Hi, you can call me Evan, I'm just a 20-something 🏳️🌈🇲🇽 guy who's into tf. Wanna rp something? I'm up for anything, just hit the dms :)) I'll reblog the many works of this amazing community and on the work of having a small index of these stories by authors, even deactivated blogs if I can find their work. If you're under 18/legal age of ur country, please leave this is not an appropiate place for underage
The body was just on loan, of course. Yeah, the aesthetically flawless physique competitor I’d leapt into looked VERY different, with his wide shoulders, big arms and trim waist, before I slipped inside.
He’s still in there, of course, floating in a blissful void, drooling in a perpetual orgasm as he watches me take over his life. I saw his potential for growth and FED this big monster. Good god, did he blow up! Loving the feel of this big tank.
I wonder how he’ll feel about it when I wake him up and give him his body back? Who knows, he may just love the gut and beard I gave him.
My roommate, Casey, is like my best friend and I could tell that he was really struggling. He’s been on a dry spell recently and was really jealous of my relationship.
We were up late last night and drinking a little bit and starting having a heart-to-heart. He started talking about how hard it’s been for him and trying to date. He said that all his dates just felt weird and he wished he could just feel comfortable on one of them just to boost his confident. I said in a joking manner that I wish I could offer up my boyfriend and show him what a good date looks like. He let out an awkward laugh and avoided eye contact for a bit. It got a little awkward but we kept moving on.
“Do you really mean it? Like if there was a way, you would let that happen?” Casey asked, finally making eye contact.
“Yeah man, I’d do anything for you, and you know it” I replied.
“Swap bodies with me” he said in a serious manner.
“What?” I scooched away on the couch a little bit.
“Please? I’ve been talking to this witch recently and she gave me this spell that could swap bodies with a person of my choice. It only lasts 24 hours and then we’d swap back” he started rambling. “I know you guys have your usual date night tomorrow, so I was thinking maybe you could let me go in place of you. I promise he won’t even realize”
I was taken aback, I had no idea that body swapping was real. I saw how desperate he looked, and like I said he’s my best friend so I would do anything for him. I decided to agree to the swap unsure if it would even work.
He pulled out his phone and opened the notes app within. His face now lit up with excitement.
“Okay I just have to recite this spell” he said. “Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I get that it’s asking a lot”.
“I mean I don’t know if I fully understand, but if you think this’ll help you I’m ready” I affirmed.
Casey read the spell aloud. It was kind of an entrancing experience as he read the spell. We both fell into a lull and ended up passing out at the end of the spell. I woke up first and immediately noticed the difference.
‘Oh my god did this actually work?’ I thought to myself. I noticed that the voice in my head was replace with Casey’s voice. I looked down at my body, rotating my hands, unable to believe that it worked. My hands and forearms were so much meatier than before. As I was looking down, I noticed my new beard scratching my neck folds. I then felt my forehead. Casey’s hair was receding pretty bad, so I traced my finger along my hairline.
I quietly exited the living room, leaving Casey in my body to continue sleeping. My dick was incredibly hard from this experience and I had to take care of it. I didn’t think Casey would mind. I already had precum leaking in my boxers on the way over. I didn’t even have time to take off my shirt as it only took a couple of tugs to explode all over the mirror. I was breathing so heavy and locked eyes with my reflection.
I eventually woke Casey up and he went through the same experience as me. He tried to play it off though and said that he had to pee and felt weird that he’d be using my dick. I saw right through it though based on the bulge in his pants. We hung out for the rest of the day as normal. Although it was weird walking around the apartment a few inches shorter. Eventually Casey left to go on a date with my boyfriend and I was excited to have the apartment to myself.
Most of my time was spent just killing time and enjoying the apartment as if I were Casey. I spent a lot of time in Casey’s room, it was fun imagining like this way actually mine. I searched through the drawers of Casey’s desk, I felt attachment to the items even though they weren’t technically mine. I tried on a bunch of his clothes and spend a lot of time jerking off in different outfits. I couldn’t help myself.
I also scrolled through Casey’s phone out of boredom. At first it felt weird going through his twitter and tiktok feed, but I started enjoying some of the content. I’m not a sports guy at all but I was liking tweets talking about his favorites team and actually understanding the references. I even began swiping on tinder and matching with people. There were a bunch of cute guys on here, and I was having a ton of fun flirting with them. When Casey get’s back I’m gonna ask if we can stick around like this for a bit. I don’t think he’ll mind at all. I walked out to the kitchen and grabbed one of his beers and brought it over to the couch. I propped my legs up and turned on the game. I would never do this normally but it seemed like fun. I took a sip of the beer and felt like I could finally relax. I’m enjoying being Casey too much to leave.
Morally conflicted journalist puts off questions of ethics until it's just too late. Finally assigned to put his name next inflammatory content Sam finds himself more than appreciating Chinese culture.
Various white to Asian Muscle growth and racial change ahead!
Like many, I saw the final pictures on twitter and had to do something with them haha! Ended up with a piece just a tad different than usual! Hope you all enjoy! -Occam
Samuel Johnston knew he worked for a rag but as long as the checks cashed he could afford to mute his conscience. They made money not from sales so much as some rightwing think tank who wants their views affirmed in any way they can get it. So he lays low and pens little puff pieces, avoiding anything too controversial and introduces himself as an accountant to anyone he cares enough to lie to.
He’s quite adept at staying out of sight and mind when it comes to the doling out of any especially charged or problematic issues. Making sure to bury his own work any chance he gets, even using a pen name in case someone accidentally stumbles on his writing. It’s gone well enough so far he thinks! Sam tells himself that really working for NY:Red isn’t that bad, surely it’s even good that he’s got the job rather than anyone who believes the shit they write. Right?
No job is without its problems, he tells himself. So far he’s done a commendable job keeping his nose down with an almost supernatural ability to duck away from bigwigs or management. That is until now as he’s summoned by name to his boss’ side. His proficiency at staying off the radar of management has kept him from a one on one with the man in charge for some time, but now he is sitting on the top floor outside of Mr. Howard’s office, surely waiting to be assigned some horrible project.
“Come in!” Sam hears the surly man shout before promptly stepping into the gaudy office. He’s immediately taken aback as somehow the editor looks almost younger than he does in the many pictures Sam has seen. Sam hides his shock at the man’s jet black hair as well as he hides the general fear and disdain that begins to send adrenaline pumping towards his mind. Mr. Howard doesn't notice at least, getting straight to business, “I can tell from yer writing that ya like the city Sam, can I call ya Sam?”
Samuel opens his mouth to reply but the chief just continues on, “Anyway I love all yer little toilet paper stories but how do ya wanna write with the big leagues?” This time Samuel stays strong and gets a word in before being steamrolled again, “Actually I-” “I’m putin you on the most important case we have Sam. Surely ya’ve noticed all this, whats da word, invasion? Influx? Bah. All the Asian shit that’s startin’ ta creep in on our city’s culture!” Samuel makes an awkward face as despite knowingly working for the racist, it’s different to hear the words out loud.
Samuel opens his mouth to reply but the chief just continues on, “Anyway I love all yer little toilet paper stories but how do ya wanna write with the big leagues?” This time Samuel stays strong and gets a word in before being steamrolled again, “Actually I-” “I’m puttin’ you on the most important case we have Sam. Surely ya’ve noticed all this, what's da word, influx? Invasion? Bah. All the Asian shit that’s startin’ ta creep in on our city’s culture!” Samuel makes an awkward face as despite knowingly working for the racist, it’s different to hear the words out loud.
He holds his tongue out of shock or fear and his boss continues on his diatribe, “The last couple a schmucks I had on the beat just up’n left me high and dry can ya believe it! Old friends I thought!” He grumbles as he scratches his chin, moving away his hand it seems his beard thinned? He shakes his head in irritation and Sam would swear he saw his jowls tighten and wrinkles smooth over. “Anyway kid. Go out and do some prelim research. Have something on my desk by Friday or yer out just like those galoots!” Samuel stands for a second unsure if he’s allowed to leave before his boss looks up to glare with eyes Sam would’ve sworn were blue when he walked in.
Sam rushes out the door and to the elevator, riding it back to his floor, debating between writing a preemptive resignation or keeping mum and keeping on payroll for one last week. Profiteering from a culture war he may be but he’s not about to regurgitate genuinely racist talking points. He taps his foot impatiently as he thinks about just how cushy this gig is though. “Fuck!” He decides to call the only other confirmed decent human being he knows here, his friend Nick who works in the fashion dept.
The two go to grab coffee at a chain next door, Sam tries not to notice how they’ve started selling Vietnamese iced coffee. “Fuck man I can’t do it! Literally just one conversation alone with Howard was a wake up call.” Nick smiles like he has no problems with working for the dirtiest rag in the city, “Chill out Sam. Huward had my manager on the same beat and he, uh, Hidaka said that is said to just look busy for a bit and we won’t need to worry about all this racist shit anymore.” Sam squints his eyes at his friend, he’s not usually so easy breezy about work. He also racks his brain trying to figure out who Hidaka could possibly be. That can’t be his boss. No way Howard would let someone not white lead a department.
Seeing Sam lost in thought Nick reaches out and grabs his hand in a way Sam couldn’t imagine him doing before this second. In fact as the second drags on he stares down in the hand in shock, feeling the warm hand squeeze his forearm. He looks up to his friend’s face searching for any clue to the cause of this odd behavior. Sam smiles awkwardly and half-jokes “Hah hah, uh- Who are you and what’d you do with Nick… Hah.” Nick bursts out laughing, patting him on the arm jovially and leaving a hand larger than Sam remembers resting on his own. “Hidaka-san just showed me how to worry less about this job un?”
Sam inspects him closely for anything amiss, it looks like he’s picked up a bit of a tan? His hair is messier than usual and definitely a little darker, his skin is alluringly smooth and Sam can feel the heat his body is generating despite sitting across from him. Looking at his clothes Sam finds another surprise, his shirt almost looks strained! As if Nick has been hitting the gym for sometime, maybe it’s just been a while since he’s seen his friend in person?
Assuaged in the slightest, Sam ignores the glowering red flags and follows this lede, “Woah Nick have you been working out?” Nick blushes and Sam at the very least sees his friend is as shy as ever. He goes to scratch the back of his head straining his shirt almost to its ripping point as he responds, “Ah a little haha! どうぞ(please) don’t you worry about me. Since you have no desire to write the article, why don’t you go ahead and check out the little Asian market down the street for fun? It was quite a good time when Hidaka-san brought me earlier this week!”
Sam awkwardly smiles as he wonders why on Earth Sam is suddenly referring to his boss like this, it’s almost like he’s performatively speaking Japanese. Taking a second to pause Sam looks at the haircut as hands unseen style it into something fashionable he puts two and two together. Thinking to himself, ah! Nick must just be a weeb! Tension disappears from his body with a sigh of relief as he wonders how he didn’t notice before now. He gets up to follow his friend’s advice, what better way to stick it to the man than support the people he aims to malign right?
He bucks up and grabs a Vietnamese iced coffee for the road, tossing a “Sayonara,” at Nick with a wink to which he perks up and slightly bows. Man, how did he not notice before Sam thinks yet again. Blissfully unaware, leaving just as kanji symbols appear on Nick’s keyboard and his friend responds to an email in a language he didn’t know this morning. Blue eyes growing coal dark as his tanned, increasingly muscular arms tap away at the keyboard.
Sam spends the bulk of his day at the little Asian street fair and has an absolute blast. Any residual stains on his mind from his unpleasant morning absolutely fade away as he goes from booth to booth sampling cuisine and chatting with diasporic cultures the world over. Time flies as he goes into journalist mode and basically interviews first gen Chinese immigrants about their time in the city. He finds himself beyond immersed in the conversation, continuing to learn from the couple as the tables around them begin to pack up for the day.
He offers to help the older couple pack up and they happily take the aid, striking him bashful as they talk of what a sweet young man he is. “Wa! 哇强 (strong) Too!” The wife chuckles as she jokingly feels his less than impressive arms. He was having a better time at this little fair than he ever could’ve imagined, enough so that he thinks about going to stick it to Huaward then and there. Huaward? Whatever. His mind slightly off put by whatever that was, in an uncharacteristic act of transparency, Sam lets it slip that he works for NY:Red. The expressions on the kind couple’s faces immediately sour and Sam is quite shocked that they even know what the paper is.
There is a glint in the husband’s eyes as he starts to motion Sam away from any further aid, “谢谢 (Thank you) for your help, Sam. There have been a few, hm, bad men wandering around from that paper and I uh-” He looks around his table and grabs some miijiu they hadn’t put away yet. His wife nods, her face somewhere between rueful and hopeful as she watches her husband offer Sam the glass. “Again, 谢谢, er thank you for your help young man, enjoy this for the road 好的? (Yeah?)” The two turn to each other and begin talking to each other in mandarin alone and Sam takes the hint.
Kicking himself that he fumbled the capstone on such a pleasant afternoon, though finding solace in the rice wine he’s walking away with. He is blissfully unaware as the couple watch him drink and head down the street debating if everyone from that paper really is an asshole. Grimacing as they think about the vitriol spewed at them by NY:Red readers they decide they had no other recourse. Pleasant as he seemed Sam was consciously working on the side of hate and that could not be simply overlooked.
Sam quite enjoyed the rice wine the couple left him with, it immediately smooths over any lasting regret or concern about his interaction with the couple. They don’t know anything about him! He’s nothing like his other coworkers. It feels as if he’s had far more to drink than the small container they left him with should allow, but every time he looks down there always seems to be more mijiu to entice him. It would be impolite not to finish their gift he thinks; his confident stride quickly shifting to a stumble as he wanders home.
His phone goes off as he gets an email from his boss, Mr. Huang? Can’t be right. He squints at the email, deciding he must really have overdone it on the mijiu and stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Beyond the obvious difficulties in ambulation being drunk, Sam is unable to notice as his proportions slowly begin to shift. His ever-so lanky body begins to feel dull and heavy as the warmth of the wine fills his chest to capacity and then some as he leans against his apartment door, wiping his feet on an unfamiliar doormat.
He kicks his shoes off by the door on some new instinct and immediately goes to collapse on the couch. His small sofa creaking as he puts more than his usual dead weight on it. His legs that usually hang off the end lengthen even further as his thighs grow meatier. Pecs press into the cushions as he snores. He is swiftly ushered into an unfamiliar dreamscape, the jubilee of the fair and the bewildering amount of wine he drank produce a vivid carnival of culture in his subconscious.
He sees the old couple at their stand and begins to speak with them in their mother tongue, seeing the delight as a load is taken off their shoulders. His dreamself seamlessly conversing with a fluency unearned. Sam stirs in the waking world as his mind existentially changes to match his morphing body. His blond hair grows thin and longer as its tint stains darker. Twitching in REM the green eyes that he prides himself on speckle with brown before they are entirely overtaken, becoming a rich cacao like the thick eyebrows framing them.
The discomfort of a new language forcing itself into this memory begins to wane as he prides himself on how fluent he is in both Chinese and English. His hand goes to scratch his pecs and he smirks in his sleep as they pulse larger, knowing pride is not the only thing surging within him. At the edges of his mind he feels the memory of learning a language, words written on a blackboard in chalk, English and Chinese both. For the life of him he cannot recall which of the two he’s learning second. An alarm set on his phone blares and he jolts awake to get ready for work.
Throwing on a shirt, Sam freezes as he sees his reflection. Hundreds of little questions seize his mind, those aren’t his eyes are they? Did he dye his hair last night? Are those abs? God his arms look good don’t they!? As they race through his mind and grow rampant they fixate on how attractive he suddenly feels. Rubbing his pecs and feeling them bounce he cries out to himself, “该死！Uhhh, Damn I look good!” He poses in the mirror and takes in every new angle of his powerful body. Taking note as his body hair seems thinner, and decidedly darker wherever it remains. He looks close at his pit seeing his once dense bush of curly hair thin out and straighten, before the memory of even having dense body hair is washed from his mind.
His phone goes off again and his work is immediately brought to the forefront of his mind. “Fuck I didn’t read Huang’s message!” He finds email after email from his boss, only the first few mention the wretched assignment they last talked about. Sam’s eyes widen as he continues to skim through the emails as the topic lines quickly show some drastic re-prioritization from his boss. Only then does he realize that he’s been reading his boss’ name as Huang. His boss is white. Rather his boss’ whole identity is based around being white! Huang isn’t, right? Incredibly he clicks the last email, subject line Vacation, and is immediately greeted with a mouth watering picture of a powerful man. Everything comes to a stop as he can’t help but gawk at this man’s body.
Ni Hao Sanuel- take the day off shi de? Still only half dressed Sam balks at just how bizarre this is, rereading the name Sanuel he is thrown for a loop as his mind reconfigures this. Tearing his eyes from the man’s torso he finally looks at the cocky face and sees a thread he recognizes, “天啊! (Holy Shit!) That’s Mr. Huang!” He shuts his mouth before he drools like a dog at his boss’ arms. God, this is unlike him though right? He tries to dig through his memories of the editor in chief as the caustic racist he was yesterday, but with each uncovered the image of Huang changes as this dreamboat playboy overrides more of what was.
Sanuel readies to just stay in for this day of assigned vacation before he gets another notification, this time from his friend, Nobu? An image of Nick flashes through his mind, a handprint burns on his arm, and the taste of Vietnamese coffee dances on his lips. “Meet me on the boardwalk うん？” Sanuel rolls his eyes at his friend tacking on Japanese like that, willing his mind not to think about how his friend’s contact ID now says Nobu. Must be one of those, uh, his own thoughts trail off as he successfully abandons concern to head to meet his friend.
Nearing the meeting spot he looks for his usually cleancut friend, the only body present however is a massive Japanese man awkwardly flexing at himself in a reflective surface. Sanuel shyly speaks up, “Ni Ha-, uh Hey? Have you seen a guy named Nick around here?” The apparent bodybuilder beams and goes to engulf Sanuel in a hug shouting, “Oi! Shan! took ya long enough!” His eye twitches hearing the name, as this man effortlessly lifts him off his feet in a hug far too intimate for colleagues, and certainly from whoever this stranger is!
Shan pushes against the massive man, his body heat broiling him on this already warm day. He strains his eyes looking at the man grabbing him and suddenly it hits him, “Nobu?” The man promptly lets him go and pats him on the back with a laugh he would’ve never expected to come from his sheepish friend in the fashion department. “Wanna go have some ice cream or something Shan?” He feels the need to push back against his friend calling him Shan but as he hears it a second time he can’t recognize the names as anything but his own.
Shan pauses as he sees Nobu stop to chat with some Japanese tourists and something about the picture doesn’t sit right. God it’s that talk with Huang getting him all worked up again that,uh, racist? He clutches his head as contradictions between his past and present collide in his head and he slams his eyes shut as he cannot determine what is true about his current reality. Shan falls to the ground with a deep thud, slightly hyperventilating, his body grows larger as he takes deep breaths from the stress.
Hearing him collapse Nobu runs over to help him up, this time with more effort as his friend’s comatose body continues to put on muscle and grow heavier. Still, having the impressive figure he does, Nobu rather easily gets him on a bench and sits next to him, “クソ野郎？(Fuck dude?) You alright?” Shan slowly nods as his friend throws an arm around him. Looking down at his own arms as they pulse with muscle, he feels his eyes strain as the structure of his face begins to change.
Shan's jawline sharpens and his skin smooths. Stubble that has been a cornerstone of hiding his facial blemishes vacates as his hair stains black and flops longer. He feels clarity grace his mind as he stares at large hands on the ends of pale, hairless, muscular arms and he wonders if he is even himself.
He voices these concerns to Nobu who just laughs them off. “Hah! Of course dude, same Shan I’ve always known!” “那- that’s not my name Nobu.” His friend grins shyly in concern for his friend's mind. “It can't be my name. I’m-” grimacing before he continues as it takes everything in his power to speak against the realities in front of him. Memories of a world quite far away, moving to New York long ago, the youngest in a family of Chinese immigrants, “I’m white aren’t I Nobu?”
Nobu can’t help but laugh again at the beyond bizarre statement. He jokes about Shan hitting his head when he fell. “You’re the most 2nd Gen Chinese わるがき(brat) I know bro! Imma go get us some ice cream while you chill out.” Shan stares at his friend as he abandons him, feeling his eyes tighten as they shift into the monolid eyes that his memories swear he’s always had.
Shan retreats into his mind racing against his changing memories to find a pillar of truth to grasp on. He sees himself at the gym with Nobu, his black mop of hair flicking sweat into the air as he poses with his bro. He sees just yesterday at the Asian fair, helping an elderly couple pack up their table, twitching as he would’ve sworn that went differently. He remembers sitting at the office getting no work done as he plays on his phone, 是的！that’s it! His job. There’s something there, if only he can remember what the problem was there.
He sees Nobu begin walking back with sweet treats, Nobu works at the paper too. Oh 呃/Duh! He smirks as he goes for his wallet to grab a business card. His eyes see the obnoxious red logo he knows before they read text that will send him irrevocably forward, Shun Jiang - Ni Hao!NYC. His body fills with warmth like a machine overworking as his mind races with information about his new reality. Sweat drips from his hair as he can no longer even struggle to recall his claimed existence as a bystander at the vile paper they produced. His brown eyes steep to a dark black as they glaze over.
“Shan-baka! Here’s a popsicle!” Nobu shouts as he returns to his overheated friend who immediately bursts from his stupor. “混蛋!(Asshole!) It’s Shun- thought we were close!” Nobe smirks as he starts to eat his own ice cream. Unable to recall anything too in depth he feels a pause as he wonders what his Japanese friend is doing working for a Chinese newspaper, before he answers it himself. Clearly his subconscious is more at place in whatever new reality he faces. Their paper is for all NYC’s Asian immigrants. Nobu works writing, or more often modeling, for Konnichiwa!NYC! Huang really was a genius for the idea.
Shun smiles, thinking fondly of his boss as he enjoys the short break from the summer heat that Nobu brought him. Back at the headquarters of their paper everything shifts from the rag it was and into a paper connecting the disparate Asian immigrants of the city, printed in any language they can find translators for, Ni Hao, Konnichiwa, Annyeonghaseyo, Namaste!NYC. Each day striving for a better, more inclusive New York City. Shun beams with his new face, no longer burdened with the just concern of his peddling vitriol, instead possessed with a desire to spread his culture far and wide.
———————————————————————————
As I was writing I remembered a similar series by the now gone Dumb-and-Jocked!
If interested do check out Horizon Zero: One, Two, and Three for quite a different take on a journalism themed Racial Change!
Jeremy had never been the beach-going type of person. They were just... Boring. He would much rather spend his time in a museum than laying around doing nothing.
It wasn't like he was in bad shape either. He was handsome and had some decent muscle tone on him, enough to strut around shirtless at the beach if he wanted to.
It just never clicked for him. Friends went and dragged him with them for a good time, but that was always because of the company not the location. That and he'd always burned like anything if he was out in the sun for too long.
It was a day like any other as far as Jeremy was concerned when his friends came to him with a solution. It was no secret amongst them his feelings on getting sand stuck everywhere and turning red with burns wasn't his favourite, but that was all about to change.
"Listen man, we just want what's best for you. You can't live in Florida and hate the beach though dude, be real, so we think we've got something to fix that." His bro Liam said with a knowing grin.
Jeremy was sceptical to say the least. "What? No amount of money is going to change my opinion suddenly, and if you're going to try and drug me again, the beach is a bad place to do it." He gestured around him at the sand; not that there were loads of people around but that wasn't the point.
"Nonsense dude." There was a twinkle in Liam's eye as he spoke. "But you'll like this once it's done, promise."
Jeremy frowned, but didn't get much chance to ask what that meant before a sharp pain scratched his neck. He glanced back to see another friend of his, Kai, holding a syringe that had just finished unloading its contents into his neck. Jeremy frowned and glanced between them, then reached up to grab the injection spot once the needle had been pulled out.
"Sorry dude, but he's right. You're gonna fucking love this." Kai said with that same cheeky smirk Liam had splashed all over his face.
A dull, throbbing pain settled into most of Jeremy's body barely a moment later as he held his neck. Everything felt numb as the drug started its work on his body. Jeremy could barely feel a thing, but he could certainly see what was happening. A vague thought of whatever they injected having a sedative in it ran through his head, but it didn't last long. What snagged his attention was the tanned colour of his skin and the size that was packing on underneath it.
"W-What's...?" Jeremy staggered back a couple of steps as his head spun. "Fuck... Dudes... My head...?"
The world seemed to shift every time Jeremy blinked over the next couple of minutes. Once he's been at eye level with Liam's nose, now he was looking down at his best friend's head.
"Might want to strip dude, trust me." Kai nodded at Jeremy's chest.
He blinked once, then frowned again. "Huh? Why?"
"Trust him. You don't want to ruin those clothes do you?" When Jeremy didn't show any signs of doing what he was told by either friend, Liam clapped his hands loudly. "Now dude!"
That spurred Jeremy into movement. Just as asked he wordlessly started pulling at the loose clothing he wore, which was suddenly not feeling so loose. As he did he took more note of his darkening skin and increasing size; however impossible it was happening.
The final surge of growth hit luckily just as Jeremy threw his underwear off. He swayed on his feet as a huge volume of muscle packed itself onto his now dark body. The weight and the height were too much for him to keep his balance, so Jeremy let himself fall into the soft sand instead of forcing himself to stay standing.
"Jesus... What in the hell just happened??" Jeremy blinked and grabbed his throat. "And why do I sound different?!"
"Sound?" Liam was on the edge of a laugh. "That's what you're worried about bro? Your voice? Not the body we've given you?"
Jeremy took a second to look down at himself. Really look. Huge in a way he'd never been able to push himself in the gym. Dark in a way that wouldn't burn quite so easily as his formerly pale white skin. Kai and Liam had injected him with something and it had turned him from himself into a huge black dude.
"Come on Jerome, get your black ass up." Kai held a hand out.
Jeremy frowned. "Who are you calling Jerome? And you still haven't fucking explained bro."
Kai rolled his eyes and glanced at Liam. "It's a temporary shot. 24 hours, and we've got ID for you too. Jerome instead of Jeremy."
Liam stepped forwards. "If you like it though Jerome, we've got a permanent one back home." He winked.
"Jerome, fucking hell dudes." He ran his hands over his face and sighed. "Let's just get through the day like this, okay? I kinda dig it already. I'm gonna need some clothes though..."
Kai and Liam laughed then slapped Jerome on the back. "That's our man! Come on, we've got something beach fitting you can wear!"
Jerome rolled his eyes then chuckled as his friends pulled him away from the sandy spot and towards their bags. This hadn't been what he expected in the slightest, but maybe he could have fun at the beach in a body like this...
The hypno-slime didn't even need to restrain this one.
He was so easily captivated by its shifting colors that he became a drooling mess in no time, mindlessly standing still while letting the slime do as it pleased with his body.
AE-1184 is a recently identified drug first reported by local authorities in Medellín, Colombia. Since its initial appearance, distribution has spread across multiple criminal networks throughout South America, with confirmed cases in Bogotá, Lima, and São Paulo.
The substance is primarily used by organized groups targeting foreign tourists. All recorded victims have been Caucasian males from upper-middle-class or affluent backgrounds. Confirmed cases include individuals from the United States (87), the United Kingdom (43), Australia (4), and Ireland (1). Victims are typically identified in high-end hotels, bars, and nightlife venues.
Perpetrators approach in small groups, engage targets in casual conversation, and build trust before guiding them away from populated areas—most commonly into quiet streets or private vehicles.
Administration is direct and controlled. In most cases, the substance is injected into the side of the subject’s neck using a fine-gauge needle. A secondary syringe is then used to extract [REDACTED] from the subject.
The effects begin within seconds. Subjects enter a dazed, compliant state, showing no resistance or awareness of their surroundings.
Following exposure, subjects are abandoned. Extracted [REDACTED] is trafficked through underground networks and sold to [REDACTED] individuals for the purpose of [REDACTED].
No subject has been successfully reverted.
———————-———————-——————————-
Case File – Subject B-3 (FKA: Daniel Gallagher)
Daniel Gallagher squinted at his phone as he walked, the bright screen lighting his face in the otherwise dim street. The music from the club still rang faintly in his ears, bass echoing in his chest as he tried to follow the map back to his hotel.
The Irish tourist had been in the city three days, thinking he knew the area by now. But São Paulo looked different at night. It didn’t help that there weren’t as many people out now. Not as many lights either.
Daniel slowed, turning slightly as the map recalculated. “So, left… here?” he muttered to himself.
“E aí, mano.”
Daniel looked up. A man stood a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides. Early-20s, casual clothes, nothing threatening about him.
“You… not from here, yes?” the guy said, his English broken but clear enough.
Daniel gave a small laugh. “Uh-”
The guy was young - Daniel’s age. There felt like there was an unspoken bond. The guy smiled, nodding. “This area… not so good. Especially with phone.” He gestured toward Daniel’s hand. “People see. They take.”
Daniel instinctively lowered the phone. “Right. Yeah, fair.”
“I help you,” the man continued, friendly, easy. “Where you go?”
“Uh—hotel,” Daniel said, turning the screen toward him. “This one.”
The man leaned in, glancing at it. “Ah, yes. I know. Is not far. I go same way.” He straightened up, already turning slightly down the street. “Come. I walk you for safety.”
Daniel smiled graciously.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. What is your name?”
“João.” The boy shook the Irish tourists hand firmly and the two begin walking.
The man kept an easy pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing back to make sure Daniel was following. The street grew quieter the further they went. The lights were dimmer here. Fewer windows. No people.
Daniel noticed it, faintly. Something about it felt… off.
“Hotel is this way?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” the man said quickly. “Shortcut.”
They turned down a narrower street.
That was when Daniel felt it.
Two men grabbing him from behind, forcing his hands behind him holding him in position. They knock the tourist to his knees.
“Jaysus!”
As his knees hit the ground, João pressed something sharp into Daniel’s neck. He felt whatever liquid enter his vein spreading throughout his body. The world didn’t spin. It didn’t go black.
It just… slowed.
The tension in his body drained almost instantly. His thoughts, sharp and alert a second ago, dulled like someone had turned the volume down.
“Hey—what—”
The words came out wrong. Too slow. Little did Daniel know, his DNA was becoming like puddy. Completely mailable.
“Segurem-no firme. Prontos para a extração.” João readied a second device. This one was empty.
Before Daniel could react, João jabbed the device into Daniel’s neck, slowly draining a white liquid substance out of him. It just kept coming and coming, filling up the vial in the device.
As the gang member extracted the white liquid from Daniel, Daniel’s awareness dimmed. He didn’t notice as his skin slowly darkened, taking on the warm, sun-kissed tone of someone raised under the blistering sun, not the pale green pastures of his family’s farm back in Ireland.
His features shifted subtly but unmistakably. His nose broadened, eyebrows thickened, and his lips grew fuller. Each change felt impossible, yet inevitable, as if his body was being extracted of everything that made Daniel the Irish man he was.
Heaviness plumped into Daniel’s glutes, as two fat brown globes bounced outwards, splitting his pants. His two jiggling Brazilian cheeks begging to be free from his tight constricting Irish jeans. The same for his front. His average 5 inch white cock fattened and pushed forwards into a fat 7 inch uncut brown cock.
One of the men leaned closer, watching Daniel’s face rapidly grow facial hair. It was ginger, just like the hair on his head. One of the men holding Daniel scanned Daniel’s ginger beard. Against his darkening skin, it looked almost comical. A comical reminder of his diminishing Irish heritage.
“Olha a barba ruiva dele.” One of the men said, voice low and amused. “Eles vão pagar muito por um ruivo.”
Daniel felt it before he saw it—his beard losing its fiery hue. Slowly, the ginger strands darkened, blending into a uniform black, indistinguishable from the men holding him down.
João continued the extraction, the vial already three-quarters full.
Daniel’s mind began to fog. Words jumbled in his head, English slipping away like sand through his fingers. He tried to speak, to protest, but the sounds coming out were broken, confused. Two vocabularies warring inside him, one destined to win, the other to vanish entirely. Portuguese words eliminating his English vocab, like cells killing a virus.
“Por fa… me ajuda,” Danogo croaked, his voice weak and lethargic. His limbs felt like lead, as they thickened up with big beefy muscle. But even with his new Brazilian muscles, he couldn’t push the men off him, though he desperately tried.
Memories surged through his mind like a virus, rewriting him from the inside out. He saw himself as he used to be—skinny, pale, ginger, standing in front of a mirror.
That image flickered, unstable, before being overtaken by something else. A darker, fuller body. Broader. Warmer. Bigger. Round oversized pecs. Big large thick hands. His fat brown Brazilian cheeks wobbling behind him.
His memories of growing up... the cold, open fields of his family’s Irish farm. The green grass, grey skies, early mornings. They didn’t exist anymore, replaced by hot sunlight and salt air, long days by the sea, heat pressing into his skin. His massive body bouncing on the sand as passerbys ogled him up and down.
His years of GAA training, discipline, dedication. All of it began to be overwritten. In its place came football in the streets, laughing with friends. It came so naturally. Like his body was meant for it. Fuck, he was obsessed with it. Football took up so much of his mind. A new obsession that felt like it had been there forever. It was at that point where he questioned what GAA even was.
His memories of himself were overwritten too. His self perception of being a quiet dedicated bookworm with a love for Irish sports VANISHED. As if it was never there. In its place came something louder. Music thumping through crowded rooms. Late nights. Easy laughter. A need to be around people, to be seen.
He tried to push the memories away. To hold onto his Irishness, but it was no use. His thick Brazilian accent prevented anything he said from even sounding vaguely English.
“Sou irlandês… sou… eu… por favor.” Diogo cried to the men, in his dazed stupor. But he looked anything but Irish. “Estou tão confuso.”
He slumped onto the concrete as the men withdrew the device from his neck. The vial was full of the thick, white liquid.
Diogo moaned softly, every movement painful, his body heavy and unresponsive.
“Boa sorte, cara.” João said with a casual wink, leaving the newly Brazilian man sprawled on the ground.
The gang melted into the night. Diogo inspected his unmistakably Latino hand before passing out.
———————-———————-——————————-
Post-Exposure Analysis – AE-1184
AE-1184 does more than just sedate or confuse its targets. The drug extracts the subject’s whiteness (their background, heritage, English fluency, cultural knowledge and memories) - storing it in the white liquid from the subject.
Evidence shows that local gangs are selling this material on the black market. Buyers are often non-white individuals who aim to attain the advantages, social status and privilege associated with white populations, by injecting the stolen whiteness, making themselves privileged white men.
The network appears highly organized and the drug is highly sought after. Victims are carefully chosen for appearance and socioeconomic background, targeted in wealthy areas, and then harvested efficiently.
FCA continues to investigate the buyers and distribution channels. The scale suggests a deliberate, profit-driven trade in human cultural and social capital, with international implications.
Victim Overview – AE-1184
Recovered individuals have been effectively stripped of their original racial and national identities. White, Caucasian tourists lose their English fluency entirely, and in cases in South America, their genetic markers are altered to align with local Latin American populations. Skin tone, facial features, and other inherited traits shift accordingly, leaving the subject biologically and socially indistinguishable from local populations.
Despite some awareness that they no longer belong to their former nationality, subjects are unable to recall meaningful details about their previous lives—names, family, education, or social history are largely inaccessible. Memories of cultural practices and social structures are erased, replaced by the cognitive void left after extraction of privilege and heritage.
All victims are taken in for monitoring and initial assessment. Following containment, they are relocated to supervised housing across Colombia, Peru & Spain (for now Spanish speaking subjects) and Brazil & Portugal (for now Portuguese speaking subjects). Subjects are effectively unable to return to their countries of origin, as the loss of English fluency and cultural familiarity renders them incapable of independent functioning in those societies.
Image of Diogo Galvão (formerly Daniel Gallagher) in São Paulo.
Ongoing Notes
New cases of AE-1184 exposure are reported daily. The drug appears to be spreading beyond South America, with victims now appearing in parts of Africa and India. In these cases, subjects are observed to adopt local racial and cultural traits, effectively becoming African or Indian men following the extraction of their original identities.
At present, it is unknown whether affected individuals can ever be returned to their original identities. By this stage, their original cultural, linguistic, and genetic essence is likely too extensively extracted, used, and dispersed to recover.
I saw this guy at the gym and knew I wanted him more than anything. I shoot my shot and he actually gave me his number! I’ve been texting him for a while and we finally agree to go on a date.
Turns out though, he was just doing it as a prank. Making fun of me for being fat and gross especially compared to his godly self. I just ran away crying.
The next morning on my walk to work I saw a shop I hadn’t seen there before. When I went inside, the lady at the counter asked if I was okay, she said I didn’t look like I was, and I told her the story of the previous night. She told me “he may have looks but you have kindness. you deserve to take his muscles and looks. someone as nice as you deserves them more.” and then told me to grab a wishing stone on the house.
I thought nothing of it but kept in my pocket thinking of what she said. I wished I could have his beautiful perfect pecs and biceps. His perfect abs and luscious long hair. Suddenly, I felt every step getting heavier when I was walking. My legs felt huge
I felt like everything in my body was stretching weirdly and stopped in a nearby restaurant bathroom. When I looked into the mirror I didn’t see myself. I saw HIM.
I was him. The perfect man. Now I go to the gym as him and pose and flaunt this new body while he’s stuck in my old body.
I laugh at him now. He deserves it. I wonder if the woman at the shop put some kind of spell on him cuz he’s ALWAYS working out in my old body but he never loses weight or gains muscles. He just stays fat.
I’ve gained so much confidence in this body it’s crazy. I wonder if I could get him in my old body to worship his old body. Slap him around a little and make him my bitch. I follow him into the locker room and make him a fake deal. I tell him, worship your old body, suck your old dick and swallow. Take every kick and slap I give you and I’ll take out the wishing stone and wish to go back to the way things were.
I’ve never seen such an eager fat man sucking a cock before. I have to admit it was so much fun to slap the old me around. I hit him so hard as he worshipped every inch of my body. My biceps, my armpits, my pecs. They’re all mine now. When he was done swallowing my load and begging me to go back to his old body I just laughed.
Nope. This feels right now. Him, my submissive bitch. And me, the superior alpha muscle man. He still worships me every day at the gym and I let him suck my dick. Not for free anymore though he gives me $100 dollars each time.
Morris needs a job, Byron Industries needs an lab rat perfect for their new trial to make a mindless (read: horny) grunt. Paging through his favorite book while he waits, for such a reader he surely didn't read any fine print.
Wrote this one for a GSS challenge a bit ago! Here it is ever so slightly touched up with a few images added. This one's for all you real Melville heads out there. -Occam
“Call me Morris!”
The literature grad surely expected at least some reaction to his smallest of Moby Dick references. It’s not the first time he’s met with silence at the playfully pitiful introduction, but usually there’s at least confusion. This receptionist simply stares blankly. Perhaps there was a perfunctory smile under the facemask, but it certainly didn’t reach his eyes.
“Morris Baker, yes? For the interview?”
Still recoiling from his scuffed opening Morris is hesitant to speak up. All the well as the receptionist takes his silent quibbling as confirmation.
“Sir Byron will be with you shortly, please have a seat and enjoy our lobby’s amenities.”
Clutching his shoulder bag tightly as he sort of bows before stepping away from the front desk, Morris realizes that he’s not just working himself up. It’s not in his head, something is off about that receptionist. Sneaking a quick glance back, he sees the clerk is still staring at him. No? Staring through him.
To his credit, Morris stills the shiver that runs up his spine at the realization. Focusing on what matters, Morris convinces himself that between the two of them the secretary’s the weird one. That’s why the man didn’t react to his solid Moby Dick reference! Turning with a cocksure grin to take in the amenities the strange receptionist spoke of he wonders what he’ll find. It’s not every day someone like him gets to wander into Byron Roman’s business, after all.
Local celebrity doesn’t begin to cover what the titan of industry has become, but it’s certainly where he started. Morris remembers him being the talk of their provincial Texan hometown, nothing exciting ever happened around here so why not discuss the now-billionaire who escaped.
No one ever expected for him to return to their suburban ghost town to set up shop. Apparently disaffected with the West Coast preoccupation with burning money in pursuit of LLM’s and other digital faux progress, he felt a dire need to take his money elsewhere. For he is concerned with the world material.
Staring up at a painting of the great man adorning the wall above an elegant single-cup coffee machine, Morris can hardly believe they’re from the same ZIP code. That they walked the same high school corridors. Thick silver-speckled beard hiding a jawline everyone knows is as sharp as his mind, Byron seems like a man from a different age. One to be found amongst the pages of Morris’ classic literature more so than as the chief executive of an R&D company HQ’d in bumfuck nowhere.
And to think, Morris is here to work under him. Far, far, far under him presumably. The email didn’t say who he was meeting with, or really what he was interviewing for, but it must be for a low level clerk position. At least he told himself this as he signed an ‘interview contract’ that he had barely read.
Obviously said document could have held these answers and more but Morris was too excited at the opportunity to work for Byron Roman to even glance at the thing before signing. And now it’s almost as if it’s been washed from his mind. Perhaps that would be concerning if he were able to really recall it at all. But right now Morris has bigger fish to fry, sure of his intelligence at least, there is little else about himself he is confident about.
Too gaunt to be considered pudgy, too average to be dubbed attractive. Morris, like the CEO, seems to be pulled from the world of fiction, though one rather distinct from the epic Sir Byron Roman is cut from. No, Morris is more akin to a street urchin busking to sell matchsticks. Some Dickensian side-character that would be left on the chopping room floor.
Stealing another glance at the portrait wondering if he should hazard another cup of coffee, Morris can’t believe the sense of gravity he gets from the painting. It’s as if the man were standing her before him, asserting his masculinity through brushstrokes and painted posture alone.
Coming to this exact realization as he awkwardly averts his eyes and starts brewing a cup, Morris jokes to himself, “Can oi interest you in a pape milord…”
Unbeknownst to the off-duty barista, the receptionist has yet to take his eyes off him. Watching as Morris taps away at a coffee machine that inexplicably has a screen, he scans with concentration more like a machine than a man.
Only when the nervous interviewee sheepishly looks over his shoulder at the otherwise empty room does the receptionist at last avert his eyes. Having apparently gathered everything he needs, when Morris sits down with his steaming to-go cup, the receptionist speaks up.
“Sir Byron will see you now. Please proceed through the door on my left before entering the third room on the right.”
Letting the man’s words hang in the air for a moment, Morris puffs his cheeks and squints as he realizes this is the second time the secretary has outright stated he’s going to be meeting with the CEO.
The first time he had assumed it was a simple mistake, just a slip of the doorman’s hidden tongue. Having spent even a second longer with the mechanical man, Morris feels confident that he is not the type to speak in err. Nevertheless he opts to clarify.
“Hey! Hi there~ I don’t believe I got your name earlier, Mr..?” His question hangs in the air long enough that he gives up and continues. “Right. Well, I do believe there has been some sort of a misunderstanding? I-I’m here for a simply preliminary interview, surely Mr. Roman had better things to do than-“
“This organization is Byron Roman. If he allows some plain well-read fop to represent him in any regard, and that ungainly grunt makes an embarrassment of his name. Well.”
It’s the most animated Morris has seen the man since he walked in. Despite the cool collected tone he’d swear he saw the man’s eye twitch at the very idea of someone embarrassing the brand. Breezing past being called a grunt and clinging to being called well-read Morris tries to salvage the situation. Sure that if everything goes well that he’ll be working to some degree with the severe man before him, he beats down his nerves to perform.
“Of course! Of course~ I completely understand, sir. The squeaky wheel- err? Rather, a man is always judged by the company he keeps! I am simply surprised that a man as great as Byron Roman would make time in his busy day for an aspirant such as myself.”
Unlike the previous hidden grin, at this the secretary’s eyes light up with a smile. Like a faithful hearing true testimony of their lord.
“Well spoken Mr. Baker. Perhaps we’ll have a fruitful working relationship after all. Hold fast to that fervor. Now, if you don’t mind, please away to the next suite. Sir Byron will arrive to join when he is finished with his current business.”
Once more gesturing to the door to his left, the secretary’s face resets to its emotionless steel as he awaits for Morris to obey. Coffee cup in his hands he is torn whether to leave it or bring it to the second location. The simple decision almost freezes him in place.
He can’t help but overthink every single choice before him. Scoffing at himself as he clenches his jaw, in lieu of a decision he follows the path of least resistance and keeps the cup in hands. Still chiding himself for his perpetual lack of volition and his obsession with minutiae, he attempts to beat stoic surety into himself in preparation of meeting a CEO.
The process is interrupted as he crosses the threshold out of the lobby only to find an unremarkable hallway. Warm wooden flooring and vintage wallpaper give the place a homey vibe far more similar to a small-town doctor’s office than the working HQ of a tech company. Even seeing the large elevators at the end of the hallway in a building Morris knows is only the one story tall, he can’t help but be lulled by the place’s provincial decor.
“It’s like my mom decorated this place…”
Snooping just enough to check out the other few doors on the way to the promised third on the right, Morris finds only more beige doors. Their handles are covered with a thin layer of dust that his attention just glides past, much like it does regarding the gleaming elevator down the way.
Far less overactive minds would begin telling themselves horror stories and worst-case scenarios about wandering into the back office of a billionaire’s clearly shady studio. Taking a sip of his coffee and stealing one last glimpse of the empty hallway, Morris refuses to give way to anxiety. The rich light roast on his tongue grounds him, it perfectly reminds him why he’s come here today.
He is not going to be a barista anymore. The lobby’s attendant flickers in his mind as he swallows. A job just like that, maybe one where he doesn’t need to be quite so dogmatic, is that too much to ask?
Lost in thought as he enters the room. From the side of his eye Morris catches movement and spits up coffee as he flinches into the door in surprise. Instantly worried that Byron has been waiting on him and caught this jittery display, he tightens his posture and forces an awkward smile on his face to feign confidence.
His harried resolve immediately drops when he turns completely only to find a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Sighing in relief Morris decides to use the opportunity to freshen up. Setting down his coffee he wanders closer to inspect his reflection.
Hair as unfrizzled as he’s able to get it, there are more than a few curly fly-aways sticking out of his tight dirty-blonde bun. Looking down his baggy button-up there are thankfully no coffee stains on its placket.
At least everywhere visible is stainfree if nothing else. The same can surely not be said regarding the sweat under his arms, but this is thankfully hidden by a neat cardigan and nigh-medical grade deodorant.
‘I’ll be fine’ He tells himself on loop, tugging his cardigan down to cover a wrinkle. Looking downwards his pants are simply too long and bag atop dress shoes he only pulls out for very special occasions. His belt still slightly limp even on its most extreme loop, Morris feels nerves prickle on the back of his neck. He absolutely won’t be fine, he looks like a fucking mess!
The barely positive mantra he’s been clinging to is succinctly batted away as the reality of the situation pelts away the hope he’d been foolish enough to trust. He hadn’t even applied for any position in particular, simply thrown his resume at the company’s inbox alongside a pathetic cover letter asking to be used however they see fit.
As if their CEO would waste a second of his day besides to come down here and chastise him for wasting his important company’s time. The receptionist held more worth in a finger than could be found in all of Morris put together, and he thought he’d be able to work a job like that!? He’d crumble under the slightest obstacle, some rich investor chews him out and he’d dissolve. Morris feels himself tearing up at the very idea.
Or perhaps he’s simply halfway to weeping for being a dumbass who thought things could be better. Always thinking. Too much thinking. He feels his fingers clench into his forehead before he even realizes he’s put his face in his hands. The pain of his fingernails scratching brings him back to his senses and after making sure he didn’t leave splotchy red marks on his hairline he takes a deep breath and turns away from his watery-eyed reflection.
Now’s not the time.
If this is real, and it must be. Then this is a massive opportunity he simply can’t waste because he got in his own head. He’s too smart for that. He’s smart, and Byron Roman himself has a position in mind for him. This is-
BING BONG DING DONG- DONG DING BONG BING
“Jesus christ…”
Nearly jumping out of his skin, it’s clear that despite telling himself to calm down he has remained well on edge. Looking up to find the villainous implement that startled him, Morris is shocked he didn’t notice the clock before now. Still recovering from the jumpscare he can hear a subtle tick-tock, grounding him in reality as he attempts to find calm.
Centering himself on the consistent clicking of gears nearby, Morris sits in a small chair and sets his bag down beside him. Time to lock in. Reaching down to paw through the couple of belongings he saw as necessary, Morris debates whether it’s best to read through his printed resume or to focus wholly on setting his mind at ease.
Obviously he’s not going to just scroll on his phone. At worst he’ll stumble across something that’ll stress him out more. At best he’ll look like some screen-addicted zoomer right when Mr. Roman walks in.
Fingers glaze the worn cover of his trusty bible. Melville’s masterpiece. Moby Dick. Thinking of the tome and the vastness of the sea within, the classicist feels the constriction in his chest just melt away. Focused on the sound of North Atlantic gulls in his mind, buoyed by the persistent ticking of the newfound clock, how could Morris ever notice the slightest hissing now emanating from the nearby overhead vent.
Book in hands, he turns it over a few times before opening it to some choice section on whales and their constituent parts. Morris at last relaxes back into his chair. Despite doing everything right, as he reads his pulse continues to rise. First putting his hand on his chest to feel its racing beat, Morris shakes his head and pointedly ignores how it suddenly feels warmer in the room to read the passage before him.
Fanning out his button-up he frowns and tells himself the discomfort is all in his head. Shifting in his seat he feels the pooling sweat in pits and resolves to ignore it. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he squints at the text and begins to whisper it aloud to himself.
‘Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed unrelenting.. Uh?’ Hearing something bump in the hallway he turns to hopefully see his interviewer interrupting him only to find it’s presumably in his head. Scratching at the side of his chest, carefully not shoving his hand deep in his pits, Morris purses his lips and looks back to the book, unknowingly skipping a few lines.
‘Or, if for any reason thought to be corpo- uhhh? Corporately, no. Corpor-really? Corporeally? Jeeez, god… I must be more stressed than I even thought.” And he certainly thought he was plenty stressed.
Leaning back against his chair, Morris closes his eyes and simply tries to find peace in the darkness. His foot anxiously taps on the floor, at first matching the ticking before rapidly outpacing it. And then it falls heavier. His shoes were tight from the get-go having rarely been worn, but suddenly it’s almost like they’ve gotten tighter in the last few minutes.
Every muscle in his body tensed, he uses his anxious tension to jump up with a start and pace the otherwise empty office. This does nothing to abate the discomfort in his shoes, but as he does so he begins to find that it is not only his feet that are suddenly acting up. Crossing his arms tightly as he patrols the small suite, his cardigan tugs against his shoulders like it never has before.
With a scowl he looks down at his wrists exposed from both his sweater and shirt. Imagining the surely pristine suit his town’s idol is sure to arrive in he easily works himself up anew about his foolish daydreams. Even worse than before, as if every already extreme emotion had heightened. As if they were still heightening.
Throwing his arms down and swinging them to simply remove them from his sight, he refuses to acknowledge how the twigs twitch with every sway. Muscle fibers that have been inactive save to froth milk and open novels suddenly twinge and burn with a need Morris doesn’t understand.
Struggling to make sense of the strange sensation, with pursed lips his fists cramp and at last it becomes perfectly clear. Aggression. Morris is filled with the all-too unfamiliar need to punch something. His consistent pacing back and forth immediately stops as the urge takes pride of place in his mind. Staring as his dainty hands curling into fists, Morris watches mouth agog as the veins on their backs throb.
The sound of his knuckles cracking larger with the force of his clenching is absolutely clear. Wispy blond strands that have long decorated his wrists seem suddenly darker in this office light, to say nothing of the fact that it seems like there are altogether more of them.
Hidden by his cardigan sleeves, Morris suddenly feels his forearms filled with force. Not knowing what a flexor or extensor even is, Morris is dumbstruck as he feels muscles reflexively constrict. Higher up his arm, and far more eye-catching, he is stunned as he sees his sweater catch on biceps like he’s never seen. Muscle like he’d never even been able to imagine on his unimpressive form.
Everything else is washed from his mind as he sees his arms continue to bloat. The shock from his sudden violent streak and even the slight pain still pinging from his shoes pinching more and more, everything fades away as a grin overtakes his shaky face. Panting almost as he lowers and raises an invisible dumbbell, Morris watches as with every lift his sleeves are strained further. And his arms continue to grow.
Hands stretch further from the end of his sleeves as the scratchy, darker curls spreading up his forearm continue to thicken. Doing everything short of drooling at his biceps bulging thicker, when it starts to strain against the dress shirt beneath, his vacant expression twitches into one of frustration.
Nose flaring in irritation, he unintentionally takes a deeper breath and gasps as he suddenly notices a pervasive stink has begun to fill the room. Sure that it simply can’t be coming from himself he raises his heavy right arm to look underneath and can hardly believe the sight. Sweating through both the dress shirt and the thick, once baggy cardigan, Morris can’t take his eyes off the dark, spreading stain in his armpits.
Stunned, his face burns bright red and then feels starkly itchy itself. The urge to scratch is waylaid by the far more powerful need to shove his head into his pit and inhale deeply. Get some of that sweat on his face… Maybe it’d stay there, stick on his upper lip and he’d get a deep whiff of his musky male odor with every single breath.
“Nnno… That- I cann’tuhh…” Words dissolve from his mouth and mind as his lips simply fall open.
Tongue almost lolling, his neck that had been surreptitiously thickening itself begins to lean towards his waiting pit. Converted to the cause, his barely cognizant rational self, tries to make sense of his need. How is he to fix the issue without truly understanding it. He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and let his pits breath to the open air.
Mind wont to picture the bushy tangle of pit hair that must be hidden beneath these restrictive layers, he does just that. Thicker than his pubes and almost as scratchy, he imagines the chalky deodorant he threw on this morning simply melting away. Absolutely overwhelmed by the prodigious musk his pits produce, proof of his own prodigious manhood.
Lost in a daydream, one hand slowly reaches over to scratch the armpit he imagines and finds it just as hairy as he imagines. Stomach quivering as higher thought continues to vacate. Buried beneath two tops, even still his fingertips can still feel the deep scratchy strands that have begun to stretch well beyond their underarm stomping ground.
Lips twitching into a grin, Morris moans quietly to himself as blush returns to his pale cheeks as its skin tightens and grows rougher. Standing limply in the center of the room as he continues to fill out his clothes, there are a couple inches of straining dress socks showing from the pants that were ever too long.
On the opposite end of the garment, his growth is far more drastic. Never much of a shower or a grower, Morris’ petit package has more than filled his lucky pair of briefs. While one hand remains preoccupied with his pits, the other enthusiastically goes to cup a cock slowly twitching larger.
Quickly struggling to remove a belt now constricting his widening waist before it snaps, at the very same moment it clinks against the floor he hears his swelling cock strain his briefs. When it at last breaks free from his underwear and begins throbbing down the side of his pant leg, obviously visible, Morris’ hips twitch forward and he is brought back to the unmistakable reality of his situation.
“OHHHhhh GOddd~” Panting as he tries to make sense of this must-be nightmare, Morris stumbles over to the mirror to try and free himself from this manic hellscape. Thicker lips drooping open surrounded by stubble darkening from its blonde peachfuzz into a real man’s beard, he forces his face into his hands and tries to convince himself that these changes aren’t good. Cock throbbing in response it’s not looking good.
Thick breath mists the mirror, hiding the vacant look in his eyes as they trail up and down the reflection of his body’s new almost pornographic proportions. So focussed on the meaty arms hanging at his side, he had yet to notice how a forming chest suddenly strains the buttons on his shirt. Nipples encircled by lancing curls are absolutely visible through the sweat-stained top.
Hunger and need fill the spot left by intelligence in his eyes, he forces a hand to his mouth to stop a loud moan as his chest cracks wider, at last tearing the pitiful dress shirt. Strange new strength filling him more with every moment, he is again felt with the impatient urge to make use of it. To fight, to ff- fuck. Forcing his fist into his mouth he bites down to feel anything but the oppressive sensation pulsing from his cock at the idea.
Desperately willing himself to settle down and figure out how to wake up from this hallucination, Morris slams the fist not cupping his cock into the wall as he bites down hard on his lip to try and force himself back to his senses. “FUCK!”
Clutching his injured mouth he stomps a foot in pain as the taste of iron fills his mouth. This marks the end of his dress shoes as the seams on its front burst open to reveal long toes almost completely visible beneath the sparse threads of a sock barely hanging in there. The sound of leather tearing continues as his freed foot continues expanding and tears the tattered shoe in two.
Apathetic to the small trail of red dripping into the thickening stubble on his chin, he looks down at his mismatched feet. One with a shoe hanging on its ankle, still widening beyond the pale. The other barely hangs in there, shining leather filled to the brim with the mass of a foot simply far too large.
Gasping in pain at the feeling of his left foot trying desperately to match its pair’s growth while still confined, there’s an ice cold pit in his stomach as he at last realizes he can’t be dreaming. It just feels too much, too good. And then the other shoe bursts open, sending fabric and laces flying, the slightly humid air of the office a balm to the sole.
Somewhere increasingly buried in his mind, he struggles to understand. If he’s not dreaming, then this is real. His back cracks as he adjusts to stand slightly taller. This is impossible.
Staring at the remains of the most expensive piece of his outfit now hanging from both ankles, Morris tries to understand. It’s what he’s best at, making sense of something. Thinking. He has a degree. He was in debate and wrote for his university’s paper. At least he’s pretty sure he did?
Furrowing his brows as they begin to thicken from their patchy blonde, Morris finds it suddenly difficult to recall. Concern at his situation rapidly gives way to frustration which gives way to apathy. He’ll just wait for Byron to come in and explain everything. Surely he’ll know what’s going on.
As it begins to become more and more difficult to recall his higher education, his thoughts begin to drift increasingly to Byron. Picturing the great man does no favors to his libido, his trigger happy crotch is eager to twitch with fervor as Morris struggles to control himself.
No matter what he’s not going to be caught masturbating when the mysterious executive walks in. Despite wanting nothing more in the world to do so, he moves to sit down and struggles to tuck the massive cock in between his thighs before doing his best to cross the thick trunks.
Vaguely recalling he brought some book with him, Morris looks at the novel tossed aside and picks it up. There’s a flicker of recognition as he knows it’s a book he really likes. But as he reads the title he has to stifle a laugh as in lieu of that ingrained peace, he simply reads the words ‘Moby Dick’ “Pffff WAH HAh ah- Hrm.” Clearing his throat as his voice cracks lower, shifting to one which yearns to guffaw rather than giggle.
Steeling himself, as much as he’s able. Morris recovers slightly and sternly tells himself he likes this book. That he’s a big reader, he’s got a degree in books. This is his favorite book. But even as he flails to remember what exactly a B.A. stands for, the memories of going to university feel less true.
Surely he’d be smarter then…
When that thought flits to his mind the pride he holds in his intelligence returns. Determined to prove it by reading a book thicker than he can clearly remember reading, he opens it to a random page once more: Chapter 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
Eyes glazed over, the language is far too advanced for his simplifying mind to even begin to comprehend. Still, they drift over the lines enough for him to pretend he’s grasping anything before at last they catch on something: ‘Squeeze! squeeze! Squeeze!’ Exclamation points calling to him, Morris continues to read Ishmael’s account of processing spermaceti. And unsurprisingly, he begins to laugh.
While earlier he was reading to focus on the text, now he almost needs to sound out the words for them to sink in. Following the lines with his fatter finger “All the morn-ing long; I squeezed that- hehheh, Sperm till I myself almost melted into it HAH HAhah- Huh… Sperm… Squeeze…”
Biting the lip that has miraculously healed already, if only he could recall the injury, Morris’ now sperm focussed and squeeze happy mind can only do what the written page suggests. Dropping the tome as he manspreads in an office chair that now creaks beneath his heavier load, he swallows the drool pooling in his mouth. Looking to pants now decorated with small tears, the once-academic stares at the too squeezable cock stretching halfway down his meaty thigh.
Pants so tight he can see the thick veins through the tearing fabric, Morris’ mouth falls open as he drools outright, beginning to rub his own whale through pants seconds away from tearing apart altogether. Feeling it scratch against his curl covered thighs and the cheap satin of his dress pants, he can scarcely recall that he’s in this room let alone the reason why.
Pool of pre rapidly pulsing through the vicelike pants, Morris’ moans echo as he can recall no reason at all to quiet himself. As he can recall nothing but the pleasure emanating from his wanting cock. Louder than the clock, completely covering the ever-present hiss of the vent that has been steadily increasing; not that Morris ever stood a chance at noticing. His twitchy hips rut as he spits up over himself from excitement at release that is soon to come.
Every aspect of self and every stray neuron firing is focused on the rising pressure in his crotch. Morris can feel his balls pull up as his free hand clenches the chair about to break underneath his weight. Legs extend as every muscle flexes, and just as that sweet release is on the precipice of freeing him from the grand weight of his worries- the door knob turns.
Clad in a tailored three-piece suit more expensive than Morris’ apartment enters the prodigal chief himself, Byron Roman. Morris veins run cold at being seen in such a compromised position by that most influential man that has ever stepped foot in their podunk shared home town. Bolting up like a bullet, the horny man’s spine is straight as a ramrod.
So too is his cock as it finally wins the war against his cheap dress pants. Sending a small stream of pre flying as it bursts free from confinement, Morris can’t help but cross his eyes as it bounces in the air. Hazarding a glimpse, he can hardly believe just how impressive his dick is. Almost twice its previous size and veinier than his arms after the best pump he’s ever had, Morris would have cum at the very sight were he not wholly stunned from being in the presence of Byron.
Closing the door behind him as he enters outright, there is no surprise on the executives face as he inspects the goods. Striding to meet the man, he holds his hands behind his back as he inspects every inch of the man standing firmly at attention. Expressionless as he takes in every detail of Morris.
Zeroing in on whatever bodypart of Morris’ strikes his fancy, as he stares Morris continues to grow. Accelerating from the attention of the great man before him, as if every muscle and mindless body part were trying to make him proud.
Starting from behind, Byron takes an interest in the man’s ass. Morris twitches as his glutes expand, what remains of his briefs fall irrevocably into their crack as his hairy cheeks hang larger in the open air, stretchmarks painted across their prodigious mass like the work of art it is.
Eyes trailing upward, Morris' waist fills out to give his silhouette the most powerful shape one can imagine. Connecting his heavy chest with wide hips and heavy thighs, there is no way someone could look at the drooling man and imagine anything but strength lying within him.
Finishing a slow lap around his aspirant, Byron stands in front of Morris and does one last look down and up. Landing on his face, Morris feels his jaw sharpen underneath the perpetual stubble that coats it. His chin juts out like a superhero’s while his cheekbones and brow ridge grow just as prominent. There’s a small crack in the air as Morris feels his nose reshape into something either aquiline or one that has simply broken and rehealed.
Still frozen in place, Morris’ stunted mind only just realizes that he’s at eye-level with Byron Morris. It’s so unbelievable that it almost breaks him free from whatever trance he’s in. Feeling the sweat drip down his exposed midriff as a breeze in the room sails through the treasure trail etching itself up his puffy abs mostly hidden by his strong gut, a needy grunt ekes out of his throat.
Finally, Byron gives any real indication that he’s anything more than a passive observer. Waiting for his guest’s glazed eyes to look back at him, the CEO smiles. “So. What is it that brings you in today?” His voice is like an upright bass alone in an orchestra hall, tightly controlled, smooth, and completely attention grabbing.
Unable to string two thoughts together he grunts and tries to explain himself, “I- I, uhh… J- Job- s ssir…” Struggling to swallow drool still spilling from his overactive glands, he tries to stand even straighter to hide the obvious mess he’s in. Taking a deep breath to recover from the strain of speaking, he inhales a hearty dose of his musk and struggles against the handful of twitches his body enacts in response.
“I hope you don’t mind the subterfuge, from your letter I did gather you were quite desperate. So much so you were quite lax reading the fine print of- Well, I imagine you can’t recall anyway so what is the point, right old- Er? What was your name again?” For the first time Byron reaches out to touch Morris, brushing some shred of torn cardigan stuck to his sweaty skin as he asks the question
“I’m Mo- Mo…” Finally thickening enough to be the caterpillar-like brows he’s always admired on other men as his brow ridge bulges lower, his eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the simplest of answers. Waiting patiently, Byron starts to massage his bicep, distracting him all the more. It’s his name. It should be engrained within his mind, within his self more than anything else.
Byron’s hand travels up his shoulder before shifting over to cup his heavy pecs, prodding them as if he’s inspecting livestock with a grin. “Come now boy, you must know your name! I read your very brief resume- or I briefly read it, rather. Hm, I suppose you couldn’t mind such a dig at this point ah ha ha!” With each laugh he presses firmer into the man’s chest, delighting as he quivers with need.
“I’mmm Mmmnhh”
Byron reaches up to grasp the man’s jaw with his free hand while he travels down the whole of his torso with the other. Batting away the shirt as he easily sails down sweaty abs and haphazardly detangles scratchy body hair, Byron smiles as he forces the man to look directly in his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind if we just gave you a new one? After all, what could you want more than a fresh start under my wing.”
Needily nodding, the now nameless man melts as Byron at last graces his cock with attention. Lightly grazing its veiny surface with his manicured nails, the executive gives one small tug on the meaty cock’s head and watches as pre that has been trickling down his shaft drips onto the floor.
Eyes darting to the book lying on the floor, Byron smirks as he brings his hand to his mouth to sample the sticky ichor glazing his hand. “Moby, hm? Isn’t that swell.”
Tongue hanging limp from his mouth as he pants like a dog, he must agree the name feels fitting. It feels like him. Or he would if there was a single thought in his mind. At the moment any higher consciousness, much like his blood, was rushing to that most turgid of organs. He was just waiting for Byron’s permission to finally become.
As Byron’s hand reaches to grasp what little of Moby’s cock it’s able, the new hire feels the peace he was always longing for. Mind simplifying with each small tug and twist of the fingers, he feels all he is and was drain into his balls as they pull upward.
Eyes rolling back as his supernaturally rigid posture twitches and almost collapses under the touch of his boss. There’s a blank grin on Moby’s face as he prepares to release the heavy weight of understanding. And with a few simple flicks of Roman’s wrist, Moby does just that.
Erupting like a geyser, everything that made Morris what he was is launched from him in pearly strings. His application and the contract he thoughtlessly signed, his few long years as a barista, his poorly received thesis and the best years of his life precipitating it; all converted to a messy cum splatter on the floor of this corporate office.
Moby pants as he falls back amongst the pools of his scattered past self. Bleary smirk on his face, the toll of almost doubling in size leaves him drained as his eyelids begin to waver. Pulling up a chair and lighting a cigar that had been hidden in his jacket, Byron Roman watches him overtaken by sleep.
He doesn’t remember too much about the man smoking above him. He doesn’t remember too much at all. But he knows the man is everything to him. And when he wakes up well, he’s going to do his best to make him proud.
Byron Roman never really saw the point in a grunt. His many underlings all served their purposes, true. But a body man, one always at his beck and call, one always by his side. He always imagined it would be suffocating.
Never has he been more pleased to be proven wrong. Moby has performed every duty even better than expected. Given their steamy first meeting it’s not long before their relationship grows beyond that of boss and muscled-up assistant.
His scientists always pushed one of their own to be the lab rat, but Byron has always preferred the humanities. While mechanical intelligence may have sufficed, Moby’s tortured classical passions gave his final form far more flavor.
Reclined at his desk, incense burning slowly as he stares at Moby standing over watch outside his office, Byron decides it’s time to call it a day. To that end, he calls his grunt over for their now daily ritual. Calling him over, Byron’s mouth curls into a grin as watches Moby’s tight uniform contort and stretch over his muscle with every labored movement.
“You rang boss?”
“Moby be a dear, lock the door and close the blinds.”
Blush burns underneath Moby’s permanent five o’clock shadow as his mouth reflexively falls open. Sprinting to the door to do just that, he bounds back to his boss to do exactly what’s made for.
Undoing his tie, Byron’s already well-excited himself, zipper creaking as this becomes indisputable. Something about their sessions always leaves him feeling rejuvenated himself. When he looks in the mirror after he’d swear his beard is always a touch darker, the neck it hides thicker. Perhaps he’d worry, but fucking and being fucked by the titan simply has a way of softening his many worries.
Stealing one last glance at a weathered blue copy of Moby’s old book, he cracks his shoulders and feels them reset ever so slightly firmer. “Time to do what you do best, boy.”
The cabin lights had been dimmed for hours, turning the overnight flight into a hazy, half-asleep cocoon. I sat wedged in the window seat next to him — this cocky, muscular college jock in a tight black tank top and backward cap, arms thick and hairy, pits glistening with sweat. My husband was three rows back, happily snoring in his middle seat, still glowing from our wedding two days ago. I’d promised myself this honeymoon would be different. Faithful. Normal.
But then the jock stretched, arms locked behind his head, and the wave hit me: raw, rank, masculine musk rolling off his sweaty body like heat from an engine. My stomach twisted in horror. *God, he reeks. How does someone smell that strong after hours in recycled air?* I tried to focus on my phone, cheeks burning, but my eyes kept drifting — over the dark hair matted across his broad chest, the way his tank clung to his damp skin, the lazy, arrogant smirk when he caught me looking.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just flexed a little, letting more of that thick, sour scent fill the space between us. My cock betrayed me before my brain did, twitching hard in my pants. I hated it. I was married. Newly married. This was disgusting.
Yet twenty minutes later, when the plane hit a quiet stretch and most lights were out, he shifted closer. His big thigh pressed against mine. “You’ve been staring, fag,” he whispered, voice low and cocky. “Bet that ring on your finger feels real tight right now.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. His scent was overwhelming now — salty, musky, unwashed jock funk that made my head spin. He casually lifted one arm, resting it behind his head again, and the pit stench washed over me stronger. My resistance crumbled like wet paper.
Slowly, shamefully, I leaned in. My heart hammered as I buried my face against his sweaty side, inhaling like a desperate animal. He chuckled quietly. “That’s it. Sniff your new owner.”
My hands trembled as I pulled his waistband down just enough. His thick, heavy cock sprang out, already half-hard and smelling even stronger — pure rank alpha dick. I hesitated one last second, thinking of my husband sleeping just rows away… then I opened my mouth and took him in.
He was thick, salty, and still sweaty from the flight. I gagged quietly as he grew fully hard down my throat, but I didn’t stop. I sucked him like a pathetic, skinny married slut, head bobbing low in his lap while he kept his arms casually behind his head, pretending to sleep. Every few seconds he’d push my head down further, forcing my nose into his sweaty pubes.
“You’re such a disgusting little faggot,” he breathed, barely audible. “Honeymooning with your husband and choking on college cock ten thousand feet up. Keep going, dumpster.”
Tears pricked my eyes from the shame and the stretch, but my own dick was leaking in my pants. The horror had melted into pure, humiliating need. I wanted to be his seat-side cumrag. His rank, sweaty alpha toilet.
When he finally came, it was thick and bitter, flooding my mouth in heavy ropes. I swallowed every drop like the broken married bitch I’d become, licking him clean while his musk soaked into my skin and clothes.
He patted my flushed cheek condescendingly, zipped up, and went back to relaxing like nothing happened.
I sat there the rest of the flight, lips swollen, throat coated in his load, the taste and smell of him lingering as I stared at my wedding ring. My husband would never know… but I already belonged to this sweaty, domineering jock now.
And the worst part? I couldn’t wait for him to use me again. As me and my husband strolled to the town for some night out two days after we arrived from the flight, I realized the jock is in the table behind us already looking at me with his predatorial smirk, a girl seated in front of him clearly as unaware as my husband about this dynamic and how I've been monitored like a prey......
Kevin set down the glass bowl he’d been stirring and made the perilous walk from his kitchen to the front door. He stubbed his toe on an unpacked box labeled “BOOKS,” cursing loudly. I’ve been here almost two months, he thought to himself as he hobbled over to the door. I really need to finish unpacking. When he answered the door, he saw his new neighbor Hank on the front porch. Hank was a tall guy in his mid-40s, He was the gym teacher and football coach at the local high school. He was also very handsome, broadly built with a handsome stoic face. There was something different though. Every time Kevin had seen the man, he’d been wearing a snug pair of Wranglers. Now, however, the handsome older man was wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants. Kevin’s heart began to race as he suspected the reason for the change in wardrobe.
“Hey buddy,” said Hank in his deep rumbling baritone, shifting from foot to foot. He seemed a lot less confident than Kevin had ever seen him. “I, uh, I was in the neighborhood and I was just wonderin’ if you’d be willin’ to give me some advice on a…purchase…I made recently.”
Kevin smiled warmly and stepped out of the way, inviting the bigger man inside. “Absolutely! What kind of purchase do you mean?” He loved playing dumb in these situations, forcing the straight dudes to squirm a little.
Hank cleared his throat and then sniffed. “Well, uh, it’s a long story. For a month or two, I’ve been…packin’ on a few pounds…” He adjusted his camo baseball cap, looking anywhere but Kevin. “And it is all…accumulatin’ in one spot… I guess you could say.”
“Oh? I’m not sure what you mean.” Kevin cocked his head in mock confusion. Hank’s ears were starting to turn pink.
“Uh, well, my, uh….myasskeepsgettinbigger.” he muttered, so quietly Kevin could barely hear it.
“What? I think I must have misheard you.” the shorter man grinned, watching the blush spread down to Hank’s neck with great enjoyment.
“I said, my…ass…keeps gettin’ bigger” He said, face burning with embarrassment. He was shifting from foot to foot again. “I can’t fit into any of my old pants anymore, or my old drawers. And I bought some replacements on the internets, and I guess I was maybe a little drunk when I did it because…” The poor man looked like he was going to have a stroke. “Well I was just wonderin’ if you could take a look and see if they’re…okay. I know that guys who are…like you…are better with that kinda stuff.”
“Okay, well let me see the package and I’ll take a look.”
Shock flashed across Hank’s face. “The-uh, package?”
“Yeah, the package the underwear came in?”
Kevin had never seen a person turn as red as Hank did in that moment. “Uh, I didn’t think to bring the package. I kinda, um, well I kinda wore ‘em here.”
It took everything in Kevin not to burst out laughing, but he kept up the act. “Oh wow. Well, let’s see what we’re working with.”
Hank cleared his throat, and then turned around. He took a deep, shaky breath as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants, and then lowered them. Kevin’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
When Kevin had met Hank, his ass had been small, tight, and perky. In the short time since, it had become a giant pair of soft, fat globes that jiggled and bounced without the support of his pants. Buried between them was a black thong. Kevin grinned.
“Well, you want my professional opinion, as a gay guy?” He asked.
Hank gulped. “uh, yes please.”
“Well, I think they’re a little boring…”
Hank turned back, looking surprised. “…Boring?”
“Yeah! I mean where are the patterns? Where’s the lace?”
“Would you…like it more if they were…lacy?” Hank looked like he couldn’t believe the words he was saying.
Kevin smiled. “Absolutely! In fact, you should probably wait for my approval next time.” Hank blushed more and nodded.
It was clear that the “homemade punch” Kevin had served to all the men in the neighborhood at his housewarming barbecue was finally beginning to show results. The powder he’d bought online had promised that the effects would include a steady increase in gluteal growth and sensitivity, heightened sexual feelings for the same sex, submissive tendencies, lowered intellect…
Hank cleared his throat. “I was uh, I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to…touch ‘em?” He didn’t need to ask twice. Kevin’s hands were practically on his pale jiggling cheeks before the bashful redneck could finish the sentence. Hank’s deep rumbling voice climbed a few octaves as he yelped and whimpered in pleasure like he’d never felt before. He backed into Kevin, desperate for more.
as Kevin teased the poor man with the floss of his own thong, he reached around, his hand slipping into the front pouch. His hand wrapped easily around Hank’s diminished tool. Kevin was happy to see the powder had delivered in that regard too.
“I-it’s….normally biiiigger!” Hank whined in his new bitched-out tone. That was certainly an understatement. The 7 inch club that had filled out the front of his Wranglers two months ago was now a two inch button boner.
“Well, it’s much more manageable now.” Kevin taunted, working a finger between his new toy’s massive mounds.
Hank’s eyes went crossed and he let out a whine so high that his voice cracked. His tiny dick erupted immediately, and he slumped back against the shorter man behind him. Kevin had to practically carry him to the sofa. Hank sat panting, red faced, trying to collect himself.
“I-I think *HUFF* somethin’s *HUFF* happening to me!” he whined between pants, unable to articulate the transformation that had brought him here.
“Well, you just lay there and have a deep breath and we’ll talk things through okay? I’ll make sure you have nothing to worry about.” Kevin cooed down at him like he was talking to a frightened stray dog.
Hank looked up at him hopefully, his breath evening out. “You mean you’ll help me?”
“Of course! You just lie back and let me take care of everything.” Kevin patted him on the cheek condescendingly. ”Oh but where are my manners? You’re a guest! I just made some punch, would you care for a glass?”
Anthony never calls it longing. Longing sounds too active, too expectant, like a hunger you believe might be satisfied. What he feels is quieter than that.
He follows bear bars on social media the way some people follow travel blogs, admiring destinations they've accepted they'll never visit. Warm wooden interiors lit gold by overhead lamps. Men with thick arms slung around each other's shoulders, bellies pressed together mid-laugh. Beards everywhere. Confidence that looks effortless, lived-in, real. He knows the names by heart: The Paw & Anchor, The Grizzly Den, Thick Thursdays at Murphy's.
He spots bears in the city too. On subway platforms. In line at coffee shops. Broad backs filling doorways, deep voices rumbling easily through crowds. He likes how they move, grounded and unhurried, like the world adjusts to them instead of the other way around. And he keeps his distance. Just realistically. Anthony is slim, lightly built, soft in a way that reads as gentle. He dresses carefully—fitted tees in neutral tones, clean jeans, simple white sneakers—and his shoulders fold inward without him noticing. His posture apologizes for space he isn't even taking.
Some kinds of embodiment are for other people. He's made peace with that. Mostly.
- - -
The date not happening shouldn't sting this much. Anthony sits alone at a small cocktail table, phone face-down beside his untouched drink, pretending he isn't checking it every thirty seconds. No texts. Nothing at all. Just silence stretching wider with each passing minute. Finally, he exhales, pays, and slips back out into the night.
The streets are quieter now, cooler, and streetlights throw warm circles onto empty pavement. Anthony walks with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, replaying the evening like there must be something he misread, some signal he missed. Then voices cut through the quiet.
"Hey, fairy."
Laughter follows, sharp and young and deliberate. Anthony's stomach drops. Three teenagers lean against a shuttered storefront ahead, and one of them straightens as Anthony approaches, grinning.
"Nice outfit," another says. "Dressing up for someone special?"
Anthony keeps walking. Footsteps follow. A hand brushes his shoulder, testing boundaries. His body stalls, caught between bad options. Run and escalate it. Snap back and make it worse. Stay quiet and hope they lose interest. His pulse hammers in his ears.
"Leave him alone."
The voice lands calm and solid behind him. The air shifts. Anthony turns. The man standing there is big in a way that feels real, broad and grounded with a thick chest beneath a flannel shirt and a full beard framing a steady, weathered face. His feet plant wide like the sidewalk belongs to him. He doesn't shout or threaten. He just exists, immovable.
The teenagers hesitate. Bravado drains from their posture like air leaking from a balloon.
"This isn't worth it," the man says evenly. "Walk away."
They mutter something under their breath, then leave. Silence returns, and Anthony's hands shake now that the danger has passed.
"You okay?" the man asks gently.
Anthony nods too quickly. "Yeah. Thank you. I—yeah. Thanks."
"Mike," the man says, offering a hand.
"Anthony."
They shake. Mike's grip is warm, solid, grounding. They stand awkwardly for a moment.
"There's a bar just down the block," Mike says, nodding toward the corner. "You look like you could use a drink. Want to sit for a minute?"
Anthony's first instinct screams no. Then he sees the sign. The Paw & Anchor. His breath catches. He knows that name. He's scrolled past photos of this place a hundred times.
"Just one drink," Mike adds. No pressure in his voice. Just an offer.
Anthony hesitates, then nods.
- - -
Inside, warmth hits him first. Laughter rolls through the space in comfortable waves. Music thumps beneath conversation. Wood paneling glows amber under low lights. Bears everywhere—thick arms, broad chests, hairy bellies, easy smiles. It's everything Anthony has admired from a distance, and he feels impossibly small.
Mike stays beside him naturally, ordering two beers without hovering or making a show of protection. They find a table near the back and talk about the street, about work, about nothing particularly important. The knot in Anthony's chest slowly loosens.
"I've always liked bears," he admits quietly, surprising himself. "I just never thought I belonged in spaces like this."
Mike doesn't dismiss it or try to fix it. "That sounds lonely," he says simply.
Anthony shrugs with a soft laugh. "I got used to it."
Mike introduces him to a few friends who drift past, friendly guys who welcome Anthony warmly without being patronizing. Anthony starts to relax, starts to enjoy himself. Then the familiar insecurity creeps back in. He's being humored, tolerated, allowed to visit. Mike notices the shift.
"Can I ask you something kind of ridiculous?" Mike says.
Anthony nods slowly.
"If you could be a bear, really be one—big, confident, comfortable in your body—would you want that?"
The answer comes out before Anthony can stop it. "Yes." Then softer, quieter: "But that doesn't happen to guys like me."
Mike's eyes hold his. "What if it could?"
Anthony snorts with disbelief. "Then I'd say yes in a heartbeat."
Mike reaches across the table and picks up Anthony's drink. Anthony watches as Mike dips one finger into the glass. Rainbow light blooms around his skin, vivid and impossible and real, sinking into the liquid like ink dissolving in water. Mike slides the glass back.
"This is real," he says quietly. "If you drink it, it won't stop."
Anthony stares. Part of him wants to laugh. This has to be a joke, some elaborate prank he doesn't understand yet. Except Mike's expression is completely serious, and that light was real. And what does Anthony have left to lose tonight? He already got stood up, nearly got jumped, and he's sitting in a bar he never thought he'd enter, talking to a stranger who just put glowing fingers in his drink. Why not one more impossible thing?
Anthony lifts the glass and drinks.
Warmth floods his mouth immediately, rich and comforting, like sinking into a hot bath after hours in the cold. Then sensation ignites. Heat spreads outward from his chest in rippling waves, and a deep hum vibrates beneath his skin, resonating through bone. Pressure builds in his shoulders and his shirt pulls tight. Anthony gasps as his frame begins to widen—collarbones stretching outward, back broadening, shoulder blades spreading apart. Each breath feels deeper, fuller, like his lungs finally have room to expand.
His arms thicken next. Muscle pours into them like heat shaping clay, biceps swelling into solid curves, triceps rounding heavy beneath skin. His forearms grow dense and powerful. He watches, stunned, as veins soften beneath gathering mass. Heat rolls through his torso and his chest swells forward, pecs pushing outward thick and proud. His stomach follows, a powerful core layered with grounding weight that feels intensely, undeniably right. His balance shifts instinctively, stance widening to support the new gravity of himself.
Then his ass starts growing. Slow at first, a deep and insistent pull beneath his hips. Fabric stretches audibly tight across his jeans as fullness gathers and swells, rounding into thick, heavy curves that drag his center of gravity backward. His pelvis tilts automatically, spine arching slightly, chest lifting higher. A breathy laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
The bar erupts around him. Cheers, whistles, hands clapping his back enthusiastically.
"Hell yeah!" someone shouts.
"Look at you, big guy!"
Hair blooms across his arms, chest, stomach, dark and dense, spreading like it was always meant to be there. His jaw burns warmly as a full beard surges in thick and lush, framing his face completely. He lifts his hands and they're huge now, strong and beautiful.
Rainbow light flares around him in shimmering waves, pulsing and alive and joyful. His clothes dissolve in a shimmer of color and new fabric forms in a flash. Sleeveless plaid flannel hugs his massive chest, leather pants cling tight to thick thighs and his gloriously rounded ass, heavy boots ground him firmly to the floor. A silver chain settles cool against warm skin. A black baseball cap materializes on his head, brim facing backward.
Anthony turns toward the mirror behind the bar. The man staring back is broad, hairy, thick, radiating presence. He looks like someone the room was built around. Something inside him shifts fundamentally. The constant self-monitoring, the apology that lived permanently in his shoulders, melts away like it was never necessary. Confidence rushes in, hot and playful, and his grin spreads wide.
"Oh my god," he laughs. "Look at me!"
He flexes without thinking. His biceps bulge powerfully and his chest lifts heavy and proud. The bar goes absolutely wild.
"Work it!"
"Damn, bear!"
Anthony—no, Antonio, the name blooms naturally in his mind, fitting perfectly with both his liberated energy and his roots—laughs louder, turning and showing off his body like it's a gift meant to be celebrated. He pops one shoulder, flexes his arms again with a grin, then twists just enough for his massive bubble butt to command the room.
Someone whistles sharply.
Antonio grins over his shoulder. "You like it?"
Cheers answer him enthusiastically. Playful, flirty energy pours through him like electricity. Shyness evaporates completely and inhibitions feel optional now, a choice rather than a requirement. He takes two strutting steps, shoulders rolling naturally, chest proud, belly warm and solid. This body deserves celebration.
Mike watches him with open, unguarded pride. Antonio laughs and pulls him into a crushing hug.
"This is insane," Antonio says breathlessly. "I feel—I feel amazing."
"You look amazing," Mike replies warmly.
Antonio pulls back just enough to flex again, laughing. "Oh, I know."
The bar roars with delight. Someone hands him a fresh drink. Someone slaps his back affectionately. Someone openly checks him out without shame, and Antonio grins at the attention. He soaks it all up—the warmth, the belonging, the visibility. For the first time in his life, Anthony isn't standing adjacent to joy. He's living directly inside it.
"What's your name, big guy?" someone asks.
Antonio's grin widens. "Antonio."
The name lands perfectly.
Antonio doesn't save the world that night. He flirts. He flexes. He laughs too loud. He takes up space without apology.
And finally, beautifully, he belongs.
- - -
Epilogue
The bar has settled into its late-night rhythm — lower a music, warmer laughter, bodies leaning closer instead of louder. Nick sits at the bar nursing his drink when Mike slides onto the stool beside him, setting down two fresh beers.
Nick doesn't look over right away. He just watches Antonio across the room, laughing big near the dartboard, shoulders wide, like he's always belonged there.
"So," Nick says lightly, finally glancing at Mike.
"How many does this make now?"
Mike tilts his head, counting silently.
"Including Antonio? Four. Maybe five if you count the guy at the gym, but that one's complicated."
Nick hums, amused.
"I’m noticing a pattern here.”
Mike spreads his hands, all innocence.
"Look. Sometimes people are ready," he says smoothly, "and I just happen to be there."
Nick laughs, shaking his head.
"Right. Just coincidentally present every single time."
Mike grins, leaning closer.
"Hey. I don't make the rules. I just… pawsitively enforce them."
Nick groans, loud and immediate.
"Oh no. Absolutely not."
Mike beams, clearly pleased with himself.
They clink glasses anyway — both of them looking, once more, toward Antonio's easy joy — and neither says another word about it.
I have been a friend of Alexei for almost a year. He was the biggest guy in the gym, but he was also very welcoming. I remember how intimidated I felt when I entered that place for the first time. I was very skinny, I felt judged by all the big dudes around me, and I have no fucking clue of what I was doing. I am certain that some of the guys laugh at me, but not Alexei. He approached me and corrected my form. Soon, we began to talk and became friends with each other. He took me as his personal project and, oh man, his methods were effective. Soon I started to build muscle and, I have to be honest here, I would always be grateful to all his help.
I quickly learned a lot of things about the guy. Unsurprisingly, he loved going to the gym. But he was not just a meathead. No, he was a certified pilot, he speaks more than five languages, and he even was a local champion on jujitsu. On paper, he was the complete package. However, there was something weird about him. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what my issue was with him. Maybe some of his expressions, his attitudes… that he got extremely defensive whenever we talked about law enforcement. Yeah, he was hiding something. Still, he was my friend, so I let it go.
Then it happened, we were working out when Alexei received a phone call. He seemed agitated. He started yelling, I believe that it was Russian, and he just abruptly left the building. I was confused. Was he in trouble? I was his friend, I wanted to help, so I decided to follow him. I chased him for a couple of blocks but before I could reach him I stumbled with a naked man. He was a very short man, very slim and a bit old. He looked me in the eyes. I felt that I knew him from somewhere. He just said sorry and he continued running.
I was so confused. I kept walking and found Alexei on the ground. I rushed to his side, trying to see if he was ok. But the moment that I touched him, his skin deflated like a balloon. I panicked, this was not normal. My friend has been transformed into an empty skin. Then I thought about that naked weirdo… could he be… it's crazy… could he have been the real Alexei? I didn’t know what to do. I just knew that staying there could be dangerous. I could have left Alexei skin there, but I just folded it and took it with me.
The skin stayed in my apartment for a couple of days. Then curiosity got the best of me. Yeah! I grabbed Alexei's flesh, experimented with it and realized that the mouth was extremely stretchy. I couldn’t believe that I was going to do this. I took off my clothes and proceeded to put on his skin. I started with my feet. The skin’s inside felt extremely warm and a bit slimy. I struggled to move my toes to the bottom of his body; but, once I was able to align them with his, I felt a weird sensation. Even though Alexei’s wear bigger size of shoes, I could perfectly control every bit of his feet. To the touch it felt real as if they were mine. That was a moment of excitement. I moved the skin up. The moment that my cock entered the corresponding hole, I just got extremely aroused. Then I pull the arms, align the chest and finally I stretch the face and cover my face.
It was just a couple of seconds in darkness. When I opened my eyes I rushed to the restroom. Shit! my eye color changed to match Alexei’s. I speak and I have small traces of his Russian accent. Fuck! This was amazing. I spent all day playing with my borrowed skin. I flexed his muscles, I said phrases that Alexei would say, and… of course, I dedicated my time to satisfy my lust. Then I dressed in my old clothes, too small, but was the only thing that I had at hand. I thought that I may need to go to Alexei’s place in order to get something that fits my frame. And that is when I realized something. Alexei never invited me to his place, but I knew where he lived. I tried to speak Russian and I could. I knew I could access his memories, I could take fully over his life.
Of course, I went to his place. I knew where he hid a spare key. However, when I approached the door a guy jumped on me. It was a member of the bratva, the Russian mafia. I was bigger than him and Alexei was a jujitsu champion. I was able to subdue him and he was willing to talk. That is how I learned everything. The mafia needed to transport drugs, that is why they transformed several members of the airport into wearable fleshes. Alexei was a mistake, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, they allowed a senior member to take his flesh as a type of reward. He just needed to zip it in order to keep his body, but the man that was wearing Alexei’s flesh was a greedy one. He stole from the bratva and even made a couple of anonymous calls to the police. That is what led to this moment.
Sure, I didn't want any problems with the mafia. I was willing to give this flesh back. However, the man in front of me stopped me. He confessed that he felt attracted to the real Alexei. He said that he was willing to let me stay on that flesh under two conditions. First, that I will keep my mouth shut; and second, that I will play with him on the bed every other month. Of course I accepted his terms. That was a small price to pay to have this amazing flesh.
So now look at me, tell me that I don't look amazing in Alexei's pilot uniform. Shit! Living his life is amazing. I love piloting planes, I love lifting weights, I love my time training for the next Jujitsu tournament. Yeah, I do not love the arrangement that I have, but I was not worried about it. I grabbed a job in an airline with no connections with the bratva… so practically I have no more connections with them. And for Boris, well… Being in the mafia is a dangerous job. Sooner or later he will be killed and then I will finally be free to enjoy this life as I want.
Mickey heard the perp in the back giggling. Before he could find out what was so funny, he heard a sound like someone slurping up the last of a milkshake. He looked down to watch his body–all his huge muscles!–slowly withering away as his uniform deflated.
All that was left was a skinny little guy in an oversized cop’s uniform. He glanced behind to see the perp had blown up like a bodybuilder!
The guys at the station didn’t believe his reason for calling for backup, but the second guy to arrive–a well-built cop named Jameson–shriveled up just like Mickey as he approached the car, while the perp swelled up larger in the backseat.
Four cops later and the perp was so huge he looked like he was about to burst out of the car–big bloated muscles piled on big bloated muscles–while a small crowd of scrawny cops, their uniforms billowing around their reedy little bodies, tried to figure out what they should do.
“If we call someone else,” Mickey suggested to his brethren, “he’s gonna get so big he’ll burst right out of the car!”
“But if we let him out now, he’ll squash us! We’re little pipsqueaks!”
As they struggled to figure out what to do, the perp just grinned, waiting for his next victim.
—
Read more TF stories like this here.
DM me about a commission. I’ll bring your TF idea to life.
[Thank you to @twistedtfs for contributing the second image for this not-so-short story.]
That’s my boyfriend, Blake, lying down, and me, Tyler, lying on him. As you might be able to tell, I’m a top. Not that he and I actually do anal all that often. It’s a lot of work, honestly, and a lot of cleanup. We often prefer just trading blowjobs, which is what we’re getting ready to do right now.
We’re on a time crunch, anyway. I’m on my lunch break at the law firm where I work, and he’s about to start his closing shift at the art supply store.
Just as I’m kissing my way down to Blake’s waistband, his phone starts blaring Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club.” Again. This is the fifth time that an unknown number has called in the past three minutes. Blake blocked the last three callers, but the calls keep coming from different numbers, so it isn’t working.
“Ugh, might as well see what they want,” grumbles Blake. I reluctantly roll off of him and he gets up, walking over to the bureau and answering his phone. “Who is this?”
I palm my tented briefs and he winks at me as he says, “No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong-”
Suddenly, his eyes go glassy.
I take my hand off my dick, sit up against the headboard, and watch him, curiously. What’s going on? Is it bad news or something?
“Well, yes,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. He must be nervous. He’s mussing his hair hard enough to pull the strands back, or something, because the part above his ears looks a lot shorter. When he moves his hand, I see something odd. His hair is shorter.
The back and sides are cropped close, and the only remaining length is at the top. I’m about to ask what’s going on when Blake does something that causes me to freeze in surprise. He grabs a blue baseball cap from the top of the dresser and puts it on, backward. He’s never worn a baseball hat like that. He’s never worn a baseball hat period. We don’t even own any!
The hat should be pressing his bangs flatter to his forehead, but they’re actually rising. They’re almost floating, like he’s touching one of those static electricity machine things at Spencer’s Gifts. They bristle and curl into a styled swoop that looks like it has been trained to flow in that exact way by years of cap-wearing.
I feel like my nerves are firing wrong, because I can’t move. All I can do is panic and try to process what I’m seeing.
“Yeah, of course,” Blake says. Is it just me or is his voice slightly deeper?
While the way he speaks has grown more masculine, his face is starting to look more boyish. His cheekbones rise, his lashes lengthen, and that beard that I love running my fingers through begins to fall from his face in small tufts, like flakes of paint being chipped off a wall. What’s left behind is patchy stubble, dark and thick on his chin and upper lip, but pretty sparse everywhere else.
“Totally, dude,” says Blake, letting out a deep guffaw that rumbles through his chest.
His ribs expand, as if they’re trying to properly contain the booming laughter that is bursting out of my normally restrained boyfriend. His thick pelt of chest hair holds on for dear life as his flat chest rises, his nipples suddenly perched on two solid mounds of muscle.
As he nods and continues to agree with whoever is on the other end of the phone, more details keep shifting. His septum ring glints as it vanishes into thin air. His underwear strains against a growing bulge. The stench of musk floods the room as he idly scratches an armpit. His eyes grow even more vacant and blank than they had looked at the beginning of the call.
He turns to look at me and I jolt. I was so shocked by Blake’s sudden transformation that I had forgotten I was actually in the room and not just observing this nightmare from afar.
“It’s for you, bro,” he says, holding the phone out to me. A goofy grin splits his face.
What the fuck do I do? Do I run? No, I can’t do that. This is Blake. The love of my life. Something weird is happening, and I need to fix it. I take the phone.
“Who is this, and what the fuck have you done with Blake?” I bark out the second the phone touches my ear.
“I don’t know any Blake,” said a calm voice on the other end of the phone. Male. Maybe early 20s? “But I asked Brody to hand the phone to you, so you can add to his generous donation.”
“Donation? What kind of scam-”
“My name is Evan and I’m calling on behalf of the local chapter of Beta Theta.”
“The frat? Look, I-”
“We’re raising funds so we can remodel the frat house. But our fraternity dues aren’t quite enough to cover everything.”
“OK, so talk to your frat alumni. Isn’t that how you people usually raise money?”
“I am talking to the frat alumni.”
“No you’re not.”
“Our tastes run expensive, as you know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“We’re a relatively new frat, so there aren’t enough alumni in the area to get us what we need. I’ve had to get creative. I’ve been making frat alumni… calls.”
“OK, so you’re making calls. Why call us? And what did you do to Brody? I mean Blake.”
“You’ll understand in a minute. Look, the reason I’m calling is that you’re a former Beta Theta yourself.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve never been part of Beta Theta. Or any frat, for that matter.”
“My listings are never wrong. Don’t you live at 999 Hawthorne Place?”
“Well, yes,” I say, as my fingertips start to tingle.
“And you have close-cropped brown hair?”
“I mean, yeah,” I say, running my hand across my shorn scalp, enjoying the prickly feeling. It’s weird how much darker my beard and chest hair are than my head hair, but I’ve always liked the way the length and the color clash. “But what does that have to do with-”
“And you’ve never been able to grow a full beard?”
I rub the patchy chestnut hairs on my chin and grimace. “Well, that’s true too, but you didn’t have to roast me like that, man.”
“And you’re just as muscular as Brody, but have way less chest hair?”
“All that is on the form?” I ask, looking down at the light brown hairs that are scattered along my shelflike chest.
“And your handsome face gets flushed when you drink, right?”
I suddenly felt dizzy. My deep voice slurs slightly when I respond “Yesh.” I take another swig from my Corona and set it down on the nightstand.
“And you’re always dressed in the frattiest clothes possible?”
“I mean duh, bro,” I say, rolling my eyes as I run my thumb along the length of my chain and adjust my backwards mesh hat.
“And you’re as dumb as a box of rocks?”
It takes a minute for that question to sink in. My gears have never turned all that quickly, and I got distracted by grabbing my package and leering at Brody. I can’t wait to get off the phone so I can bury this cock in his ass, to the hilt. Oh wait, didn’t that Evan guy ask me something? “Oh.. uh, yeah.”
“And your name is Tigger?”
“Yeah, bro, but it’s just a nickname. They called me that because Prez kept catching me bouncing on Brody’s dick,” I say. God, I’m so horny. My ass aches to be filled. Brody is taking off his underwear and jerking his fat cock. I’m drooling at the thought of it. I can’t resist jumping his bones every two hours or so whenever we’re alone together between shifts at the gym. The Beta Theta tattoo on his wrist flashes up and down with every stroke.
“And you’re a devoted Beta Theta?” Evan asks.
Is that even a question! “Uh… doy,” I say. “And they say I’m the dumb one. I have the tat on my asscheek to prove it. So you need money, yeah? Would 10K do? I have that much saved from my lame old job.”
“$10,000 would suit us perfectly well,” says Evan.
“Hell yeah, boyyyyy,” I say. “Just, like, make sure to put up a plaque or something when you build it. ‘Brody & Tigger’s Beer Pong Stadium’ or something like that, y’know?”
“Will do, Tigger. And thanks again,” says Evan.
“Anything for Beta Theta, man! These are the best years of your life, I wouldn’t want them to go to waste on a sucky frat house!”
After making the Zelle transfer, I hang up the phone and lumber over to Brody, grabbing his dripping cock in my meaty hand. I can’t wait to crash my mouth against his and feel his sexy stubble scrape against my chin. “Now, where were we, bro?”
POV: “Holy shit, this can’t be real” you say to yourself repeatedly as you look at an unfamiliar face in the mirror of an unfamiliar apartment.
“How the fuck did this happen? Am I stroking out?!” you exclaim!
After calming down you start to explore your new, younger body. You have nice abs and the start of an ok mustache - lacking the flare of your old handlebar but at least it’s something to work with. You also have a big, perky dick - which despite your best effort at self-control you’ve already came with twice - looking at your new young face and licking your mustache.
After coming down from your last afterglow, you explore your surroundings. You come to realize your situation is increasingly less than ideal - you have 3 roommates, a phone full of missed calls from numbers marked as “DNA” and strange vials of liquid in syringes in your room.
“Shit - what have I ended up with here - I need my pipe…”
POV: It has been just a few hours since you found yourself in this middle-aged man’s body - in his penthouse suite in an unfamiliar city. You have no idea how you got here and you don’t really care - your old life was shitty and you were constantly in trouble with dealers and debt collectors - whatever had happened this was an upgrade.
It didn’t take you long to settle into the comforts in his (now your) life. Nice clothes, soft furniture, clean skin and hair, with a pipe to boot. Despite never smoking, it didn’t take your body long to remember the feeling.
“Ahhh - life is good” you think to yourself on your new balcony overlooking the city.
CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes. If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.
CORPUS.Inc - All Inclusive
Tired of the endless work routine? Want a vacation but think it's too expensive? CORPUS, Inc. has the perfect solution! Introducing the "All-Inclusive" program. A new way to travel without worrying about overpriced accommodations, airlines, gas costs, or even luggage!
Our body swap system allows you to access the body of a local in the place you want to visit, depending on your needs. Want a muscular guy? There's bound to be someone in the area with those characteristics!
A twink? A more mature man? A sweaty himbo to ride the waves? Of course, it's done!
With coverage across almost the globe, going to a country on the other side of the world is no longer a distant dream or something that requires a lot of saving. From paradisiacal beach destinations like Latin America or Australia.
To colder, icy destinations like Sweden and parts of Europe. Even Japan is among our options for you to have the best vacation you can imagine!
Enjoy your all-inclusive stay, and at the same time, enjoy walking in someone else's shoes. Any body type, characteristics, and shapes are welcome. You can even rent your own body to generate income while you travel!
What are you waiting for to try "All Inclusive" with CORPUS, Inc.? The best option for vacationing and enjoying being someone you're not.
CORPUS, Inc. Where dreams are born.
CORPUS, Inc. is not responsible for the misuse of your body by another guest. The exchange of body and consciousness has a slight margin of error in "psyche assimilation" due to our use of a neural network, so changes in your personality, sexual orientation, phobias, or languages spoken may become permanent.
In case of loss of your original body, the client agrees to inhabit the substitute body assigned by the company for the rest of their life. By signing, you waive your right to miss your former life.
Enjoy your journey and thank you for trusting CORPUS, Inc. The number one bodyswap and possessions’ company worldwide.
----
Hey everyone!
I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.
This story is rather short, but it has a "deceptive" twist: I'd love to write more for you all! And to celebrate this special possessed summer, vacations and everything else, I'd like to ask you: What body would you like to be in? Where have you always wanted to travel but for one reason or another haven't been able to?
It's time to make your fantasies a reality! They might not be extremely long stories, but they would also give me time to work and write, to create something special for you all. If you've already left your request in my inbox, in the comments, or anywhere else, rest assured that I'm already working on it. In fact, several of you gave me this idea with your requests for vacation bodies or even for using CORPUS, Inc. for other purposes (wink wink).
Feel free to tell me your ideas, be open to whatever you want, and be creative. The sky's the limit. I'm very excited to read your ideas!
Remember that in the coming months, I'll mostly be posting summer-themed stories. Other series you enjoy, like Haunted, Slipped, and others, will still be available, but I'll try to give them a more summery feel. I hope you're enjoying it!
I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?
Evan's TF corner @tf-evansblog - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
