing that Adrian was not answering, Ethan repeated, this time screaming louder.
“WHAT THE FUCK!! WHAT HAPPENED!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME!!” screamed in panic Ethan as the reflection in front of him mimicked his movement? He tried to get up but his legs weren’t listening. Only his head was able to move.
Adrian laughed as he saw Ethan finally taking all the details of his new self. He smiled when he saw tears shining on Ethan’s cheeks before dying in his stubble.
“Don’t worry Ethan. I know you are scared but you shouldn’t be. I told you you would have pleasure. And even if I went to jail because of you, I’m not a monster. No, I see myself more like the Karma. You see, you sent me to jail for a mistake I did in my youth, I sent you to jail for something you did, kinda…
I’m sure you’ll enjoy this don’t worry.” As he finished saying that, Ethan stood frozen on his chair, impossible for him to slightly move even one of his toes. He was totally at the mercy of Adrian and he hated being so helpless.
Adrian got closer and stood behind him, putting his hands on Ethan’s shoulders as he started massaging them cheerfully.
Now let’s see what happen if I do… that!’ Adrian said as he moved his hands doesn’t Ethan’s chest in a quick movement and his fingers went pinching with force Ethan’s sensitive nipples. All of a sudden Ethan felt like something huge penetrated his virgin ass. He couldn’t understand what was happening as he didn’t see anyone or anything in the mirror reflection. Just himself, mouth opened and moaning in pain and pleasure as he kept on feeling the sensation going faster and faster. At this moment, he felt his cock getting hard under his jeans only to feel a weird tugging sensation at the base. Adrian went on and opened the fly for Ethan to see that his proudness, his huge cut cock was no way smaller than it used to be. Going from 8 inches hard to only 3 inches now. But worst, he saw something shimmer at its tip. “The fuck!! What have you do-ne… hAaaaaAaAhaaAAA” said Ethan while being interrupted as Adrian pinched his nipples once again.
“I told you you would have a good time! But now I think it’s time for you to start your shift.” Continued Adrian as he pinched and twisted Ethan’s nipples one more time, sending a wave of pleasure down his body and making his cock leak one more time.
“Please Adrian don’t do that to me. I’m sorry, I was just doing my job I don’t want to feel that and be trapped like that. I don’t want to …”
“Good boy” said Adrian as he took a step back from Ethan’s body.
Like if something had flicked in Ethan’s mind. His eyes unfocused for a moment as he blinked a bit. Cum started to erupt from his frozen body and splattered on his mirror reflection. His prince Albert moving up and down with every orgasm he felt.
Ethan felt everything. His body had betrayed him. He tried to ask for Adrian to free him and turn him back one more time but no sound came out of his mouth. Instead, he was frozen watching his reflection starting to smile and turn his head in Adrian’s direction, smiling even more as he contracted his dick to make his cummy prince albert jump with every movement. Ethan was trapped in his own body, feeling everything but not being able to move. He was trapped.
“You’re mine now, Joey” Adrian whispered. “And I’m going to make sure you repay me for for everything you took from me.”
“Don’t be late for your shift. Tonight, you have three private dances and maybe a fourth one if you are fast enough. But I know you love your job, so go ahead and go on stage, good boy!”
As he finished his sentence, Joey stood up and started to walk on the stage. His muscled body moving in rhythm with the music as the front of his jeans got soaking wet with his second orgasm. Joey loved his life and serving his boss in this club. He was lucky to have someone like that taking care of him and making sure he was scheduled every night of the week for several months in advance. He loved his life, clueless that a couple of hours ago, he didn’t exist and was a straight lawyer about to break into this industry.
Ethan stood frozen feeling his body cumming as he got up to go on stage and started moving his body, showing his ass and dick to every client giving him a five-dollar bills. He hated it all, but he couldn’t do anything. Every time someone called him good boy, he felt his body cum handsfree in his jeans and every time the orgasm receded, he felt Joey getting stronger and stronger. It’s gonna be a tough five years of service.
Here’s the story you voted for as part of my 1k subscriber celebration! It was inspired by @onebecorrupt3975's submission:
"A recently released prisoner decides to take revenge on the young lawyer who put him behind bars. Using secret mind suggestions, he gradually corrupts him, making him indecent. Eventually, the lawyer quits his job and transforms into a horny thug. Hope you like it!"
I had an absolute blast writing this one, as it’s something I don’t often do. Thank you so much for all your messages and ideas for this event! I’m looking forward to doing more of these, so be ready for another one real soon!
Take care of yourselves, and once again, thank you so much for your likes and reposts.
As always, feel free to send me messages or inbox me if you have ideas! :)
Yo mate, you recon you can turn a white nerdy boy into a Turkish chav lad
You’re standing at the bus stop, the backpack with your anatomy notes weighing down your shoulders. Next to you sits a guy in a tracksuit, heavy silver chain, bleached hair, sides nearly shaved, broad grin, vape in hand. The smoke curls around you like candy-flavored fog.
“You know,” you start cautiously, almost teacherly, “vaping is actually quite harmful. Studies show it damages—”
He laughs crookedly. “Bro, chill. This? Not worse than the air in Manchester. And where you get that knowledge from? What are you, some volunteer worker?”
You say you’re studying medicine. He bursts out laughing, asks where. “Can you even study that at primary school for nerds now?”
You argue back. Quote studies, talk about lungs, nicotine. He rolls his eyes, cracks jokes about your Marvel T-shirt and checkerboard shorts. Eventually, he gets annoyed, gets on the bus, and leaves his vape behind.
You plan to grab it and dispose of it properly. Honestly. But your fingers close around it. Somehow… it feels inviting.
On the bus, you stare at it. Then—without thinking—you take a hit. Sweet, warm, calming. Your muscles tense. Your back sinks into the seat. That tingling, almost like a wake-up call.
You think of nights you never really had: football with the lads, shisha bar with Abi and Kardeş, laughing, shoulders pressed together. Marvel T-shirt, checkerboard shorts… cringy.
At the next stop, you jump off. Shopping center. Decathlon. Need to get something proper. Vape in hand, another hit. Your thoughts mix languages: English, Turkish. Words flashing in your mind: abi, oğlum, lan.
Passing a mirror: skin darker, arms wider, shoulders solid. Stubble on your jaw. Hair thicker. You need new clothes, fast!
You grab black Adidas track pants, white Nike socks, slides. Perfect look for an afternoon at the bus stop.
Changing room. Strip. Pants on, socks tuck. Feel… right. Posture shift. Chest pop. Arms flex by themselves. Finger snap, another hit. Brain lights up.
Phone out. Selfie. “Abi, ne diyosunuz? Fam, drip how? Top what?”
Grin. Nerd gone. You now—street, loud, proper.
Walk out: slides slap floor. Shoulder bump, chest out. Words fly—English-Turkish mash. Oğlum, look me, abi! Vibe full, drip max!
Mirror again, shopping center. Walk past, self-check. T-shirt? Too weak. Hoodie? Better. Arm flex, chest snap. Abi, hangi hoodie? Which color? Mind racing. Fingers twitch. Vape hit. Pulse up. Body buzz.
Bus stop back. Friends? Nah. You alone. But power. Stride wide. Slides slap. Voice: Oi, fam! Oğlum, ne diyosunuz? Thoughts mash: English, Turkish, street. Brain rewired. Muscles flex. Stubble shadow strong. Hair thick. Drip locked.
Smile. Mirror reflection in shop window: street, confident, loud. Nerd gone. You—complete. Own vibe. Own street.
Hey bro, work is just super stressful right now and I feel like they take advantage of me. I just wish I could be big and strong and respected all the time. Do you think you could help me out with that?
You are a small tax official, unassuming and scrawny, with a life consisting of mountains of files and constant nodding. Your colleagues take advantage of you, shoving the unpleasant tasks onto you because you lack the backbone to say no. They mock you behind your back, calling you the "office rag," and you let it happen because confrontation makes you break out in a sweat. Today is another one of those days: No one dares to go to the casino owner, that guy who's rumored to have mafia connections and worse. So they send you, with a stack of follow-up questions about his tax return in hand. You swallow hard, take the bus into the city, and finally stand in front of the glittering casino, where neon lights flicker and the smell of cigarettes and desperation hangs in the air.
You enter the boss's office, a room with heavy curtains and a desk that looks like a throne. The casino owner, an older man in a tailored suit, smiles at you—friendly, almost fatherly. "Sit down, my friend," he says in a deep voice. "I heard you have questions about my papers." You stammer something about taxes and regulations, your hands trembling slightly. He nods understandingly. "You know, I need someone like you. A right-hand man who knows his way around numbers. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes, right? That's human." Before you can respond, he slides an espresso over to you. You sit there, in the heavy leather armchair in the casino boss's office, the scent of old leather and a hint of cigar smoke hanging in the air, mixed with the distant jingling and rattling of slot machines seeping through the thick walls like a pulsating heartbeat. The espresso steams in front of you, its bitter, earthy aroma rising to your nose, but you sip hesitantly, feeling the heat of the cup on your fingers like a lifeline. The boss eyes you with that fatherly smile that doesn't quite match the rumors you've heard about him—mafia ties, shady deals, people who just disappear. His voice is deep and rough, like gravel under boots, as he says: "Come on, ragazzo, you look like you could handle something stronger." He slides the grappa over, a small glass with clear liquid shimmering in the dim light of the chandelier, and the sharp, fruity scent of grapes and alcohol tickles your nostrils.
You hesitate, muttering something about loyalty to the office, about rules and regulations, your own voice sounding thin and squeaky in the room where the ticking of an old clock underscores the silence. He waves it off, and you take the first sip—it hits you like a warm current, burning its way down to your stomach, a sharp, fiery burn on your tongue that tastes of ripe grapes and a hint of oak. It spreads like liquid fire in your veins, and you feel a warmth rising in you, your skin tingling slightly as if tiny needles are dancing. You blink, feeling your shoulders relax a bit, the constant tension that envelops you like a second skin beginning to loosen—your muscles feel heavier, as if they're gaining mass, a faint pull in the fibers.
A second sip, and the grappa tastes milder now, more inviting, the alcohol enveloping your tongue like velvet. The tingling intensifies, traveling to your arms, a pulsating warmth that makes your biceps swell—you hear the quiet creak of your shirt as the fabric tightens, the buttons pressing against your chest, which suddenly broadens. The smell of the room becomes more intense, the cigar smoke mixing with your own sweat, which now carries a hint of musk. Outside in the casino, you hear muffled laughter, the clinking of coins falling into trays, a symphony of gambling that beckons you.
A third sip, and now you're even laughing at a joke from the boss, something about tax inspectors clucking like chickens—your laugh echoes deeper, more resonant, vibrating in your expanded chest. The taste of the grappa explodes on your tongue, sweet-sharp, and you feel your skin prickling, warming up, taking on a golden, tanning-bed bronze tone—it feels smoother, almost oily, as if you've bathed in the sun, and the scent of tanning beds mixes into your perception. Your hair becomes sleek and shiny under your fingers, your chin more defined, a rough stubble field emerging that you feel when you run your hand over it. The tingling travels lower, to your legs, your thighs swelling, pressing against the fabric pants that tear and feel like they're melting into tight leather—the smell of new leather rises, mixed with the alcohol in the air. You feel bigger, more powerful, the insecurity melting like ice in the sun, replaced by a confidence that pumps through your veins like adrenaline. "Boss," you hear yourself say, your voice now a deep baritone that fills the room, "for money laundering—you could use shell companies to disguise the transactions. And tax evasion? Let's talk about offshore trusts; the loopholes in the system are huge." The sound of your words echoes confidently, underscored by the distant hum of neon lights.
The boss pours another, a fourth grappa, and you knock it back without hesitation—the taste is now like nectar, burning-sweet, and your arms are massive, veins bulging like ropes under the tanned skin that pulses warm and taut. You stretch, hear the ripping of seams in your shirt, feel the fabric give way, and it feels right, liberating, as if your old self is shedding like old skin—the scent of your new self, musky and dominant, overlays everything. The tank top is your signature. Even though shirts and ties are required elsewhere in the casino, that doesn't apply to you. Your shoulders can't tolerate fabric.
Your grin becomes crooked, cunning, your eyes sparkle with a shrewdness born of experience—experience you didn't have yesterday. The conversation now revolves around you as a consultant: "Yeah, boss, we could launder the revenues through slot machines, declare winnings as losses…" You don't notice how your tie loosens and turns into a gold chain, cool and heavy against your skin, matching the new leather pants that span your muscular legs and the pulsating bulge between them, smooth and creaking with every movement.
After an hour and one last grappa, you stand up. You're massive now, a stereotypical Guido—muscular, cunning, with a chain around your neck and leather pants that emphasize your new proportions. Your eyes sparkle shrewdly, your grin is self-assured. "Boss, I'll handle that for you," you say and bid farewell with a firm handshake. You've become his right-hand man, the street-smart tax advisor. The boss pats you on the shoulder, and you feel the power pulsing in you, hear your own heart beating like a drum. "Good boy," he says, his voice warm and approving. And you nod, leaving the office with heavy steps that thud dully on the carpet, ready to take over the casino. The scent of success clings to you, the taste of grappa lingers on your tongue, and the world feels like your playground.
You head into the casino to check on things—the employees step back respectfully, no one dares to question your authority. Least of all your former colleagues, whom you now keep in check: With ridiculously low bribes and the privilege of occasionally sucking your cock, you ensure they keep their mouths shut and obey you. Your new mantra: "GTL," which stands for "Gym, Tan, Laundry," where Laundry means money laundering in this case. Your old life? Forgotten. You're the king here, and it feels damn good.
Our Wall-crawling friendly neighbourhood hero has been spending all day preventing bank robberies, petty theft and grand theft auto all across the city.
Strangely enough, all of them seemed like they spend half their time at the gym and the other half being hardened criminals, but Spidey had never seen any of them before.
It was only a matter of time before he found out the truth, as he was chasing down the 5th bank heist of the day, one of them threw their ski mask at the Web-slinger, only for it to come alive.
A feeling not unlike the symbiote called "Venom", the mask penetrated past Spider-Man and into Peter Parker, changing his childhood to being rough and dangerous. The shooting of Uncle Ben was now a gang shooting, Aunt May couldn't keep control of the boisterous and increasingly violent Peet and kicked him out.
Once on the streets, Peet Parker joined gang after gang, committing robbery, larceny and grand theft and always doing it with his unwashed lucky ski-mask. The same one he wore when getting bit by that strange Spider that gave him the strength to become his Gang's leader and the same ski-mask he plans to use for his next heist.
As you may have noticed, the use of Chronivac to relieve overcrowded prisons is slowly becoming established. As a reminder, the substitute for jail is permissible if the following conditions are met:
The TF must be humiliating.
The TF must be recognisable to the social environment of the offender.
The TF must be beneficial to society.
Mike has been convicted of coercion and extortion. He did not attend the court hearing. He stayed away without permission. The sentence against him was passed while he was training at the gym. Execution will take place with immediate effect.
Mike's grunting dominates the gym. He is undoubtedly one of the big boys. No one here would dare question his authority. One of Mike's buddies asks him how many sets he has left. And Mike replies in a rather high-pitched falsetto voice that he'll take as long as it takes here. His buddies collapse with laughter. Mike lets go of the bar in shock and the weights come crashing down. Hey, big guy, someone asks. Now in the boys' choir? And where does that poncey smell come from? Hardly from me, Mike flutes and smells his freshly epilated armpits. It smells like Calvin Klein. The boys collapse in laughter.
Determined to regain his respect, Mike resumes training. But he doesn't manage to move the weights even a millimetre. Before the eyes of his buddies, his muscles melt and his tattoos disappear. In shock, he runs to the locker room. Loses his trousers from his narrow hips in the process. And uncovers an astonishingly magnificent cock.
His former buddies run after him, jeering. Mikey awaits them with a half-erect cock. He now has a new role as the gym whore. To what extent does this fulfil the third condition for Chronivac's punishment? May not be beneficial to society. But funny and a maximum punishment for a testosterone brimming bully.
Carlos was breathing heavily. Today could change everything. Years of hard work and saving had gone into this moment—his one-way ticket to the United States. He was to meet the smuggler in a dusty village just shy of the border crossing. The instructions had been clear: no luggage, no papers, just the clothes on his back.
It had sounded strange. Dangerous, even. But Carlos followed the plan. He wore his best clothes—clean jeans, crisp shirt, and a brand-new hat. He looked good. Confident. Like a proper paisa. A man on a mission. He was ready to make it big in the land of the gringos.
At the meeting point, a man leaned casually against a shiny new pickup—too clean for these parts. He looked like a parody of an American frat bro: Stars-and-Stripes tank top stretched over a muscular, tanned chest, tight jeans that barely contained the impressive bulge at his crotch, dusty biker boots, and a buzz cut hidden under a flipped-back cap. He spit chewing tobacco onto the road.
“Carlos?” he asked. Carlos nodded, throat dry. “Good. Let’s roll.”
Carlos, using the little English he knew, asked where he should hide. Surely not in the open truck bed? The man chuckled.
“You booked first class, bro. No hiding. With this ticket, you drive yourself into a better life.”
He tossed Carlos the keys and climbed into the passenger seat.
“You serious?” Carlos asked, already speaking more fluently than he had a minute before.
“You drive, I pick the tunes. I’m Zack.”
Carlos slid into the driver’s seat, hands shaking. He had never been behind the wheel of a car like this. Hell, he’d barely driven anything automatic.
“You know how to drive this thing, bro?” Zack asked.
Carlos shook his head.
“You’ll learn.”
It was boiling inside the truck. Zack had cranked the music but rolled up the windows and killed the A/C. Carlos had no idea which button fixed that—and he wasn’t about to ask. Zack was belting out country bangers in full volume, clearly loving every second. Carlos wiped sweat from his neck. His mullet was drenched.
“Coke?” Zack asked, flipping open a cooled compartment in the armrest.
Carlos grabbed the can with both hands. “Holy cow, dude! You’re like, a total lifesaver! Thanks, fam!” he said.
The words came easy now. Still with an accent. But fluent.
“12 kilometers to the border,” a sign read.
Carlos squinted. Damn metric system. Ten miles? Fifteen?
He tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with Young Love & Saturday Nights. His forearm muscles twitched under the strain, his tattoos dancing in the sunlight. Zack rolled the windows down, and a rush of hot wind hit Carlos’s torso, lifting his cut-off tank. It felt… good. Real good.
At the end of the road, the border station came into view.
Carlos inhaled deeply and slowed the truck. First came the Mexican side. Zack handed over two passports, which Carlos passed on. The guard barely looked up. He had to stand on his toes to see into the high cab. A quick stamp, and they were through.
The real test was up ahead.
The U.S. border guard was like Zack’s twin: jacked, buzzed, and oozing alpha energy. His uniform hugged his chest like shrink-wrap, and his smile was pure Hollywood.
“Welcome back to the USA,” he said, taking the passports.
“What was the reason for your visit to Mexico?” he asked.
Zack grinned. “We went down to get wasted and hook up, y’all! Get ready for some wild times!”
The officer laughed. “That’s the best thing about Latinos.”
Then, a pause.
“Which one of you is Charles?”
Silence.
Zack nudged Carlos. Hard.
Carlos flinched. “My friends call me Chuck, Officer!” he blurted.
The border guard raised an eyebrow. “Take off your hat, Chuck.”
Shit. The hat. Without it, he’d look like a straight-up immigrant. Carlos reached up—but there was no sombrero. Just the trucker cap. He pulled it off, and long blond hair tumbled into his face.
He brushed it back.
The officer smirked. “With short hair, you wouldn’t look so much like a girl.”
He stamped the passports and handed them back.
“See?” Zack said. “Easier than stealing candy from a baby.”
Chuck laughed. “Alright, I owe you. Didn’t think we’d get through without anyone checking the back.”
Six kegs of premium tequila rattled around in the truck bed.
Zack shrugged. “Dude, the officer was staring at you. If you’d told him about the tequila, he’d have helped you unload it. Just give him a smile next time.”
Chuck shifted in his seat and adjusted the growing bulge in his jeans. Hell yeah, the officer had been hot. But tonight, his load was reserved for Zack. A bet was a bet—and losers got sucked off in the back of the repair shop.
Chuck and Zack had been best bros since the day they got kicked out of college for smuggling drugs. Now they ran an auto repair shop near the border—on paper. Behind the façade, they moved goods in both directions. Tequila. Pills. Firearms. Sometimes people. Always bets involved.
Every trip was a gamble: would they get caught? The loser had to pay with his body.
They rarely lost.
Chuck didn’t know when he’d picked up fluent gutter Spanish, but it came naturally now. Like it had always been part of him. It helped smooth things over when border talks got tense. And if that didn’t work? A blowjob usually did the trick.
