The Daily Body

The best of TF, Possession, Hypnosis, Bodysuits right at your fingertips

[the-daily-body]

Announcement

This is Dr. Frost of @idesofrevolution , and in case y’all weren’t aware, this blog has served as my personal reblog repository for gay tf/possession/bodyswap stories. I have been thinking about making changes to this blog for some time now, and what those would be. Mainly, I’ve sort of used this blog, selfishly, for reblogging stories I intended on reading later, or that I thought were really good. That’s all it really was to me for the past several years.

However, since my tf archive @greattfarchives fulfills that for me in terms of compiling my own personal library of excellent transformative erotica, that leaves this blog without much of an identity or purpose. Until I saw the reblog trees. So with that in mind… Cockcompendium has now become

The Daily Body

This will become something of a daily newsletter of stories, writer bulletins, polls, and links to some writers individual websites. I’ll be cutting down on the content bombing (reblogging in clumps at one time) and using the queue function more often. This way, it becomes much easier to subscribe for notifications without your phone bursting into flames at random points in the day.

This blog is gonna be careful about the content as well, due to the rise of misogynistic, homophobic, racist, and pedophilic content in the tf-sphere. No pieces with these archetypes will be featured on this blog. So rest easy, this is a safe space for all kinksters to enjoy.

I hope y’all stick around for the future. If so, my sincerest thanks. If not, it’s totally chill. Either way, thank you for the support and patronage you’ve given it. New days be coming!

- W. A. Frost

[reddarkfox222]

Undies request

Me: a 5'6" slightly balding 39 year old. Been working out 6 days a week 15 months. Hold most muscle in my thighs and chest.

Where are they: sitting on a bench in an empty locker room abandoned

What are they: some form of jockstrap

The locker room was empty. Dust, mold, flickering neon lights.

He, 39 years old, one meter and sixty-eight centimeters tall, with his slight baldness spreading, sat down on the creaking wooden bench. He had just finished working out. His chest and thighs were his strong points, after 15 months at the gym. But the rest... the rest was average.

He took off his sweaty clothes. In his backpack, at the bottom, he found something he didn't remember putting there.

A jockstrap. White. It looked old, worn-out, but the fabric was strange. Warm. As if someone had just worn it.

He took it in his hands. His fingers trembled.

"What... what is this?"

But his hands, as if they had a will of their own, began putting on the jockstrap. The fabric clung to his hips. Warm. Too warm.

Then it began.

A heat exploded from his lower abdomen. The sweat, already present, became copious. Streams running down his back, across his chest, down his legs.

"Ah... what..."

A moan. His voice cracked, lowering.

His bones cracked. His vertebrae lengthening, one after another. He felt his spine straightening, growing. One meter and sixty-eight became a memory. One meter and seventy. One meter and seventy-five. One meter and eighty-eight.

His shoulders snapped. They widened. His collarbones lengthened. His back arched, his lats swelling like wings.

The muscles. All the muscles began to swell. His pectorals, already developed, exploded. They became two massive, heavy shields. His arms swelled, his biceps exploded, his triceps became defined. The veins surfaced, thick, bluish.

His abs emerged. Eight carved, perfect squares. His waist narrowed.

His thighs. His thighs, already strong, became tree trunks. His quadriceps swelled, his calves widened. His buttocks lifted, becoming two firm, hard spheres.

The jockstrap stretched tight. His penis grew. Swollen. Hard. The bulge was enormous, obscene.

"AH! YES... FUCK!"

He moaned, his voice now deep, hoarse.

His head. He felt his head itching. The baldness. His hair was growing back. Thick, dark, shiny. It covered his head like a perfect mane. His hairline was becoming full again, youthful.

His jaw snapped. It widened. His chin became massive. His beard thickened, not only on his chin but along his entire jaw. Defined, thick, well-groomed. Stylish. Like a sexy young man.

His face became younger. His skin tightened, the wrinkles disappeared. His features became younger. Twenty-nine years old. Perhaps twenty-eight.

Sweat poured copiously. From his forehead, his chest, his arms.

One final jolt. His entire body contracted. His muscles tensing, pulsing.

Then silence.

He looked at himself in the broken mirror in the locker room.

He was no longer himself.

He was a stylish young man. Almost one meter and ninety centimeters tall. Muscular, well-proportioned. Huge pectorals, sculpted abs, veiny arms, broad shoulders.

His thick beard framed his chiseled chin. His hair was wild, dark, perfect.

The black jockstrap contained an enormous bulge. The long cock could be seen from the shape it made in the fabric.

His ass was firm, round, perfect.

A slow smile appeared on his young face.

"Shit... look at me..."

He flexed his bicep. The muscle swelled, monstrous. He looked at his body, his broad shoulders, his massive chest.

He turned around. His ass was perfect. His thighs hairy, muscular.

His hand moved down to the bulge. It was enormous. Pulsating. The desire was animalistic.

"Tonight..." He murmured. "Tonight I'm going to have fun."

He was ready. Gym, girls, guys, anyone. His body was a weapon.

And the jockstrap was his new beginning.

[need4change]

Smelly Hat

You hated leg day. Hated the grunting bros. Hated the stink of testosterone sweat. But here you were — 6:45 p.m. at Iron Hammer Gym, the “cheap but decent” gym near your apartment in East Nashville. You always came this time of night, trying to avoid the crush of straight muscle-heads.

You weren’t out to bulk up, not really. You just wanted to keep your waist trim, your butt tight, maybe impress the occasional guy in the locker room with a glimpse of smooth thighs and your slightly-too-short shorts. You weren’t a twink, not anymore, but you had a lean frame, always aiming for that cute-boy-next-door vibe.

But today? It had been crap. Work sucked. Your dating apps were dry. You had one missed call from your ex and a half-hearted “sup” from a maybe-hookup. You sighed, bored, horny, and restless.

You finished a pathetic set on the leg press and headed for the locker room, already thinking about what wine to open tonight with your Netflix binge.

That’s when you saw it.

Abandoned on the bench between two lockers: a disgusting red and brown trucker hat. It was filthy, soaked with dark sweat stains around the band, the mesh fraying, and the front emblazoned with ugly block letters: “BOOTSTOMP GYM — GRIT. SWEAT. BREED.”

It reeked. Like gym socks that’d fermented in a pickup truck for a week, mixed with beef jerky, cheap tobacco, and something vaguely... musky. Animal.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, backing up a step. Some redneck must’ve forgotten it.

And then, for reasons even you couldn’t explain, you stepped closer. Maybe it was the way the gym light hit the hat just so, casting a shadow that looked like a grinning skull. Maybe it was morbid curiosity. Or maybe — if you were honest — it was boredom, the itch to feel something different.

You reached down, picked it up. It was wet. Slimy at the edges. The sweatband squelched in your fingers. You gagged.

“Okay, gross, I’m tossing this,” you said, but the hat felt... alive. Heavy. Warm. Almost pulsing in your grip.

And then — before you could think — you jammed it onto your head. A joke. A dare to yourself. Maybe you’d snap a photo, post it with some sarcastic “Yeehaw, kill me now” caption.

But the second it touched your scalp—SNAP.

The sweatband contracted, like a snake wrapping tight. “Ow! Shit!” you yelped, hands scrambling to yank it off, but it locked in place. The smell overwhelmed you — deep, male, sour — like armpits after a 12-hour shift, like dominance.

And then it started.

Your temples throbbed. Your ears cracked outward, pulling longer, slightly pointed, the lobes stretching as if pierced by heavy, invisible weights. Stubble exploded along your jaw, fast-forwarding days of growth in seconds. You watched in the mirror, horrified, as your neck thickened, veins bulging like ropes.

“Fuck—oh god, what the—shit... fuck’s happenin’...?”

You stumbled back, breath ragged, body trembling. Your collarbones popped, shoulders widening, swelling under your tank top, which now clung damply to skin that was glossy with sweat.

Your pecs surged outward, heavy, swollen like slabs of meat, nipples flattening against the stretched cotton. Your shirt ripped at the seams. Below that, your gut bloated, not fat, but thick muscle, a power belly, veined and hairy, with a deep trail of dark hair running from your nipple line to your navel.

“Fuck’s this shit? I—I’m—nah, nah, this ain’t—”

Your ass ballooned, muscle and fat piling on, stretching your gym shorts to the breaking point. Hair exploded across your glutes, up your back, coating your legs like fur. You could feel your feet shifting in your sneakers, toes cracking, nails yellowing, thickening, like they belonged in dirty boots.

Your hands were unrecognizable — huge, calloused, thick fingers tipped with blunt nails. The skin was rough, stained with invisible grime, like you’d spent years hauling lumber and wrenching engines.

And then... your face.

The beard surged — a dense, greasy chinstrap down your jaw, across your cheeks, framing your now blocky face. Your nose widened, flattened, ears puffed red, your teeth gritting, some shifting — one now chipped — as your mouth widened.

Your voice cracked low: “Fuck me, I’m—shit—this some kinda fag spell? Hell nah, I ain’t no queer—”

You slapped your own face, panicking — but you didn’t feel like Dylan anymore. Dumb thoughts bubbled up: “What’s the point’a thinkin’ so much anyway? Just lift. Fuck. Sleep.”

You smelled yourself. Rank. Pits leaking sweat, your whole body sticky with it. You liked it.

“Damn, I smell like a fuckin’ man,” you muttered, cupping your swollen crotch. Your cock was rock hard, thick as a beer can, leaking in your shorts.

A flood of foreign memories hit you. Beer bongs. Mudding. Fucking drunk in the bed of a pickup under fireworks. Smacking asses at honky-tonks. You loved country girls. Tight jeans, soft bellies, those high-pitched giggles when you grabbed ‘em hard.

Your phone buzzed — Grindr. You deleted it without thinking. Downloaded Tinder. Swiped right on every girl within 10 miles.

Your brain was boiling. Gay? Nah. You hated queers, right? What were you? Bo. You were Bo, not Dylan. Big. Dumb. Country. Straight. Needed pussy. Right now.

You stormed out of the locker room, sweaty tank clinging to your hairy chest, pit stains spreading like badges of honor. You strutted up to the protein bar.

“Y’all know where a man can find some tight bitch to fuck tonight?” you barked.

The girl behind the counter blinked. You scratched your crotch. Spat on the floor. Grinned.

You were Bo. Nashville’s dirtiest, dumbest, most fuck-hungry redneck brute. And you were gonna breed someone tonight. Hard.

[rawtextsdev]

I shouldn’t be out here.

My brother and his buddy, Jax, took off to grab beers, leaving Jax’s pride and joy sitting in our driveway. It’s a beast of a machine, matte black, aggressive angles, totally terrifying. But it’s the helmet sitting on the seat that draws me in.

It’s one of those high-end ones I see all over my For You page. You know the ones. Videos of faceless, jacked guys with veins popping out of their arms, revving their engines, looking like dangerous, sexy robots. I’ve probably watched a thousand of those clips, just… curious. Wondering what it feels like to be that anonymous. To be that powerful.

I reach out, my skinny, pale hand trembling a little. The helmet is heavy. It smells like leather, gasoline, and him. It smells like Jax. That thick, musky scent of sweat and expensive cologne hits me, and for some reason, my dick twitches in my jeans.

"Just a second," I whisper to the empty garage. "Just to see."

I pull it over my head.

It’s a tight squeeze. My ears burn as they scrape past the padding. But once it settles? Silence. The world outside is muffled. It’s just me and the smell of Jax wrapping around my face. It feels claustrophobic and incredibly, undeniably hot.

CLICK.

The strap locks under my chin. I didn’t touch it.

Before I can panic, the visor slams down. A blue HUD flickers to life right in front of my eyes, glowing neon against the darkness.

SYSTEM INITIALIZED. USER: UNAUTHORIZED. CALIBRATING PHYSIQUE…

"What the fu..."

My voice is cut off by a sudden, searing heat in my chest. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s pressure. Like someone hooked an air compressor to my bloodstream.

Zzzzzzt.

A shock jolts down my spine, and my arms jerk outward. I watch through the tinted glass, helpless, as my forearms begin to bubble. The skin pulls tight, tanning instantly from pale ivory to a deep, sun-baked bronze. Thick, blue ropes of veins snake their way up from my wrist, pulsing in time with the thudding bass now blasting in my ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Oh god," I groan, but the voice that comes out is deeper. Rougher. "F-fuck..."

My t-shirt shreds. It literally explodes off my body as my pecs slab onto my chest, blowing up like airbags. My shoulders widen with a sickening crunch, forcing my arms out to the sides. I feel like a biological machine, being upgraded in real-time.

My vision blurs. The text on the HUD is scrolling faster now.

TESTOSTERONE LEVELS: CRITICAL. SEXUALITY: RECONFIGURING. INTELLIGENCE: PURGING...

My head is swimming. I try to remember my major. I try to remember why I was scared. But it’s getting harder to think. The vibration in the helmet is scrambling my brains, turning my gray matter into mush.

Why was I worried? Muscles feel good. Tight feels good.

My jeans are the next casualty. My thighs balloon outward, thick as tree trunks, ripping the denim at the seams. My cock is agonising. It swells up thick and heavy. It pushes against the zipper of my jeans until the metal teeth pop open. I can feel the head of my dick rubbing raw against the coarse denim. It is leaking pre cum like a faucet. Sticky hot fluid soaks my underwear. I am throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur.

I’m not me anymore. I’m just a body. A host for the helmet.

CALIBRATION COMPLETE. MODE: STUD. OBJECTIVE: SERVICE.

The panic is gone. It’s replaced by a dull, throbbing need. My mind is empty, smooth, and quiet. There are no thoughts, only directives.

1. Be big. 2. Be dumb. 3. Fuck Jax.

I swing a massive leg over the bike. The suspension groans under my new weight, 240 pounds of dense, fuck-meat. I catch my reflection in the side mirror.

The guy looking back isn’t me. He’s a monster. Massive traps, striated shoulders, veins pulsing with lust. I’m faceless. Anonymous. Just a piece of ass in a tank top and a helmet, waiting for orders.

I grab the handlebars. My hands are huge, swallowing the grips. I look back over my shoulder, striking the pose. The exact pose from the videos. Ass out, biceps flexed, visor reflecting the world I’m about to conquer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, my brother asking where I am. I don't even look at it.

The HUD flashes a new command.

DESTINATION: JAX'S APARTMENT. OBJECTIVE: DRAIN BALLS.

A drooling grin spreads across my face. I look like such a stud in the mirror. Huge arms. Veiny hands. A massive bulking package leaking inside my pants.

I swing my leg over the bike. The suspension sinks under my new weight. I feel powerful. I feel sexy. I feel like a total slut for Jax.

I start the engine. The vibration travels right up into my crotch and makes me groan.

I am coming Jax. I am bringing you your new toy.

[bara-du-des]

Yellow (Answered Prayers)

Miguel always felt like he was miles behind other guys his age. He was short, skinny, and practically hairless from the eyebrows down. He kept hoping, praying he would hit his growth spurt like all the other boys around him. If any god was listening, none thought he was worth their time. 

“Mini-guel” The nickname he got back in middle school. It started out as light hearted teasing, but as time went on this turned into something more malicious. By the time he graduated high school, everyone knew that the nickname wasn’t just referring to his height. 

Now at 25 years old, Miguel had only grown a few more inches leaving him at 5’3”. Still skinny, hairless, and lacking in the meat department, he found dating to be nearly impossible. He tried every dating app out there with no luck. The only messages he received were from predatory men interested in his “youthful” appearance. And considering his appearance, they always assumed he would bottom for them. Despite still being a virgin, Miguel knew bottoming was not for him. All those late night self-discovery sessions were evidence enough for him to know that. 

It was Friday night. Miguel’s friends decided to go clubbing. He reluctantly went along with them, having skipped out on too many outings already. Going out with his friends had just become inconvenient, often being accused of using a fake ID at the clubs and bars they would frequent. Once he managed to get in, he almost always just faded into the crowd, ignored in the sea of men “better” than him. 

Miguel stood off to the side, gazing at all the men on the dancefloor. One guy in particular caught his attention. This man was everything Miguel wanted to be. Ruggedly handsome, full beard, huge muscles, a sexy pelt of chest hair. The man was wearing tight shorts that left nothing to the imagination. A large bulge clearly advertising his package to any and every man hungry for a taste. Miguel was so distracted by the hunk’s majestic junk that he didn’t see that the man was now looking right at him.

"You got a problem?" growled the hunk as he walked towards Miguel, snapping him out of his trance.

Miguel's head snapped up to meet the man's eyes. Legs shaking, palms sweating, mouth going dry. He opened his mouth to apologize but nothing came out. The man now stood right in front of Miguel, towering over him. The top of Miguel's head barely reaching the bottom of the hunks chest. Having this walking testosterone factory so close had him both frightened and aroused. Having backed Miguel into a corner the hunk got right in his face.

"I'm just messing with you," he laughed. "I'm Leo. I saw you staring so I figured I'd give you a closer look." He grabbed Miguel's hands and placed them on his chest.

"I'm sorry. You're just everything I've been praying to be like," said Miguel staring at the ground. "I'm just tired of feeling infererior to every man I meet."

Leo smirked. "Why don't you come to my place and we can sort that out for you."

Miguel hesitated for a second. Not wanting to be pressured into bottoming for a man, a man who had him scared to death less than a minute ago. However, the hunk's musk was affecting him. He found it harder and harder to resist Leo's invitation. Soon he was following the hunk into his car.

They shortly arrived at Leo's apartment. It was the typical bachelor pad. Laundry everywhere, mattress on the floor, and almost no furniture. The smell of Leo’s musk was even stronger in the apartment leaving Miguel dizzy and even more aroused. 

“So you said you want to be like me, huh?” Leo asked while flexing his biceps, exposing his hairy armpits and wafting more musk into the room. 

“Yes… I do…” slurred Miguel, his arousal slowly becoming more intense. 

“Then listen to everything I’m about to tell you. Can you do that?”

“Yes, anything!” Miguel panted desperately.

Leo gave a wicked smile before giving his first command.”First, strip.”

Miguel froze. His mind was torn between wanting to obey and hiding his embarrassing (lack of) endowment. He looked at Leo with pleading eyes. “E-Everything?” he asked barely above a whisper. 

“Yes, everything. You won’t be needing them once we’re done anyways.”

After Miguel stripped out of his clothes, it was Leo’s turn. First he undid the button on his shorts and slowly pulled them down making a show out of it for Miguel. Bit by bit his underwear was revealed. Bright yellow briefs filled to bursting with a meaty package. Now free from its denim prison, Leo’s bulge swelled even bigger. Now tenting and dripping through the fabric, Leo gave a satisfied sigh. 

“Looks like it's time to pass down this blessing.” moaned Leo as he pulled down the briefs and stepped out of them. His massive member leaking right onto the floor. He hands the soaked briefs to Miguel. “Put this on.”

Miguel pauses, his mind overwhelmed by the naked beast of a man in front of him. Snapping back to reality, he pulls the briefs on. On his tiny frame, the briefs look comically large. He feels Leo’s Intense stare and considers putting his clothes back on and leaving. 

He starts reaching for his own underwear when he feels it. A pulse of something stopping him in his tracks. Then, a warmth. It starts with his bulge. His cock starts swelling, reaching his full length at 3”. He isn’t getting hard; it keeps growing until he reaches 8’ soft. His balls follow suit. Churning, swelling, and churning again until they rival large eggs. They start flooding his body with male hormones and testosterone, kickstarting the next part of his transformation.

Miguel was already satisfied with his changes so far. He went to embrace Leo to thank him. But as soon as he moved, he fell over in pain. His bones started lengthening leaving him at a height of 6’8”. As it stopped he stood and walked up to Leo. To his surprise. Miguel was now taller than Leo. 

“You might want to be in front of a mirror for this next part,” said Leo, leading Miguel to the bedroom. 

As soon as they reached the bedroom door, Miguel began sweating buckets. The heat he felt earlier returned. Now it was focused on his chest. His nonexistent pecs suddenly ballooned into a perfect pair of meaty, juicy muscle tits. His nipples thickened and expanded, becoming extremely sensitive. The growth spread outwards. His torso becoming thick with powerful musclegut. His shoulders so wide that most doorways will be his worst enemy. His biceps arms swelling to massive peaks. His legs expanding thicker than most men’s waists. 

While Miguel admires his new muscles in the mirror, he feels an itch across his whole body. Bit by bit, he grows a sexy dusting of hair along his body, accentuating his muscles and filling with his new musky scent. Smelling his own musk drove Miguel wild. He began stroking his cock while burying his face in his own pit. New thoughts filled his head. He realized he didn’t mind bottoming if it was for Leo. In fact, he found that he craves Leo’s cock just as much as his perfect ass. With those images flooding his mind, he came with a loud roar. His seed covering the entire mirror and himself. Miguel turned towards Leo, breathless but still horny. 

“Thank you for this. I look incredible, I feel incredible!” Marcus said, attacking Leo with a sloppy kiss. 

“I knew you’d take to it well,” said Leo as he rubbed and squeezed Miguel’s new muscles. 

Soon they were both enjoying each other. The briefs were discarded on the floor next to the rest of Leo’s dirty laundry. Both men were now enjoying their blessings. Obtaining the bodies they desire and the relationship they were searching for. 

----------------------------------------

after such a long time just rebloging i finally wrote my own story. this is the first time i write something like this so i apologize if there's anything wrong with grammar/formatting. i hope to improve as i get more practice and experience. thanks again ^^

[idesofrevolution]

My Best Friend, the Ghost

It was the best feeling in the world. Picture this: a simple spread of the legs in the summer heat, sweat dripping from your forehead. You feel a cool, slick touch slide down your inner thigh. It feels almost slimy, though it leaves no residue as it inches toward your taint and ever closer to your rear. You gasp as it circles the tight hole, as if an expert were rimming you with their cold, wet tongue. Then, quickly, a gentle thrust. You feel it enter you, slithering slowly, intentionally. It begins to fill you, that frosty ooze spreading all throughout your body. Your breath is laboured, as you begin to contort and expand as it is overtaken, washed and inundated with this foreign substance bubbling beneath your skin. It pushes up your throat, choking you, taking the last of your breath away before it presses at the top palate of your mouth. It would feel almost like drowning, though your sensations only fire endorphin after endorphin of euphoria. Pressure builds as it presses harder and harder, until... pop. The hard palate gives way as it rushes and balloons into your head. Thoughts and stresses fade away, and you're left in a state of total ecstasy as your body begins to move on its own.

Fuckin' amazing, am I right? Well, guess what? I get that incomprehensible experience whenever the hell I want. Perks of living in a haunted apartment! Confused? Let me explain.

I moved to New Orleans a year ago, give or take a couple of months. I graduated college, and after testing out a couple of places that didn't really pan out for me, I landed in the cement swamp in the height of the summer. I'd just left Salt Lake City, so coming from the tepid air of Utah to the brick wall humidity of Louisiana was a lot. Yet, I was determined to make the best of this one. I'd secured a low-level office gig at a non-profit, and rented out a cheap two bedroom just outside the French Quarter. The house was one of those old shotgun-style places. It wasn't well maintained, frankly incomprehensibly so to be up to purpose for a tenant, though I was still paying an arm and a leg.

The first few nights, I didn't sleep super well. It was hot, I was sleeping on a hard air mattress, and the tall ceilings and old wooden floors made every little creak and groan of the house sound like some demonic entity moaning in the darkness just out of sight. At the time, I was resolved to believe such a rational theory. After all, ghosts aren't real. That recent college graduate sensibility: anything can be rationalized. Looking back, I scoff at what I thought I knew compared to what I know now. But that skeptic within me was what I relied on. It got me through my courses, it got me my job, it is what guided me through the insanity of life. So, as more peculiar occurrences began to happen, that is precisely the lens with which I saw the world.

When things started to go missing: my trusty running shoes, a pair of underwear, my gold chain, my laptop, even my keys, it was just me being forgetful. I took my Adderall and just ordered new things. I hunkered down and just focused on my work. When I heard scratching in the walls at night, footsteps down my hallway, quiet breaths echoing in the shadows... I was just sleep deprived, I took my Xanax and zonked myself out. Those dark shadows that crept around the corners just on the edge of my peripherals? Eye floaters, nothing more. Though, after about two weeks of just a miserable living experience, I finally experienced something I couldn't rationalize.

It was after a soul sucking day at the office, having spent all day sifting through piles of meaningless paperwork to the grating click clack of my coworkers silently typing on their keyboards like mindless drones. I'd gone into overtime that day, and after five or six cups of coffee, I can't say I was even remotely physically tired that evening. My mind, of course, was entirely devoid of functionality. Walking through my front door, tossing my keys in the little dish by the door, I collapsed onto my couch and just scrolled through Netflix, looking for nothing in particular. That's when I saw it. I'd turned to grab my vape pen from the side table, and my glance had grazed past the mirror which hung above my mantle. Floating behind me, clear as day in the mirror, was a figure. It was larger than I, big broad shoulders and pecs, tapering down to a narrow waist, flanked on either side by two muscled arms. It's face was chiseled and sharp, brows furrowed, golden eyes narrowed and full lips twisted in a mischievous smirk. It had no legs; rather, its body was condensed into a long whippy tail. Most notably, I would argue, was the... well... rather sizeable phallus which stood erect above it's navel, with two grapefruit sized balls hanging beneath it.

I sat frozen, unable to look away from it sizing me up in the mirror's reflection. All the other things I could make sense of in my head were obliterated at the sight of what was merely inches behind me, and inches above the floor. I finally found the strength to merely exhale, letting a soft billowing cloud of breath out of my mouth. It was the middle of June, and perhaps 91 Fahrenheit outside. It was impossible. Everything about what my eyes were seeing was impossible. As it began to creep toward me, I fully expected to spin around and like every haunted house movie of all time, there would be nothing there. Though as I whipped my head to look behind, no such luck. I was face to face with it. It was grinning as we were nose to nose. Bringing it's cool, ghostly hand to my cheek, it caressed it with the back of its fingers and winked at me.

"Hey there." It's voice boomed like a timpani, yet it's timbre was gravelly and suave. I couldn't help myself. In a primal state of panic, I shrieked a terrified scream. It didn't last long. The spirit seized the opportunity I was entirely unaware I had given it- quickly shoving it's head into my open mouth. The force by which it had taken me was overwhelming, though I suppose with it's sheer size, in retrospect it makes perfect sense. I was flung down into the cushions of the couch, as it pushed itself into me. I grasped at my throat, which was bulging from the thing which was now flooding down my gaping maw. I could hear it laugh from within me as it squeezed itself in, it's massive upper body condensing in on itself and slowly pushing deep into my gut. My stomach ballooned out, stretching as if it were rubber while it's tail whipped aimlessly against my face before it slipped between my lips.

This was the first time I felt the sensation. The euphoria. The cascading waterfall of endorphins as my body was contorting and stretching as the ghost slipped me on like a suit. I could feel it thrusting it's hands into my arms which expanded and stretched to accommodate the spirit's size. I could feel my chest burst through my shirt, with two jiggling pecs now engorged with it's essence. I could feel my thighs and calves swell with thick muscle, and my feet lengthen and explode through my socks. It was as if someone had taken a water hose and filled me like a balloon, and as I felt it's head rising up my throat one last time and slither into my head, I can't say I wasn't in the throws of intense and indescribable bliss. My eyes opened, I was no longer in the driver's seat.

"Ahhh fuck." It's voice boomed out of my mouth as I found my body moving of it's own accord. No, rather moving of his accord. I stood up, feeling my jiggling muscles slowly firm up and tighten as I walked to the mirror. The thing which wore me as a suit was checking itself out! It had my skin, my face, but otherwise I was unrecognizable. I was indeed approaching 6' 4", my jawline was square and chiseled, my arms as large as my head, my feet probably a size 16, and my... appendage? Let's just say he was now an anaconda snaking down my thigh, his hood restored and flanked on either side by an impressive bulbous sac. "Shit, that feels nice." My voice was soft like velvet, but frayed with a coarseness which tickled the mind like sandpaper. It stretched my muscles and cracked my neck and knuckles before finally bothering to introduce itself. "Name's Antoine, nice to meet ya." My hand slinked down to my member giving it a playful tug. "Actually, tonight, your name is Antoine too, baby." He smiled with my pearly white teeth, and it would be an outright lie to deny I was not eager to see what this Antoine would be using me to do that night. We sauntered over to my bedroom, tossing shirts and pants out of my drawers before he found some shorts and a tank top that fit my new musculature whatsoever. I had but only one pair of sandals that he could force my massive feet into, but neither he nor I could care less. As walked to the front door, and stepped out into the humid New Orleans air, he took a deep breath with my borrowed lungs, sighing in satisfaction. "Aight, my man. Let's see what kind of trouble we can get in tonight."

Thus began our mutual understanding. Our partnership. Frankly, our friendship. That night was one filled with club hopping across town, hitting dancefloors right and left, drinking outrageous amounts of liquor, grinding on sexy men with our tongue down their throats... None of which I would have ever experienced on my own. It was an entire world I knew nothing about, nothing I could have ever imagined myself doing, but with Antoine it seemed like second nature. After a night of debauchery and a tryst in some leather daddy's hotel room, he returned near the crack of dawn, collapsing onto my bed in a sweaty, swampy heap. He closed my eyes and almost immediately afterward I reopened them. The sun had risen, and peering at my phone, it was then 9 AM.

For a moment, I sat there and stared at the ceiling. I waited for my body to move on his command, though when it didn't, I whipped my sheets off to see that I had returned mostly to my former stature. I did note that I had grown ever so slightly. Perhaps his presence within me had left some residual effects on my body, a pleasant fact of which I did not mind whatsoever. I sat up, stretching my arms above my head, a wet warm musk wafting from my sweaty pits and steamy feet from the night before. For the first time, I found myself rather enjoying the scent... Where it once used to make me grimace with disgust, it now made me nearly salivate at the slightest tickle on my nose. I peered to the corner of the room, where now even in broad daylight I could see Antoine's spectral self floating above the floorboards, his arms crossed and his bright smile greeting me in the morning light.

We stared at eachother for a mere moment, before I smiled back at him. It didn't take words for us to understand what was to soon come to pass. Frankly, from then on, it was an unspoken pact. An inseparable bond, bound by an awakened hedonism and carnal desire. Starting that morning, our boys night out became a regular occurrence. I'd get home from work, exhausted and tired from a thankless day of grinding in the soulless office, and we would come up with a plan for the evening. He'd take his time slipping into me, knowing full well just how much I enjoyed each breathtaking second of it. In fact, we took a Saturday to go shopping for "night clothes" which would actually fit us when he was inside me.

Antoine was a bit of a casanova, able to make any person he met swoon with a single glance. The parade of men strutting the walk of shame out of my home every morning did not go unnoticed by my neighbors, not that they particularly seemed to care. It was the spirit of New Orleans, live every day like it's your last. That sentiment was instilled in me, along with a new attitude. I began to care less and less about this dead end job which had only gotten more and more unbearable as our relationship grew. My boss began to notice this as well. He noticed that my productivity had slipped, that I'd begun to come into work with more and more tattoos (which were admittedly against company policy), that my musky scent was becoming stronger and more apparent, that I'd become more casual and laid back, that I was trying to force myself into work clothes that were increasingly more and more revealing as my body grew toned and large. This, to him at least, was unacceptable. I don't entirely recall what it was that finally set him off, though I think it may have had something to do with me having my feet up on my desk as I took calls and the delicious pheromones to which my coworkers had taken a liking to. Something to do with my cubicle mate Daniel lapping up the pungent sweat from my socks beneath my desk as I worked. Couldn't say. Either way, it was the last straw for me.

It wasn't much of a loss, as my frequent appearances at the clubs, or rather my appearance altogether, which the bar owners had taken notice of. I had a line of bartending and gogo boy offers to take up in it's stead. Though, it wouldn't be enough to cover the rent on my own. Thus, we hatched a plan. A solution to both our issues: my financial one, and a more permanent solution for Antoine.

It was an average night in the French Quarter, we were behind the bar, and there before us appeared our solution sitting on a stool near the drink well. He was a tourist, a particularly needy and rude one at that. No friends, failing every attempt to snag the attention of our regular hustlers with his more than lacklustre personality. He was perfect. It wasn't difficult to play into his inflated ego, all it took was playing into his cringeworthy advances and unwelcomed touches before he was licking our pits and nipples, ready to head to our place. A lack of a tip was the final nail in the coffin, we were ready. The 'three' of us stumbled back to our apartment, and it took merely five minutes of making out before the drunken asshole had passed out in our bed.

Walking back into the living room, Antoine regurgitated himself out of me. Feeling him exit was always a bittersweet experience, euphoric in sensation but longing in sentiment. He floated in front of me, winking as he compressed himself under the door of our bedroom, slipping in with a quiet pop. Wiping the sweat from my brow, and taking a deep whiff of my dank sneaker like degenerate scent pig I'd become, I popped open a bottle of our nicer tequila to celebrate. As the yellow liquor began to pour into the glass, I heard the delightful sounds of possession begin to loudly bellow out from behind the closed door. A shriek, followed by squeaks and rubbery creaks atop elated moaning and gasping. Taking the two glasses, I meandered over to the couch, kicking my wafting, wet feet up onto the coffee table and grabbing the bong to pack a nice bowl.

The sounds of inflation and gargling, stretching skin and growing muscle were like candy to my ears, as I wondered what Antoine would look like. The guy was less than ideal before, though as a host, the sky was the limit to how gorgeous he was going to be. I lit the bowl, taking a deep drag before blowing an adequate cloud. Antoine's moans got louder and louder, his voice all the more recognizable as it progressed. One more puff from the bong and the sound of that final pop soared through the air. The house was silent apart from the heavy panting quietly emanating from the bedroom.

I sat there for a solid moment. He always was the master of the tease, knowing full well that I awaited his reveal. I could hear his chuckling before I heard the click of the lock on the door. Slowly, I stood up and walked to the bedroom door, pressing my ear against the wood. Nothing. I grabbed ahold of the doorknob with bated breath, slowly turning it and pushing the door open. The lights were on in the bedroom, and there in front of the mirror taking a selfie with his host's phone was my Antoine.

He was better than I ever could have imagined. That lanky, sad excuse for a man was long gone and in his stead stood the dreamiest hunk I'd ever set my eyes on. Our bodies were nearly identical in stature, as over the past several months he'd completely stretched me out to his own measurements. Though, his delicious golden eyes on that gorgeous, masculine face sent me over the edge. He was stacked, he was tall, he was caramel, he was packing down there, and he wafted that buttery, salty musk that made me drool. All he needed to do was to turn to me and wink in his new body and I felt myself harden.

"What's up, baby boy?" He flexed his massive arms, seductively licking his sweaty bicep for me. Let's just say that tequila and that bowl were still there the next day. We were rather preoccupied throughout the dawn, the morning, the afternoon, the evening... Endless hours of carnal pleasures and sensual overload. Simply washing the bedsheets of our intertwined cum imbued into the very threads of the fabric took longer than expected. I imagine you get the picture, so needless to say, such days were and continue to be frequent.

I suppose that brings us to today. As I sit here and write out how we got to this very moment, waiting for an Uber to take us to our honeymoon, I'll go ahead and mention that my former boss just walked by us, feigning pleasantries as if we were old buddies. Asking if now that I had a partner, I was finally ready to knuckle down and come back to work in a 'real job.' I turned to Antoine, he turned to me, and as we found our hands sliding toward eachother's growing bulges, basking in eachother's beguiling musk while my frump of an old boss indignantly watched, I flipped him the bird.

He stomped off, I doubt I'll ever see him again. Why should I need to? I have my man, I have our future, we have all the delicious men of this raunchy city to enjoy... What else can a guy ask for?

[occamstfs]

Cheat Codes IRL

Trey's always wishes to actually play the sport. After taking the easy way in a video game he, for better or worse, finds a path to greatness for himself in the real world as well. Only, how much can he really trust his cheated in self?

Fairly standard muscle growth story, possession by virtual character into a personality merging! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Trey had been waiting for this game for years. Contrary to expectations and appearances he has always been a fan of football. Though, given his disposition to staying indoors and a healthy fear of men who could fold him like a lawn chair he has always been averse to trying out for it, or really any sport. None of that matters today though, today College Football drops and he'll finally be able to run on that hallowed field, vicariously as it may be.

He picks his team immediately and sets about making his perfect player. Savvy as he is, he's found a workaround to the game’s stats system so he can max out every ability and skill on his avatar from the get go. Trey smirks and pushes up his glasses as his in-game self poses with every attribute increase. Flexing as his strength goes higher than the largest linebacker while also maintaining the agility of a running back and accuracy of a quarterback. 

Finishing up his star player, seeing his last name emblazoned across a stark white jersey he can’t help but feel pride unearned as he imagines the victories he will enjoy in the upcoming days of playing. Before the game lets him in however there’s a stutter as a new window pops up, CHEAT CHECKER. Immediately discovering his little trick the screen flashes with an alarm and a reprimand. Trey scoffs at the idea this single player game is going to prevent him from playing as he sees fit before his controller shocks him severely. “No… Fair…” He chokes out as his vision goes dark, mimicking the screen as it too fades to black.

He awakens in quite the sour state. His monitor won’t turn on and as he beats against his computer tower it seems as if his system has somehow been bricked. He’s filled with desire to throw his controller or keyboard in a rage, only held back by the instinctual fear he’ll receive another nasty shock from whatever freak accident caused this whole mess. Under normal circumstances he’d already be scouring forums or reddit to see if anyone else has run into this issue but given the slight static sensation still flickering across his skin he’s hesitant to even pick up his cell phone.

Racking his brain to find his next move a voice familiar but not his own offers a suggestion. Buzzing as if breaking through static, a rugged voice rises “Go for a run kid, get your blood pumpin and your mind’ll follow.”  Trey squints and grimaces, quite not wanting to take his mind’s apparent advice, groaning as he acquiesces anyway. He throws on old tennis shoes and tosses clothes around the room in search of some shorts he can wear on the sure to be short run. Ready as he’ll ever be, Trey meanders to his front door before second guessing himself.

He reaches out for the door knob before hesitating. Stopping short there’s a hum in the air and his hand buzzes with static, the small hairs on its back rise as seemingly without his conscious input the hand turns the knob with a small shock. Trey shouts in surprise at the presumable last gasp of his little static experience earlier, which covers up the deep voice in his mind speaking up once more, “Run.” It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t quite hear the command as his legs start to fall ahead of him.

He stumbles awkwardly forward with a gait that makes it clear he has not properly run since he was forced to many odd years ago. He clenches his hand that opened the door and discovers its senses are bizarrely dulled. Trey wants to stop running and inspect the peculiarity but at any pause he finds himself lightheaded, everything in his mind and body compelling him to continue to run. “God this is why I hate jogging.” With each sprinting step down the sidewalk his body grows more accustomed to running.

His legs burn as he runs longer than he ever has before and his body brims with excitement and energy to continue to this end. As a runner’s high begins to affect his mind, static begins to grace all his senses and with it the voice from earlier begins to laugh. Trey reacts as if it were feedback from an amp, shaking his head and trying to cover his ears. The deep hearty chuckle only continues to rise as he looks to the ground and finds something impossible. His legs have ballooned. In shock he finds himself finally able to halt his sprint and he falls to the ground, laughter growing sinister in his mind. “Hah! Finally figured it out eh. Thought you were supposed to be smarter than that.”

Trey tries to take stock as the voice continues to taunt him. He scours these alien legs for a sign of reality, that they are his and this is not some bizarre dream, finding a birthmark on the back of his knee that even the most thorough dream could not recreate. He struggles to catch his breath after coming to such a sudden stop as he feels up his legs. They are unquestionably larger than the sticks he knows he should have, burning hot with the heat of exertion and tight with powerful muscle that he has spent next to no effort earning. He moves to stand and they flex, forcing him back down with a yelp as they cramp powerfully. He squirms on the ground clutching his thighs as he sees the muscles bulge larger. Trey grits his teeth as he grasps at his legs, still growing larger, and the voice shouts loud enough in his head to make his ears ring, “No Pain No Gain Trey.” 

Through the pain of his legs putting on mass from nowhere, and abandoning trying to understand the insanity, he realizes where he has heard the voice before. It was the voice option he selected for his character before the game bricked his PC. Everything stops as he makes the realization. He stares at his legs, now filling shorts that were too large for him when he set out for his jog. Below them are calves still vibrating with energy and a desire to return to running. Then with the buzz of a static that should have keyed him in from the start returns the voice, “Now that you’re worked it through your thick skull how about a little deal kid?”

Trey’s face blushes as the static filling his mind syncs with the pressure in his legs as they begin to pulse larger once again. As the voice’s words begin to sink in he feels the static spread just further north into his crotch as pleasure begins to tinge the growth. Sensing interest the voice continues, “Never been much of a man, too scared to try. Cheated in the game. How’d you like to cheat for the real deal too.” Trey is too overwhelmed, his cock pulsing in his far too tight shorts to outright agree but a moan of approval is well enough for the unnatural work to begin. 

His eyes glaze over as something has to give for him to be able to have enough wherewithal to even stand. Each step causes intense friction between his relatively small package and massive thighs. His body begins to tear down the street once again, now with a target in sight. The trek is just as awkward as when he first began, now struggling to balance his larger legs on feet that are far smaller than such powerful thighs would prefer. “Gotta start from the ground up. You want them big too yeah?” Trey nods while still cluelessly running and his feet obey.

There is a tearing sound as immediately his tennis shoes are filled to the brim. His feet stopped growing at a respectable size ten, but he always bought shoes half a size larger to pretend he’s above average in some regard. Now the tops of his feet push against those too large shoes and his soles spread wider. Toes that have hovered almost an inch away from the front of his sneakers now push at the seams as his socks have clearly already been ripped clean through beneath them. Laces struggle to hold back the growth before his shoes burst and fall behind him. Now running barefoot with shredded socks he stumbles into the doors of a gym, patrons side-eying him for entering barefoot before poking fun at his massive legs and abandoned upper body. 

The receptionist watches as he runs past into a locker room, too uncaring to stop a man who half asleep seems to know where he’s going. Having made it inside, Trey regains his senses as his body rests on a jarringly cold metal bench. He also discovers his ass has expanded well beyond what his tight shorts could handle. He feels the cold metal through the litany of tears on his shorts, and apparently through his briefs. He blushes as he sees his cock clearly defined in his shorts as he looks around the empty locker room impatiently whispering to no one in embarrassment, “Where am I!? What now?!” The voice tsks in his head. “Know I said this’ll be easy but you need to listen, and there will be some give and take. I can help but only if you let me take the wheel.”

Trey puffs up his non-existent chest as he whispers to himself, “Yeah I’ve got the power here!” His leg promptly cramps and he falls off the bench to the floor, “Boy. We are a team.” Meekly standing back he again feels the crackle of static in the air and is drawn to a locker down the way, his right hand goes for the lock and without a second thought the locker is open and clothes he doesnt recognize spill out. He’s never been to this gym, any gym. Eying the clothes though he knows it’s in the best interest he change, and do so quickly. He struggles with the pile of oversized clothes into a stall and swiftly throws them on.

While he is absolutely drowning in a tank top for a man at least twice his size Trey is shocked at how well the shorts frame his ass and thighs. Before even hopping on a machine he feels an urge to pose and take pics in a manner he has never understood before this moment. He ambles over to the wall of mirrors, his new shoes loud on the floor, unfamiliar with the new weight they carry. The voice within him chides him as he finds pride in his new lower half, “Haven’t even gotten pumped and you’re already self-obsessed huh?” Trey rolls his eyes and postpones his first pose session as he enters the gym proper to be immediately daunted by the jungle of exercise machines.

He wanders over to a chest press and feels the cold steel handles in his hands. There is an anxiety in his chest as his mind couldn’t possibly be aware how to properly use this. No idea of technique to exercise any muscle really. The voice laughs as he hesitates to sit down and give it a go. “Hey you give me a little wiggle room you’ll have pecs in no time.” Trey’s eyes dart around the room and he bites his lip. Newfound muscles tense in his legs as tension builds within his body. In for a penny. Trey begins to nod and before a second moment passes his body is thrown into the seat and his arms wrestle to push at the handles.

At first his arms struggle to even lift the bar with the lowest weight attached. Trey watches as his arms pump forward with no instruction from his own mind. Like a machine, they force themselves forward with inhuman precision, his mouth grunting with effort. Each vocalization is deeper than the one before it. Landing on a tone that sounds jarringly similar to the one that echoes in his mind. He feels static power surging in his chest with every press, the muscles pulse and bulge like a heartbeat. The shirt that was too large for him, would always be too large for him is rapidly strained as heavy pecs grow to a size that could never truly be contained. Bones crack with exertion and his lungs burst larger with newfound room as his whole chest quivers and expands. After what feels like no time at all Trey sees his body get up from the machine and wander to elsewhere in the gym.

His whole upper body has clearly surged beyond what years of dedication should have produced. Hearing deep wheezing breaths as his powerful legs adapt to chauffeur his titanic torso Trey realizes that his body is continuing to move without his input. He opens his mouth to speak but when no voice comes out he realizes that he has clearly bitten off more than he could chew. Wasn’t he supposed to be in charge? In a mirror he sees his own face smirk before speaking with the cadence and confidence of a professional athlete, “Ah ah ah- You know what we’re supposed to look like and we’re not nearly there yet.” Fearful at the realization that he is but a passenger in his own body, if this sculpted figure could even be considered that, Trey struggles to find any recourse. 

Only just able to recall his own inner voice he cries out, “Th- This isn’t what we agreed to! You were just supposed to do the one machine!” Trey’s new face grimaces as he physically mulls over the idea, flexing his new massive arms in contemplation. “That right? Not how I remember it little dude.” Desperate for a solution Trey crosses his metaphysical fingers in lieu of his own as he tries a Hail Mary. “I demand control of my body back.” He sees his eyes roll and hear the click of his own tongue before he is washed with the sensations of his new body. The blood rushing through his veins almost burns after returning from the null of being but a voice in his own head.

Unfamiliar with carrying his new form Trey fails to even take a step with his new top heavy body, stumbling over and crashing with enough force it would likely kill his previous self. As he hits the ground he is cushioned by muscle and fat, even the pain of the fall feels impossibly pleasurable as he groans on the floor. He feels his cock stir in his pants and does a quick peek to find even that, if not especially that, has grown since he last took stock. Beneath his lengthened thicker cock lay balls he would struggle to fit in one hand. Even one of his now larger rougher hands.

Trey blushes as he sits there on the floor, slowly chubbing as he thinks about his cock and balls in his hands. The voice now returned to his head reprimands him with ire at having been stolen from the world of physical delights, “What now.” Trey obviously feels content in his new form, surely he could dominate any field he set foot on. He delights in the simple sensation of his lips moving to smirk. He then gasps as he sees stubble start to encroach on his face. He’s never even had to shave before but this body surely produces enough testosterone that he’ll go through a razor a week. Seeing chest hairs beginning to curl and thicken above his tight tank top both his chest and balls burn with pride and desire. 

Staring at his reflection his mind returns to the figure he sculpted to perfection. He flexes and feels tension and strain in every fiber of his being. Veins bulge in his powerful arms. His heart flutters as he sees his pecs bounce. His jaw is strong and defined under a still growing beard. Lusting over every quivering new muscle in his form he can’t help but know what the voice said is true. This is not his final form, he needs to be bigger. Stronger. He needs to do whatever he can to be even more.

Unable to look away from the giant in the mirror, both voices in his head speak as one as his eyes burn like embers. “I want more.” He stumbles over to free weights. Every heavy footstep feeling more at home in his brutish body. He grabs the heaviest pair he can find and sneers at his reflection as he performs rep after rep with them, grunting with rage as the impossible growth he enjoyed earlier simply does not come. Racked with hormones he has never had to manage before Trey barely holds back his anger at not being able to achieve instant results from earlier. Trey pauses and realizes that he is not hearing the mocking laughter that should accompany his stubborn impatience.

Intensely listening, it is not long before he indeed hears the voice speak up, “You need me.” Trey nods, hungry for the desire to be the perfect man he cheated into existence. Hesitant to take the reigns again lest they be summarily yanked away, potentially for good, the voice makes a play for permanence. “Thing is, I want to stay.” Trey clenches his jaw at the idea, feeling the powerful muscle in his neck contract as veins push out. Staying in that void is not an option. Both presences within the body search for another option wherein they realize a third way forward, they both already are Trey. Trey’s cheated form was but a perfect model of himself.n They are already one body, to share one mind would allow them the experience and power of the football player’s perfection and the pleasurably physicality of the flesh.

In a moment of silent synchronous agreement Trey convulses as his two minds violently become one. Gone is the childhood sitting not even at the sidelines but as far up in the bleachers as he could get. Memories of a life lived vacate and are replaced as Trey’s mind struggles to find middle ground between the two disparate selves. As cracks from Trey’s life are filled with memories of time at the gym however, they find contentment. Neither shall suffer the cold unfeeling void of being a ghost in the mind again and both shall delight in the warm viscerality of corpus, of this most powerful body. In jubilation Trey goes to pick up the dropped weights and begin a series of repetitions that shall deliver him to the sculpted body that he has long dreamed of.

Veins bulge as his biceps surge to the size of his head. Every sensation in his body is heightened as two minds feel them as one. Pain is pleasurable and soreness nothing but a promise that he will be even more. Memories of championships and leading his team to victory surge through his mind as conquests on and off the field become almost rote to him. Hours, days, years in the gym exercising mindlessly to the end of achieving potential that in reality is impossible. Working towards statistics and ideals to such a degree that all other pastimes fall by the wayside. 

Never could he have even played the game, let alone hacked it to make his own avatar, as that time has been spent purely on hammer curls and deadlifts. The life he lived, the person he was, fades to become what it must be in order to achieve the success that his once nimble fingers typed into existence. Success at all costs but that of hard work in reality exacts its own toll as his bones stretch and weight piles on everywhere it can find purchase.

Still staring at his reflection, as he does most hours of the day, he can’t help but find something akin to contentment. Becoming a titan on and off the field was, is, and will be ever his goal. His teammates laugh at his aspirations towards physical perfection but he knows that it’s not only achievable, but that he is already there. Idolized and set apart from the rest of his team but never lonely, for he already has all he needs within himself.

[alimpbanana]

Just a Quick Stop

(Reader Request)

It has been many some hours since the sun set. The road is almost pitch black, the headlights of our car providing the only bit of sight as we drive along. My legs won't stop shuddering, not in fear, but for another reason.

I call out to my friend Liam, who is driving.

"Hey, how much longer until we get there?"

Liam turns around.

"Another 2 hours. Why?"

"I think I might've drank too much."

"Are you serious? Why didn't you go back when we were at Burger King?"

"Didn't cross my mind."

"Sigh. Well I guess you just have to suck it up Jacob. There isn't another Rest Stop for another 40 minutes."

I groan and start staring out the window. Watching the grass go by is just an attempt to distract myself into forgetting about it.

A green sign then flashes by in faded white letters. Though it looks like it had seen better days, it was still faintly legible.

"Frank's Gas Station. 3 mi"

"Wait Liam. There's a gas station up ahead."

"That's strange. I don't see it on the GPS."

"Who cares. A bathroom's a bathroom."

"Fine fine."

A little while later, we reach Frank's Gas Station. Or what used to be it.

"Damn. This place is a dump."

The sign in the front is missing at least 3 of its letters, and both it and the entire building are covered in vines and grass. Not a car was in sight except for a single old pickup truck in the corner. A chain link fence surrounds the complex, but the gate is left open from the last maintenance worker. Whenever that was. On the store window, a tattered piece of paper is taped to the window, reading "Restrooms in the back--->"

"Are you sure it even has plumbing?"

"Well it's my best shot out here."

"Okay then. I'll wait in the car."

I go through the open gate and trudge through the grass to the back of the station.

The back is not that much different in condition from the front, if not a little worse for wear. But sure enough, there's the bathroom door. For some reason there's a green baseball cap hanging on the door, alongside with a pair of green aviators. The hat's surprisingly new feeling. Probably left behind by the maintenance guy. I pick it up and put it on my head. Hey, free hat. It'll make for a good souvenir. 

I carefully open the door and flip the switch.

A single light bulb turns on, illuminating the restroom. Phew. At least there's power. I was not about to pee in the dark. A row of stalls lay just beyond the light of the bulb, but I only need to take a quick leak so that won't be necessary.

I walk towards the urinal and open my fly. Huh. Were my jeans always so tight? I should check my weight later.

I begin to relieve myself, whistling myself a tune. It's a song that I don't recognize, but for some reason it resonates with me.

I then suddenly get a chill down my spine, followed by goosebumps all over my body. Then my cock suddenly starts pulsating.

"Shit. What the fuck!?"

With every pulse it elongates in my hand. I have to struggle to hold the stream's aim.

My shirt is stretched to its limit as my chest expands with a new heft, ballooning into 2 round globes of pure muscle. Same with my shorts, which have also begun to tear a bit under the mass behind me. My limbs also elongate, making me shoot up 5 inches, increasing in circumference accordingly. I could feel every burning sensation as my biceps and forearms expand past the boundaries of my sleeves.

The goosebumps then erupt as dark coarse hair covers my body, including a full beard on my face.

And then it stopped. I catch my breath, looking down at my new body. I had never been able to grow any sort of body hair, but just as I was about to feel the newfound fur on my chest I felt a sharp pain on my left arm.

"Jesus!", my newly deepened voice yelps.

A tribal band tattoo etches itself across my arm like an artist signing their own work. I pause, waiting for another change, but nothing comes. I sigh, pulling up my pants after letting the final drops through.

When I turn around, I come face to face with my new self in the mirror. Honestly I no longer bear any resemblance to my previous me at all.

 I marvel at the full beard of hair on my face. I always wondered what it would feel like to have one.

Then the same voice rings out inside my head.

"Enjoying my mug huh fag?"

"Who's there?"

"Why so surprised? You're the one who took my crap, son."

My mouth then starts moving by itself.

"But don't worry, I'm just taking back what is mine."

Instantly I lose any and all control of my body. The person in the mirror smirks and checks out their arms.

"It's good to be back. Now let's take a picture to celebrate."

My arms involuntarily move against my wishes, first removing my tattered shirt off, followed by the remains of my shorts. What's left is my pair of gray briefs, framing a frankly impressive bulge begging to be released. With a quick motion, my newly enlarged member flops out into the crisp air.

Seemingly satisfied with its business, its eyes are turned to a different matter. My knees bend into a squat position, not too far away from the disgusting tile floor. My rod stiffens, almost touching the ground as it twitches in anticipation.

Both of my hands then grasp my shaft and start vigorously rubbing up and down. Despite it being my own hands dictating the action, I can't help but feel the sensation of being jerked off by another entity. It's honestly quite unnerving, but all those thoughts quickly faded away as my mind flooded with feelings of pleasure unlike anything I've experienced. My body starts sweating from the heat from the hair on my thighs and calves rubbing together. I begin to pant. My tongue hangs outside my mouth as my voice moans obscenities. At this point I cannot even tell where my voice ends and the other begins.

I fall backward, my bare ass and cock touching the filth. But I couldn't care less. All I and the voice wanted to do was to pump. Pumping is good. Real men don't care about sissy things like hygiene and being proper. A real man knows that they need to take life's balls by the reigns and make it your bitch.

With a final groan I cover the floor of the little restroom with my seed. I get up, stretching. It's been a while since I had a good rub like that. Always nice to take a break when on the road.

My hands move for my phone placed on the side of the sink. For some reason there's some fairy on the lock screen. That's weird. When did that happen? Must've been a prank. Opening up Facebook, I suddenly see the same homo has turned my page into his own faggy playground. The nerve. I watch wipe the profile, replacing it with the proper detail. I then snaps a dick pick and a few nudes for good measure, uploading it with the caption "Feeling  frisky today" with a winking emoji.

"There. That's a big improvement."

 I retrieve my belongings from a bag on the hook behind the door, putting on a white undershirt and straight blue denim jeans. There's another old looking backpack on the hooks that I just noticed. Poor dude. Hope they find what they're looking for. After checking myself in the mirror, I leave to get back to my car. Along the way, some college aged boy in a tank top and snapback approaches me.

"Hey have you seen my friend Jacob? Skinny little guy, bout this tall. He was supposed to meet back with me after going to use the restroom, but it's been a while. Did you see him back there?"

"Jacob... that name does sound familiar, but I can't seem to recall anything. Maybe try looking back there? I remember seeing some clothes in the back."

"Ok. Thanks Sir. Will do."

The young man heads to the back of the gas station. With a shrug I start up the engine to my old beater before leaving to get back on the road.

[maningup]

The Witch's Hut

“Ugh! What the fuck?” Maverick muttered under his breath, behind a tree, staring across the street at the big sweaty man watering Mrs. Girshawn’s plants. Dark brown hair with a matching beard, full tan, light gray jean shorts, but no shoes in sight. The man had a broad back, heavy pecs, and a round ass that fed into meaty thighs and calves. “Where the hell had he come from?”

 Mrs. Girshawn’s garden was neatly settled in the front of her house like a set. No birds or curious critters ever approaching it. Behind it lay a quaint one-story house that sat out of place from the more traditional homes around it.

“Mav?” A voice came from behind the onlooker, causing Maverick to fall back on his ass in the grass.

“Don’t scare me like that Joe!” He whispered harshly.

Joseph looked out at the direction Maverick had been, “Why are you watching Mrs. Girshawn’s new gardener? I mean he’s hot but—

“I don’t care about that,” Maverick got back up hiding behind the tree. He pulled Joseph in closer, “You know how everyone at school says she’s a witch?”

“They say that about every old lady,” Joe rolled his eyes “Remember when Inez’s grandmother was a ‘witch’ because the cookies she sent Inez to class with were too good.”

“That’s baby stuff,” Maverick dismissed waving his hand, “but Mrs. Girshawn is a real Bonafide witch.”

“Dude, I’ve been her neighbor since I was a baby,” Joe stated, “I think I’d know if she was a witch. You didn’t even know she had a gardener.”

“Who cares about the gardener? All I want is for Logan to come out with her spell book already?

“Maverick, you didn’t,” Joe sighed.

“Didn’t what? Kindly ask Logan to sneak in and get it. Of course, why would I take my chances with the witch?” 

Joseph shot him an annoyed look.

—

Last Night

“I’m telling you she has a spell book bro.” Maverick rambled on through the phone.” Right in her kitchen. She’s probably got snips, snails, and a puppy-dog's tails too. Be careful. Then bring it to me."

“Careful…alright.” He repeated to himself. Logan was never the sharpest tool in the shed. The brunette wrestler was more at home on a mat then facing social interactions. But when his crush, the cute Indian boy in his chemistry class, asked for a favor, he was too excited to say no. He knew the rumors about Mrs. Girshawn and her house. A little lovely hut for a little lovely lady. Never once did he think much of it, than in this moment when he was planning to sneak inside. He had on the darkest clothes in his wardrobe to blend in with the night.

Mrs. Girshawn pulled out of her driveway in her little buggy on the way to bingo. Logan watched until she was out of the neighborhood, then raced inside. It was crazy. It was insane. Would Maverick even like him after he did this? Oh yeah, spare key under the plotted plant by the door. And just like that he was inside. 

No candy or brewing cauldrons in the living room. Just sickly-sweet pastel colors and an incense machine spilling out mist, while changing colors in the corner. All the scary rumors people whispered about the place didn’t exist. It wasn't a secret holding cell, it was secretly homey. He stepped into the kitchen, dialing Maverick. No signal. There were quite a few books lined up on her top shelf, across from a snowstorm of flour on her counter. The oven was turned off, but the light was on, a cake in its center. A colorful egg timer sat off to the side ticking away.

Logan had to be a little curious, so he took a look at her pantry organizer. “Sugar, Spice and everything nice.” He poked through chuckling to himself. Grabbing a step stool, he perused though the bookshelf, sliding them out, then back. Maverick had claimed he’d seen a purple book with the golden engraving of the sun and moon interlocked. Not a single one matched that description. Logan went to step off the ladder and slipped, slamming down hard on his back. He sat up and rubbed his head. The little chicken clucked time as the oven’s image changed. The cake faded away revealing the exact book Maverick had described.

Perhaps if Logan had more brains than muscle, he would have seen the oddity in the book revealing itself at that moment. Excited, Logan opened the oven door and reached inside. Once his hand gripped the book, the world stopped, then sped up as an insane force sucked him inside. The oven door slammed and the chicken timer started again.

As for Logan, he wasn’t pulled into an oven, per se but it did get steadily warmer. His body got hot, then began to rise like dough. Muscles fought to show off on him as his shirt split, then tore. He tried to keep it all in, but his pecs were relentless. Testing the limits until they emerged on the scene. The bulk on his back became insane as his shoulder moved apart to accommodate the masculine silhouette taking shape. His feet tore his shoes apart, slamming into the ether of the dark space. Screaming threads of the jeans gave up as they tore high above the knees, mid-thigh, as they converted to shorts. Ass popping in the back, the jeans managed to hold on. Logan balls expanded, encouraged by the heat, and his cock did too. A rush of hormones overtook him, far stronger than anything he naturally produced. His voice changed from smooth to gravelly as his vocal cords were assaulted for a thicker neck. The facial change came suddenly, years flying and flaking away. His jaw took shape, features settled in, as a beard worthy of him took root and filled in. The last to set was his tan, perfectly backed into his skin.

The chicken timer clucked one more, having been reset. A familiar purple book appeared at its side, as its last ingredient ‘1 curious brat’ filled itself in on the open pages before slamming shut.

—

Maverick hadn't heard from Logan all night. He called. Texted. Nothing. Didn’t the dude have a crush on him? Since when were people with crushes fumbling this hard? So, he was at Mrs. Girshawn early that morning on the off chance she had called the cops on the poor fool. No cop cars in sight, but it was hard not to notice the man in cutoff shorts, standing on her front lawn. 

The hunk looked lost as if he couldn’t figure out what to do standing there blankly. Maverick watched, hard to take his eyes off truly, but hoped mainly to see Logan sneaking out. Slowly but surely the man seemed to get ready for his day, figuring out how to use the hose laying beside him. Maverick snickered to himself, the dude probably had less brains than Logan, and most of it was sitting in his chest, arms, and ass. So, Maverick watched him move around undisturbed until Joseph came along, scaring the shit out of him.

“You shouldn’t take advantage of people who you know like you, it’s mean.” Joe said.

“Oh, thank you moral police, I’ll be sure to tattoo it on my ass when I’m done.” Maverick rolled his eyes, “How about, Logan’s a big boy and if he didn't want to do it, he could have said no.” He looked back out to the gardener, “I’ve never heard of the old lady having a gardener.”

“He’s new.”

“How new?”

“I don’t know like,” Joe stopped speaking, eyes going to the sky as he contemplated. “New.”

“So descriptive.”

“I don’t know, it's just in my head. My parents and I were talking about it. Here let me ask.” He tried to brush past Maverick only to be pulled back.

“Are you crazy?!”

“He literally works for my neighbor. I think we’ll be fine.” 

“Don’t you think it’s weird she gets a new gardener when Logan goes missing?”

“You don’t know that he’s missing. Maybe he realized you were taking advantage of him and stopped contact. Have you gone by his house?”

“How am I supposed to know where he lives?” Maverick shouted a bit too loud

“Hey,” a deep voice cut through their argument, two heads poked up from the bushes as the man across the street locked in on them. “You boys keep glancing over here. Want to come inside? I think Mrs. Girshawn is always baking something.”

[mentobein2]

Still Moist

I’ve been watching Mohammed for sometime now. I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to harvest. I think now is the perfect time. He just got done with his gym routine and is heading to the showers. I want to get a hold of him before that happens. It was just my luck, we were the only two people in the shower room. I inject him immediately and drag him into dressing room. He is still moist from his workout. I didn’t want to lose any of his musk for his husk. I slipped into his skin, still warm and wet. I put on his dirty gym clothes and take a picture. I love being a smelly hairy Arab man. I don’t think I’m ever gonna wash this bodysuit. My new smell is intoxicating.

[makingrealalphas-deactivated202]

“Humh, not too bad after all,” Living life for the past 9 months inside a huge bodybuilder, any change would felt less rewarding since you would lose the muscle you’ve been proud of and felt like it was your own. But Kurt wakes up his another day of body hopping adventure in the body of this hunky college jock that seems like having a good time previous night. The randomness of the body hop make it more exciting since he cannot control when will he move from one body to another and which body he will ended up in. A little bit drowsy from the booze, he checked himself out a little bit, approving the toned and youthful body he now acquired and then as he tried to stand up, he inhaled and exhaled the fresh air of this mountain-side house, letting the memory of the guy slipped through “This is Jordan’s house……and my name is….Lee,” He scanned the messy living room, some bodies still flopped on the floor and the couch, snoring and breathing quietly as most of the partygoers still in the middle of their sleep, and then he found Lee’s shirt from last night. He grabbed it, sniff it a little bit just like Lee always did and decided to leave the house, he gotta some ‘personal business’ to be taken care off.

[transformhim]

And how’s that fit for ya?

Nice, man… very nice..

Yeeaah I figured you’d be happy in a suit like this. Damn, get a feel of those tits. How’d you find a guy like this anyways?

Aahhh, it’s… It’s complicated..

Let me guess… Personal trainer neighbor? You were sold when you watched him mow the grass?

Worse…

Ooh, one-night-stand? Couldn’t get rid of the memory of worshiping this huge bod all night?

Worse…

No… family?

… Brother..

Noooo shit, dude... Hah! I was gonna say, you two bear a striking resemblance.

From another mother... but, yeah..

Can’t blame you, bro! Not with guns like this..

Mmppff… fuck, these feel insane. No wonder he’s always flexing in the mirror.

Yeeaah, man… get a whiff of ya too.. woof!

Ha! Stooop, dude… I’m getting hard!.. feels.. huh, feels weird…

Oh! Let me help you there… annnd..

AA-OOoooooohh, fuck!

Yeah, man, you can feel that meat now, huh?

UUunngg, it’s like I slipped into his cock like a sleeve, and I felt me fuckin.. explode into his size! Damn I’m packing..

You’re acclimating very well!

Yeah, man.. I’ve wanted to do this for fuckin ever… He won the genetic lottery, I don’t know what happened with me, heh..

Stoooop, man, you were already cute! But now?… Mmff, what a unit…

Shit yeah, bro, I can feel how much you’re into this! You got—… Damn, when’d you lose your drawers?

As soon as I realized I needed to feel my meat up against this cake.

RRNngh, goddamn you’re.. you’re thick… greedy fucker aren’t you?

You have no clue. I just wanna feel all of you, dude. In fact, I might just have to try you on myself.

Uuooghh, fuck you’re so deep, bro! I can feel—…

Feel me thrusting up into your cock, right? FUCK you’re big! Ooh, you’re gonna love this…

G-guuoh my god! Shit you gotta tight grip!!

That’s right, man, flex harder for me!

I—UUGH—OOUUhhh…

Theeerree you go, dude, keep sliding in, mmmfff… let’s get, uunnhh, fuckin’… huuuuge…

Aauuhh, fuuuuckk dude, s-s-soooooo BIIIIG…. MMMPFFF yeah bro, sss-streeetch us OOoouut, gimme—gim—UUUHH—FFUUOOHHH FFFUCK!!

Oohh—Uuoohh—Huuhh… Hoooo, WOW. Hoomygod, fuck what a mmesssss… Jesus Christ, man, I can’t believe it took all that to tap me out. But fuck get a look at us!

Look at these… guns as big as my head… And these.. mmff, these titsssss, yeeeow! Damn I gotta be 280 at least, and… god, I’m gonna choke some motherfuckers with this thing. Hah! Almost hurts to swing around.

Alright dude, I’ll let you go your own way, but first we’re gonna have a weekend together that’ll change your fuckin’ life. Hell, you might come crawling back to have me to slip you on like a condom on the regular… All my other clients do.

Strap in, bro, this is gonna be fun.

[transformhim]

Lucky Find (II)

My head was lolled back, swimming in the sticky sweet high I was cooking off of Zack’s weed. He’d invited me over after practice to try out this “unbelievable” new pipe he found at Elise’s, that curio shop on the outskirts of town… a real high fantasy piece, this ancient, loooong wooden smoking pipe with tiny, intricately carved designs along the stem and bowl. Real Gandalf the Grey type shit. Either the weed or the pipe must have been working—my bones felt like gum, like putty that sunk into the curves of the couch with me… Zack’s new pipe really was ‘unbelievable,’ I couldn’t remember being this high before. I’ve smoked his expensive, super premium stash before, but this was something different. Barely two or three puffs in and I was drifting up the river.

In the middle of the thrumming buzz I was enjoying, I heard something weird. It sounded like… I don’t know, like you know when you rub your fingers across the surface of an inflated balloon? That tight, almost classically rubbery stretching sound? Well, it was that, but like it was buried underwater or deep under sheets or something.

I rolled my head over to Zack to see if he was hearing it too, and it was at that moment that I thought Zack had given me something way stronger than weed, because what I was seeing was impossible… though it definitely explained what I was hearing.

Zack was tugging his cock—big surprise, sure, the fucker was a near constant horn-dawg—but that wasn’t all. With each squeezing tug, Zack was… stretching his cock further and further out from his crotch. It maintained its veiny thickness and its beet-red, sleeved fire poker appearance, just extended several inches—working quickly towards several feet—longer than it normally way, drooling a ton of pre onto the fabric of his couch.

Between pleasured pants of breath, he looked up and caught me staring.

“That’s a hell of a pipe, huh?” He huffed with a grin.

“That,” I nodded at the pipe on the coffee table with the still-smoldering bud inside, “or that?” I stared back at his still-extending cock, throbbing as it bobbed lazily up and down in its stiffness.

“Huuuhuhuh, the pipe, dude,” he intoned deeply between chuckles and winced out another moan, “told you it’s extra special. C’mon, can’t you feel it? Try it.”

“Try what?” I swallowed, wondering if he was inviting me to suck him off. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d slobbed his knob, just shit, not under these… these circumstances.

He sucked his teeth disappointedly, “C’mon bro, I know you feel it, too. That oozing, pulling… Troy just give in man, it’s great!”

“Try..?” What was he talking about? I was reminded of the putty-like sensation in my bones. I’d chocked it up to just a really intense high, but… now?

I blinked. He blinked back. He gave me a small nod with a wide grin. Heart racing, I leaned back, locking my hand around my other wrist and widening my legs, and groaned in a much-needed stretch. Only now, I felt my entire self streeeeeetch along with me.

“Fuuuck me, Zack…” I groaned in an exhale, untensing from the stretch.

“Mmff, this is gonna rock your world, Troy.”

Humming in pleasure, I heard that familiar, buried elastic sound, I felt my arms extending further and further out from my shoulders and I saw my legs extending further underneath Zack’s cheap ass, stained coffee table. In the middle of the stretch, I looked over with a dumb grin at Zack, who had his own dumb cheeky grin plastered across his face, still sending his cock out further into the air between squeezing pumps of his shaft. With his other hand, he slapped his palm on my chest—hardened from years of training and familiar to Zack’s greedy squeezes—and he roughly grabbed a handful of my pec muscle. My muscular tit was like putty under his touch as he manhandled me. I love it when he feels me up to get himself off. Before removing his hand, he rolled my nipple between his thumb and index finger, eliciting a wincing groan from me, and tugged it, repeatedly, roughly, like he was milking me. My nip sprung out of his grip in a long, stiff, udder-like poker, which he teasingly flicked before taking one last muscular squeeze of my tit. I just stared back at him with panting breaths and ‘Mooooo’ed at him, prompting deep, stoned, guttural laughs from both of us.

I dropped my arms from the big stretch in an even bigger sigh, ogling at my new and improved length, ‘miring the strong, stretched out curves of my arms and legs with indulgent flexes. I stood up, marveling at my new height, continuing to flex out my stretched out limbs. They still maintained their lacrosse-fit musculature, just with Jack Skellington, goofy ass proportions. My udder-nipple had shrank back to its standard size, but I could still feel his phantom grip on my tit. I huffed some laughter over at Zack who was chuckling stupidly himself, drinking in the show I was putting on. He grinned with a bit lip at my groin as he nodded down at my groin. Shit, I was hard as a fucking rock in my gym shorts.

“You like all that, huh?” He teased, reaching his arm out from his still seated position in a slow, audible stretch, and tickled my drooling tip over my shorts.

“Dude, this is insane,” I mumbled, taking his hand in mine at the end of his stretched out arm, feeling our fingers stretch and wrap around each other. We huffed grinning pants of breath at each other, shuddering as I felt the results of his tickle send more blood to my dick.

“Hey, big guy,” Zack whispered, using his extended hands to gently squeeze my package, prompting me to flex my cock against his palm, grinning wickedly at him.

“I could milk you all day… But am I gonna have to stretch that out for you too, or…?”

“You want me to be bigger than you again that badly, huh?” I teased.

He waggled his hyper cock at me with a sly smirk, “You got a looooot of catching up to do.”

I used my other hand to slide my shorts down and let them drop to the floor. He intensified his tugging at his inhumanly long cock, sending it throbbing longer and longer, bobbing even closer to me as I began squeezing my own dick.

“Go on, stud,” he bit his lip and raised his eyebrow towards my dick. I grinned back and gave my dick a firm squeeeeze and pull, feeling it lengthen with orgasmic, semi-painful intensity.

“Ggguuuhuhuhuhh, duuuuude,” I groaned deeply, gasping at the sensation of my thick shaft surging longer, extending my length, getting bigger for my teammate.

I let go and waggled my 3 inches-longer cock at him and he groaned, unspooling his own dick even longer. “What the fuck, man…” I huffed in ecstatic disbelief.

I used one hand to continue matching his pace, coaxing my dick into cartoonish proportions like his. I used my other hand to wrap around both of our outstretched rods. My palms widened and my fingers wrapped around our shafts like five hungry pythons, sliding back and forth, running our turtleneck foreskins up and down our looney-toons-ass cocks. I coaxed my cock bigger, thicker, longer as I squeezed it against his. If he wanted to tug my tit into a milk udder then he was gonna know what it’s like to feel a cock outgrow his, sliding against his own. We couldn’t help but giggle like schoolboys between erotic gasps of air. Fuck, we could do anything.

Suddenly, I had a ridiculous idea. I untangled my fingers around our shafts and shook out my hand, feeling and hearing my fingers make fleshy slaps as they retreated back to their normal sizes. Then, extending my arms to allow my hands to reach the end of my inflated cock head, I slooooowly inserted ooone, guuhhhh…. then tttttwo (!!) fingers from opposite hands into my slit, which was belching insane amounts of pre, shuddering at the odd sensation, and gently, delicately, spreeeaaad my fingers apart.

I huffed erotically at the cool air kissing the fleshy tube inside my cock, feeling the warm, slimy walls within straining against my fingers. Looking down at Zack, I smirked between pants of breath as I aimed the open maw of my cock directly at his drooling, multiple feet-extended cock head, opening it towards him with a slack-jawed wink.

He let out a dumb cackle and grinned up at me, “That’s why I love you, bro. You’re a fucking lunatic.”

Without responding, I fed his cock head into my shaft. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to do sounding on yourself with another man’s dick, but lemme tell you, 10/10. I slipped my fingers out of my cock with a sharp exhale in order to use both hands to streeeetch my foreskin down over both our shafts, hearing him moan at the warmth of my hood enveloping him. I let the natural suction of my cock feed more of him in, both of us staring into each others eyes in orgasmic wonder as my cock appeared to swallow his from within our shared, soft, stretchy, fleshy tube. As both of us slowly bucked forward and back, I could feel every inch of him within me, every curve, every vein, every heartbeat, every throb, just driving me fucking wild. Zack seemed to feel the same, rolling his head back and moaning as his dick was enveloped by the warm slimy sleeve of my own gaping cock.

Zack’s face looked to be in sheer ecstasy, the fucker was loving what I was doing to him. I couldn’t help but moan with him as his eyes rolled back into their sockets, exposing the whites of his eyes, with his mouth slung open in a perpetual, lazy smile. Rivers of drool were pouring out the sides of his mouth, while I again heard that familiar, elastic pulling sound, only to look down and discover that it wasn’t just the one part of Zack that was stretching now, but every part. His shoulders, hips, elbows, every joint, every fiber of him was reaching itself out farther, building to a maddening, all-encompassing climax.

I activated my pelvic floor and started intensifying my sucking assault on his dick, grunting and growling down at my unfurling, gooning fucktoy friend as I heard, actually heard my surging cock suck and gulp at Zack’s raging, ranging boner. As Zack groaned and gasped his way to a stampeding climax, his muscular neck audibly stretched higher and higher from his wide shoulders, his dripping tongue lolled out in a massively stretched-out curtain, his gasps quickened to an alarming pace, until—!!

ln a gooning ecstatic crescendo, Zack’s climax was marked more with a series guttural, almost choking “UNNG!!”s—rather than the noisy moans he’s whined out for the last several minutes—as his hog spat pints of hot, gooey Zack juice directly into my cock. Seems like I sent him to a whole new plane of sexual satisfaction. The feel of his hot batter filling up the inside of my own dick was enough to send me over the edge almost simultaneously. I gasped in a high groan as I felt my shaft quickly balloon, with another cock corking the coming geyser of cum trying to force its way out of me. If I hadn’t seemingly been made of rubber, it might have killed me!

I stepped back, whining at the truly unbelievable feeling of another cock sliding out of your own, and felt the damn break at the same time I heard it. Noisy, musky, heavy splats filled the room as I dumped what must have been a gallon of jizz, half on the couch and floor, half on Zack himself.

I stood there, he sat there, we both chugged at the air with heavy orgasmic pants as our bodies were slowly retracting and reforming back to their usual shape and size. He cracked a heaving smirk at me and I returned it.

I closed the distance between us and collapsed onto him, covering his jizzy, sweat-soaked chest and neck with kisses as I moved up to his face. Zack met my smooches with his own. I covered his mouth with my own and frenched him hungrily, sucking his lips into my mouth while I stretched my tongue into his. His own tongue fought and tangled with mine in his mouth as we both moaned into each others face. We could’ve been there for hours, locked in heat, smushing our still-deflating rods together, adoring each other completely.

We disconnected with a wet *pop,* Zack’s stretched out lips cheeks dripping with my slobber and slowly retracting back, and my tongue taking a little bit to spool back into my mouth. We dumbly laughed at the absurdity of it all and I rested my head on his chest.

“Never took you at the ‘kisses after sex’ type,” he teased, his speech somewhat affected by his suck-puffed lips.

“Yeah, well,” I sighed contentedly. “Things have changed.”

“Shit, you could say that again,” Zack agreed as he looked over at the wizard pipe (might as well have been an actual wizard’s pipe at this point). He huffed a laugh, “Crazy, we still have like half a bowl left. Wanna go again?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, man,” I responded without a moments hesitation. “I have so much I wanna try.”

“Me too. Matter of fact, I was thinking how cool it would be for me to show up to practice tomorrow in a Troy Suit.”

“A ‘Troy S—’?” I paused to consider then immediately understood where he was going with this and met his raised eyebrows with an open jawed grin. Fuck yeah, a Troy Suit. I wonder what I look like with the power of two stuffed into one?! This could be mind shatteringly hot.

“Spark it up.”

[kylestfs]

New player!

Jake Evans hated being late, the kind of late that made his stomach twist because it meant thirty students would look up from their notes the moment he pushed through the door, already judging the sweat on his collar and the slight huff in his breath as he tried to act like everything was under control. Thirty-five years old, associate professor of early modern European history, tenure track so close he could taste it, and today the main campus path was blocked by construction tape and orange cones that forced everyone into a stupid zigzag detour. He’d already lost precious minutes, and when he checked his watch again the knot in his gut tightened further. Eight minutes left. Muttering under his breath, he stepped off the paved walkway and cut straight across the soccer field, dress shoes sinking slightly into the soft grass with each hurried stride, briefcase bumping against his thigh. The humanities building sat just past the far goalposts, a straight shot if he kept moving.

Halfway across the empty pitch a voice cut through the quiet afternoon air.

“Hey professor. Got a second?”

Jake slowed, then stopped, glancing over to see a middle-aged coach standing near the center circle in a black training jacket, clipboard tucked under one arm and a portable whiteboard propped beside him like he’d been running drills earlier. Jake pointed at himself, half-convinced the man was talking to someone else. “Me?”

The coach nodded casually. “Yeah. Quick favor.”

Jake checked his watch again. Seven minutes now. “I really have a lecture starting soon.”

“Two minutes max,” the coach replied, calm and steady. “I’m testing a new concentration drill for the team. Just need someone neutral to read a few lines off the board while I time the responses. You’re staff. Perfect.”

Jake looked around the field again. No players in sight, no practice gear scattered, just the two of them and the soft rustle of wind moving through the grass. He exhaled sharply, already regretting it. “Fine. Two minutes. That’s it.”

He dropped the briefcase in the grass and stepped up to the whiteboard. The coach handed him a dry-erase marker like it carried some kind of weight. “Read each one out loud. Nice and clear.”

Jake scanned the first sentence and let out a short, disbelieving laugh. I am nineteen years old.

“Yeah, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not reading that. I’m thirty-five.”

The coach said nothing, just waited with that same patient expression.

Jake opened his mouth to refuse again, to walk away and salvage what was left of his schedule, but the words slipped out smooth and effortless, like they’d been waiting there all along. “I am nineteen years old.”

Heat bloomed across his face and spread downward in a slow wave, skin tightening as faint lines around his eyes softened and vanished completely. His jaw sharpened under the stubble that retreated almost imperceptibly, cheeks lifting into a smoother, fuller shape. Hair that had started thinning at the crown thickened noticeably, dark strands pushing forward to fall messily over his forehead in that careless, just-rolled-out-of-bed style. The slight hunch he’d developed from years hunched over books disappeared as his posture straightened naturally, shoulders settling back without effort. He grabbed at his face, fingers trembling. “What the hell…”

His hands looked younger too, skin smoother, knuckles less pronounced, veins less visible under the surface. Everything about his face felt fresh and tight, like someone who’d never known the drag of late-night grading sessions or faculty meetings. “No. No, I’m thirty-five,” he said, but the words came out in a lighter register, almost boyish.

The coach tapped the next line without comment. I train every single day.

Jake took a step back, shaking his head harder. “I’m not reading another word.”

But the sentence forced its way up through his throat like it had already been decided. “I train every single day.”

His stomach pulled inward sharply, the soft layer he’d carried around his middle for years melting away as if it had never settled there. Skin stretched tight over newly flat, lean abs that weren’t carved for show, just smooth and tight from constant movement instead of desk chairs. His shirt shifted against him, fabric lightening from pale blue to bright athletic white, buttons dissolving as the material reformed into a lightweight Puma jersey that clung lightly to his chest. Across the back bold black letters stitched themselves in place: BAUER 17. Jake stared down at it in disbelief, fingers clutching the hem. “I don’t even like sports…”

The coach tapped again. I am built lean and fast.

“I’m a history professor,” Jake said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I have a doctorate, tenure coming, I don’t—” “I am built lean and fast.”

His legs reshaped next, thighs compacting as soft weight redistributed into long, lean muscle suited for quick sprints across grass. Calves hardened into clean lines. He lost an inch and a half of height in a subtle shift, settling at a balanced five-nine that felt lower to the ground, more agile. Jeans softened and lightened, creeping upward until they became white soccer shorts resting high on his thighs. “This isn’t real,” he muttered, voice unsteady. “This isn’t happening.”

The coach pointed to the next sentence. My feet are made for the pitch.

“Stop,” Jake said, voice cracking slightly. “Just stop.” “My feet are made for the pitch.”

His dress shoes creaked as leather twisted and narrowed around his toes, soles hardening into rigid plastic. Metal studs emerged one by one with small popping sounds until twelve dotted each bottom. The shoes became filthy white cleats, mud already crusted along the sides like he’d spent the morning sliding through tackles just for the hell of it. His socks stretched upward along his calves, thickening into long white athletic ones streaked with grass stains and faint sweat rings.

Jake stared down at them, pulse hammering in his ears. “This can’t be happening.”

The coach tapped again. My cleats give me the perfect foot stink.

He tried to clamp his mouth shut, but the words came through anyway. “My cleats give me the perfect foot stink.”

The odor rose immediately, thick and warm, cheesy and tangy, the ripe smell that builds after hours of running on hot turf. It filled the space around him, sharp enough to linger on his tongue. Jake wanted to retch but his lungs pulled it in instead, the scent settling into something familiar, almost comforting. “That stink…it’s awful,” he whispered, yet the protest felt weaker, like the smell was already part of him.

The coach tapped. My height is perfect for the game.

“I’m not…” “My height is perfect for the game.”

His frame locked in lighter and lower, exactly the build for a regular guy who played soccer just because it felt good to run around with friends.

The coach tapped again. My ass is firm and athletic.

Jake clamped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide with fresh horror. “No.” The sentence came muffled but clear. “My ass is firm and athletic.”

His butt lifted and rounded at once, flat soft cheeks tightening into high, firm muscle that filled the white shorts perfectly without any sag or overhang. It felt powerful, springy, ready to drive him forward on every stride. Then a small wet fart slipped out as everything settled, thick and pungent, earthy grass mixed with warm sweat musk. The stink hung heavy in the air, strong and ripe like someone who’d been on the field all morning. Jake’s face flushed scarlet, but the odor didn’t turn his stomach the way it should have. It smelled right, like it belonged to him now.

The coach tapped. My dick is small and fits perfect in my shorts.

Panic flared in his eyes. “Please, not that…” “My dick is small and fits perfect in my shorts.”

Everything down there drew inward, softening and shrinking until the length shortened and the weight lightened, sitting neat and compact inside the tight black Calvin Klein trunks. No extra swing, no noticeable bulge, just tucked snug so nothing shifted when he moved. It felt simple, normal, like it had always been that way.

The coach kept going. My upper body is lean for speed.

“I teach history…I have a boyfriend…” “My upper body is lean for speed.”

His chest narrowed slightly, ribs showing just under the skin as the remaining softness melted away into a flat, efficient build with faint abs shaped by constant running rather than gym sessions. Nothing bulky, just lean and light.

The coach tapped. My arms are strong for the ball.

“Stop this now,” Jake begged. “My arms are strong for the ball.”

The soft flab on his biceps and forearms slimmed into wiry, lean muscle suited for precise passes or casual throws. Shoulders rolled back into a natural, relaxed posture.

The coach tapped. My armpits sweat like a real athlete.

Sweat poured heavier, soaking the jersey in wide dark patches under his arms. “I can’t…” “My armpits sweat like a real athlete.”

The pit stink bloomed sharp and salty, thick masculine odor that lingered after hard sessions and never quite faded. It blended with the foot stink and the lingering ass musk, heavy and real around him.

The coach tapped. I only want girls now.

Tears stung his eyes. “Chris…we live together…I’m gay…” “I only want girls now.”

The flip came fast and complete. Chris’s face blurred and dissolved like it had never mattered. Instead thoughts filled with short skirts, long legs, glossy smiles, the simple rush of knowing girls were watching him after he scored just for fun. Straight. Straightforward. Normal. The old attraction faded entirely, replaced by something basic and direct.

The coach tapped. I am laid back and simple.

“My mind…my life…” “I am laid back and simple.”

The serious, analytical edge he’d honed over years of study dissolved. No more overthinking every detail. Just easy, chill, going with the flow, laughing with the guys, living for the next casual game.

The coach tapped. My hygiene is just the field sweat and stink.

Sweat cooled on his neck as the smells mingled—pit stink, foot stink, that faint ass fart musk. “I used to shower every day…” “My hygiene is just the field sweat and stink.”

The idea of scrubbing it all away felt strange now, unnecessary. The odors were part of him, comfortable, normal, like they’d always been there.

The coach tapped. I am Ryan Bauer. Just a regular guy who plays soccer for fun.

His voice cracked on the protest. “My name is Jake…I have tenure…” “I am Ryan Bauer. Just a regular guy who plays soccer for fun.”

The old identity slipped away completely. Lectures, research papers, Chris, the careful thirty-five years of building a life around intellect—all overwritten. He was Ryan now. Nineteen. Straight. Boring. Athletic in the most average way. Played soccer because it was fun to run around with friends, nothing more, nothing serious.

The coach tapped the final line. My mind is focused only on football and basic things.

Thoughts slowed to a crawl. History dates and complex theories turned fuzzy and distant, pointless. “I can’t remember any of that…” Ryan murmured, the words already feeling far away. “My mind is focused only on football and basic things.”

Everything sharpened into simple priorities: passing the ball, when to sprint, girls smiling from the sideline, hanging out with the guys. No room for deep thoughts or heavy books. Just dumb, straightforward focus on the game and whatever came next.

The coach tapped the very last sentence. I am a football player.

No resistance left. “I am a football player.”

The last traces of panic vanished, replaced by calm, empty clarity. His stance shifted naturally, cleats pressing into the turf without thought. Body felt light, ready, perfectly balanced for messing around on the field.

The briefcase sitting a few feet away looked absurd now, some relic from another life.

The coach folded his arms. “How do you feel, Bauer?”

Ryan rolled his shoulders, an easy grin spreading across his face like it had always belonged there. “Feels good, coach.”

A ball sailed toward him. He trapped it cleanly with the inside of his foot, no hesitation. Flicked it up and started juggling, touches lazy and instinctive. Without thinking he lifted the hem of his jersey and wiped the sweat from his face, black Calvin Klein waistband showing clearly above the muddy white shorts. Socks sagged slightly from dirt. Hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. The foot stink, pit stink, lingering ass musk—all of it mixed together and felt perfect, normal.

“Training starting now?” he asked, already shifting his weight, already moving.

The coach nodded once. “Right now.”

Ryan took off at an easy jog across the field, cleats clicking softly against the turf, every step simple and right. Behind him the briefcase remained open in the grass, papers rustling in the wind, completely forgotten.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. His mind was quiet now, clear and focused on the basics. Soccer for fun. Hanging out. Girls. That was all there was.

He was exactly where he belonged.

[wakeup01]

Hey there, lately university has been so overwhelming and stressful for me. It feels like I am constantly busy, always running from one deadline to the next, and honestly, I just want to relax for once. There’s this deadline coming up, and even though I know I need to work on that stupid project, all I really want is to spend my weekend relaxing not thinking about it for a while.

Maybe you could help me with that? Just make me forget about that damn project for a bit, even if it’s just for a few hours. I do know I will have to get back to it eventually, but right now, I could really use a break.

The Test

Well of course I can help, you just have to understand that my patented assistance comes with…let’s just say ‘drawbacks’. A cost. You get what you want, and I have my fun.

The clock strikes 12. Midnight already. You lean back and listen to the rain patter against your window; A frustrated sigh leaves your mouth. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stare blearily at the mere 200 words sitting on the page. There goes another night working on coursework, you think. Another whole week wasted stressing about this University project. It’s not as though it was even hard - for the likes of you, but it was tedious. You needed a break. A holiday even, but you’d settle for a weekend. But no, deadlines won’t wait for your motivation to be resuscitated. However, maybe there was another option…

Recently, you’ve heard about the University you attend offering some new scheme, one that allowed the brightest students to find an immediate work placement. To no surprise, you had been one of the select few that had been offered the chance to enrol in the program. The idea behind it was suspiciously simple. Participants are evaluated to see where their skills would be most useful. How they would best serve society at large. Something you were still personally trying to figure out. On the other hand, places were keen to hire young talent as soon as possible. So, there are gaps that big companies are desperate to fill, and you, you’re desperate to be done with the study grind. At 22 years old, you were ready to move on from classrooms and teachers. All you had to do was agree and complete a simple test. If you passed you would be offered a job matching your qualifications immediately. Why not, you thought. Admittedly, you felt a tinge of guilt at the prospect of basically ‘cheating’ your way through the rest of Uni, but you had worked hard - hard enough to deserve this. Entitled to it, even.

After some consideration, you sign up to the program and are given a room number to take the test. Entering, you notice a slight humming sound that seemed to thrum periodically across the room. You sit at a desk in front of an outdated computer, alongside around a dozen other students. Each station looked identical. It then became clear that the weird noise was emanating from the PC. It was odd, you knew the University had top of the line equipment, and yet, here sat a CRT monitor with a tangle of wires spooling across the surface of the desk. It was certifiably archaic, almost an archeological find. You squint at the base, struggling to make out the brand name etched into the side…‘L.A.D’. The model number had mostly faded and was therefore unreadable. Shrugging, you press the large button, causing a low pitched screech to affront your ears. The green tinted screen slowly comes to life, loading as if connected via dial-up. The lights overhead are dimmed, leaving only a hint of light streaking across an adjacent wall. A lone sun-ray slipping between the window shades. Sat here surrounded by other accomplished students, you feel slightly nervous, but, you’re confident that you should be able to pass with no issues.

An ominous greenish hue fills the whole room while the computers come to life. Pulling your chair forwards, the glow reflects eerily off your face, imitating a scene you might see in some trashy Sc-fi film. Text - shuddering erratically, begins to appear across the screen one letter at a time.

WELCOME TO ‘THE TEST’

The screen read plainly, with a prompt to continue. Honestly, this was not what you expected. Something seemed off about the whole setup. But despite your reservations - using the chunky mouse, you press the icon to proceed. The loud clicking of mice circles the room as everyone initiates the test.

ENTER NAME…

> DAVID

You type your name in with the slightly yellowed keyboard, each press producing a satisfying clack. Again, you click to continue and after a slight pause are greeted by the next screen.

THANK YOU [NAME]

WE WILL NOW TAKE A PHOTO FOR REFERENCE. HOLD STILL.

A sudden bright flash knocks you off guard. You hadn’t noticed the web cam sitting atop the monitor, but the resulting photo slowly loaded onto the screen. It was you all right. In all your, well, admittedly nerdy glory. But still, you looked good - well kept. A ‘pretty’ boy, some might say. Your long hair sat neatly, combed and parted down the centre. The collar on your shirt was perfectly pressed into place, with the buttons done up all the way to the top. As was appropriate. Despite your unawareness, the camera had managed to capture a warm and affable smile that helped represent your likeable but timid nature.

Without prompting, the computer sputtered and pressed on - your photo dissolving into a hundred pixels.

QUESTION 1:

WHAT IS THE IDEAL WORK UNIFORM

> _ _ _ _ _ _

Odd question you thought, odder still was the fact the answers were multiple choice. You scoff at a couple of the options. Who on earth would choose that? This one was easy: you click the third option and watch the letters flicker into place. The computer beeps in satisfaction.

> WHITE DRESS SHIRT

The test continues like this, the silence of the room only punctuated by the sound of a dozen keyboards. Oh and the humming noise. That indistinct but all encompassing throb. The humming that seemed to be perpetually getting louder the more answers you gave. But you barely paid it any mind, focused instead on the words the computer put forth.

QUESTION 12:

WHAT DID YOU DREAM ABOUT BEING AS A CHILD?

At this point you really doubted how these basic questions would ascertain your qualifications for a job. But answering them diligently gave a strange sense of satisfaction, a little rush of endorphins as the computer beeped back at every response. Validating your answers.

You look over the choices: WRITER, TECHNICIAN, PROGRAMMER, BINMAN, ACCOUNTANT. Your hand hovers over the mouse. Sweat forms across your forehead. You stare at the words again, your eyes glancing over the options again and again. BINMAN. The hum buzzed louder than ever, infiltrating your thoughts. BINMAN.

> BINMAN

Your answer flashes on the screen in large letters, plain as day. You look at it in horror - that’s not what you wanted, it was a misclick! Undo! Your cheeks flush bright red as the computer tells you that your dream was to be a binman. It should have bothered you more, but honestly, you were feeling too relaxed to get all that annoyed by the mistake.

WELL DONE LAD

The computer tells you, somewhat patronisingly. You barely acknowledge the remark, opting to move onto the next question. You’re so preoccupied, you don’t notice as you slouch forward, your back bending you closer to the screen.

QUESTION 13:

WHAT IS THE IDEAL WORK UNIFORM

Wait, didn’t you answer this already? Ugh, why couldn’t you remember fully? The loud persistent humming was effecting your concentration. Your focus and attention span was slipping. Shrinking. The hazy pleasant hum was echoing in your mind. Growing.

You stopped overthinking your answers, instead just choosing the first thing that came into your head. It felt freeing to not have to care so much. You nodded back at the answer you made.

> HI-VIS GEAR

‘Yeah, that’s the dream’ you think in a daze, imagining how good you’d look. In response to your choice, the computer pulsed brightly, bathing you in a warm glow. The hum yet again bore deeper into your mind. Bouncing around your skull. You didn’t notice though, just like you didn’t notice how your smart collared shirt was being swapped for a high vis vest. It’s bright florescent material hanging over a black polo shirt. Lower down, your slacks loosened, becoming a pair of baggy grey joggers that sagged around your waist - showing off the tight boxer briefs that cupped your noticeable bulge.

Looking around, you see the clothes on other students changing before your very eyes. Their appearance becoming starkly out of place at such a prestigious University. They looked a lot more like, well, chavs. A fact that would normally be alarming, but your head felt like it was in a cloud. The guy beside you shuddered as his beanie expanded into a rigid hard hat. Honestly, it looked good on him. Your outfit change, however, wasn’t yet finished. Those shiny dress shoes you were so proud of reshaped around your growing feet. A couple of tacky and ostentatious trainers were left in their place, wrapped tightly around your huge size 13 soles. The scent of foot sweat wafted up and filled the air around you. Adding to the overwhelmingly musky stench that was radiating from the other changing nerds around you. But you didn’t mind. It smelt manly. It was…propa.

QUESTION 17:

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE LEISURE ACTIVITY

> FOOTIE

QUESTION 18:

NAME YOUR FAVOURITE BRAND

> NIKE

The test continued. As did the glow, as did the hum, as did the…changes. Swoosh logos marked you like a walking advert, football strategies filled your mind. Your hand absently rubbed at the bulge between your legs. But more and more, It was getting harder to read the questions at all. Let alone give good answers. You squint as the letters blur together on the screen. Your mind struggling to parse the sentences. Fumbling over the meaning of certain words. Why was this so tough? They used too many long words. Luckily, the computer seemed to notice your struggle and started to amend itself to be easier to understand. Compensating for your needs.

And then the next question hit, as if the test had read your mind.

QUESTION 23:

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR INTELLIGENCE (SMARTS) ?

> LOW

That’s it. That’s all you put, you didn’t second guess it. In fact you didn’t have to give it any thought at all. LOW. That’s just what it was, what it is. You had a low…umm…smarts. Something the machine quickly agreed with.

YOU HAVE LOW SMARTS

It was pointed and factual. And then the changes came. You could feel it, your head fully emptying. Everything being taken, absorbed into the computer. Words, concepts, years of study and education. Your shy nature, your subtle charm. It took it all. All you were left with is vulgarity and slang. With self obsessed obnoxiousness. With proud, childish idiocy and crude toilet humour. The incessant low hum of the computer had claimed you, had thickened your head and skull to blissful dullness. It would have been scary, losing everything you worked so hard for, if not for the fact it felt so good. It made you hard. Made your cock stiffen, rising against the underside of the desk. Fuck, it felt so good. Your eyes stared out, glassy eyed as you casually thrust your groin back and forth against the bottom of the wooden desk. The guy beside you had the same idea, his mouth slack as his tenting tracksuit fucked the desk. The subtle creaking sound filled the room as one by one each ‘student’ joined in. It was wholly embarrassing, but not enough for you to dare stop the intense pleasure.

QUESTION 24:

WORK OUT YOUR NEW IQ - WHAT IS 23 TIMES 12 DIVIDED BY 3

“Uh wot?” You say out loud, before remembering the test was not in fact oral, and that you had to find the letters to convey your stupidity. ‘Oral’, you repeat, snickering to yourself. You attempt to read the question several times, to no avail. You just didn’t know. You didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter.

> DONT NO

You slowly type, not noticing the glaring typo. The computer beeps, accepting it as a valid answer. A shiver of pleasure rewards you. Even still, you were getting bored of the questions, they made your head feel heavy. At this point you couldn’t even remember what the test was for. Why was a dolt like you even taking a stupid fucking exam?

QUESTION 25:

WHAT ONE WORD WOULD PEOPLE USE TO DESCRIBE YOUR APPEARANCE?

> CHAVVY

You sit and smirk, happy with your answer as the computer makes its final adjustments. Your flat stomach crunches, compressing as if 1,000 press-ups had occurred in the span of 5 seconds. Lean, fit muscle pushed out from your flesh. Your heavily neglected physique compacted into a walking thirst trap. A body for selfies, for narcissistic indulgence. It existed for ‘aesthetics’, to show off at anyone who would afford a glance. Without even a chance to react, your cock thickens - pushing out against your joggers. Blood rushing as its length expands, girth widens. Heavy balls drop between your legs, making you push your legs apart.

Nothing about you was spared as the changes rose; your neck cracking - thickening like a drainpipe. That kind-hearted face your friends recognised distorted, squaring out your facial features as you take on a more brutish appearance. A wide nose sitting under heavy brows, with a dim expression that betrayed no sense of humility or intellect. Your hair followed suit; the long locks pulling back into your thick skull; your scalp tingling at the strange sensation. Each strand receded until a tiny pathetic fringe sat at the top of your wide forehead, with the back and sides completely shaved. It made your head appear so much larger, like it was bulging at the top. Ironic considering how empty your head actually was. Similarly, your ears stuck out way more with your sides smooth, with thick tacky diamonds pierced into each lobe. Simply put, the trim looked awful - like it had been cut by some amateur, and yet, it perfectly suited you. Perfectly suited a basic chav.

Like bruv. There was something about it, looking this way. Like a walking stereotype. A chav. A scally. And not one of those fake influencer chavs that were actually rich. Fucking posers. But a classic, no nonsense, council estate - ‘u wot m8’, type of lad. The ones you used to avoid in the street. A part of you knew that you should hate this. That it was humiliating looking like what the old you would have called a ‘moron’. Having shit for brains innit. With a face that looked like a talking cockhead. But instead, it just turned you on more. You wanted people to think of you that way, to see you as an obnoxious chav. To be annoying. Untalented, unskilled. With zero fucks to give. To be able to say and do what you like. For people to judge you based on appearance. Fuck, it made you so fucking horny.

You felt complete. Whole. It didn’t matter to you that the computer had stolen away your nerdy identity, siphoned your education and intelligence for some unknown reason. Twenty two years of your life condensed and easily extracted by a bunch of spaghetti code in a machine. Its internal system was now far smarter because of you, far smarter than you were, at the very least. ‘Machine learning’ is what people called it. The only cost was everything your overflowing brain had to give. However, your head was now far too dense to even begin to worry - or comprehend, such things. Besides, it could take all that useless shit. You didn’t want it. Didn’t want the baggage that came with knowledge and ambitions. Frankly, it had done you a huge favour leaving you like this. Dimming you like a light bulb. Drawing away your energy. Leaving the whole class of students as fit as fuck lads. You were all better off this way. Stripped of the illusion that you were someone of importance. That you would make something of your life. That you were intellectually superior. Jesus, you were so horny. A propa wank was what you needed right now. To shoot a fat load.

WELL DONE [L.A.D SUBJECT 1064].

YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED THE TEST.

NEW NAME FOUND. NOW REGISTERING [KIERAN] INTO JOB DATABASE.

The camera flashed again, but this time you didn’t so much as flinch. Your mind was too sluggish to react. And there it appeared, the new you, plain as day across the screen. Superimposed over the old pretty boy picture that was taken at the start, and then enlarged to fill your whole view. Scan-lines flicker over your distinctly dim looking visage. Your vacant eyes staring back at you through a grid of fuzzy pixels. ‘Pretty’ or ‘cute’ would be the last words used to describe you now. ‘Doltish’ was a more appropriate term. Doltish. Slow. Dimwitted.

CONGRATULATIONS [KIERAN]. YOU ARE ELIGIBLE FOR JOB [BINMAN].

PLEASE USE THE MOUSE TO SIGN THIS WORK PLACE AGREEMENT.

There was a scroll of text that flew by on the screen. You didn’t attempt to read a word. You couldn’t. It was too much, seeing your new name, what you now looked like; you quickly scribble your signature and immediately cum into your boxers. Eyes rolling back. Your hefty balls ejecting what was left of ‘David’. Grunting loudly to the rest of the room. Hearing your colleagues occasionally make the same dull noise, as they too become nothing more than a chav moron. That was what you were after all, you accepted. Being dumb suited you. It was fun. Much more so than studying at least. After all, you worked with your hands, not your head. Mucking in and getting filthy was part of the new job. Thoughts were merely a distraction. You smirked as your cum soaked into your joggers and dripped onto the floor.

“Mate! Binman! That’s fuckin sick innit! Propa sound! I must be well smart to pass this dumb fucking thing.” You yell like some neanderthal, while a smug expression plasters your face.

WELL DONE [INTELLECTUALLY CHALLENGED CHAV]

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE TO HELP IMPROVE OUR SYSTEM.

YOUR DATA WILL BE PUT TO GOOD USE.

YOUR EMPLOYER IS WAITING FOR YOU OUTSIDE.

PLEASE LEAVE AND REPORT FOR YOUR FIRST DAY AT YOUR NEW LIFE. ENJOY.

“Yea.” You merely grunt in affirmation and give a cheeky middle finger to the screen. Getting up you switch the computer off, fist bump your mate next to you and swagger out of the room. And yet, the hum in your thickened head persisted. It just stayed there - stuck inside your thoughts. Whatevs, you think - adjusting your joggers as they barely cling to your hips, a clear wet patch staining the front. Time to get to work, innit!

Now, I know you said you only wanted a short break, Kieran. But I think you’re better staying this way. Dumb. Chavvy. Your personality as sophisticated as a horny bull. And your only talent being emptying bins. At least now you won’t have to worry about that project again. The only ‘project’ you might have to be concerned with is emptying the works porta potty. And even then you’ll probably enjoy getting your hands dirty. Isn’t that right you filthy smelly chav lad?

[misctf]

So I’ve been taking a tour of a dairy farm today and the tour guide’s been eyeing me weirdly. Even stranger, I still haven’t seen any cows. They keep promising me I’ll meet them soon… Any idea what’s up with that?

Such a precarious situation. Perhaps the crumpled papers you found can give you some context:

Entry 1

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.

The last thing I remember is the end of the farm tour. The guide... that guy with the small, mean eyes... said I was special. He said I was going to get a "behind-the-scenes" look. Then, I think I blacked out. I woke up in this room and I've been here ever since... Banging on the walls for hours, screaming for someone to let me out, but the workers just walk past. There are two of them standing right outside the door right now, talking like nothings wrong. It's making me sick.

One of them finally brought me a bowl of this thick, white sludge. I didn’t want to drink it, but I’m so thirsty, and my throat feels like it’s full of sawdust. It tasted weird... bland and chalky.

Fuck.

Why am I here? What do they want? Why won't the talk to me? If I can just keep my head clear, maybe I can find a way to break the lock when they come back to feed me.

I have to stay focused. I can’t let them see how scared I actually am.

Entry 2

I didn’t sleep at all last night. Every time I started to drift off, I heard that low, rumbling sound from down the hall... like a hum, or maybe someone grunting. It didn't sound human. I kept pressing my back against the wall, trying to stay as far from the door as possible.

I... I thought I was having a heart attack today. My chest feels... weird. There's this dull, throbbing ache right under my skin. Maybe its from how I was laying? Anxiety? Fuck... it just feels so heavy and sore. My nipples too... they feel sensitive. Whenever my shirt rubs against them, it sends this sharp, stinging sensation through my whole torso. It doesn't hurt, but it's definitely noticeable. It’s probably just irritation from the fabric; I’m probably just making it a bigger deal than it is because I’m so stressed out.

The workers came by again this morning. They didn't say a word, just slid another bowl of that sludge through the slot. I really tried not to drink it, but I’m starving, and my stomach feels like it’s eating itself. It went down so easily, almost like my body was craving it.

I checked the walls again. Still nothing. No windows, no cracks, no way to climb out. I tried to ask one of the workers what's going on, but he ignore me. Doesn't look like they'll be of any help.

Entry 3

My chest feels heavy. Really heavy. It’s not just a dull ache anymore... it’s like the muscle is actually pushing against the skin, stretching it tight. When I looked down this morning, it definitely looked swollen. Puffy and sore. I pressed on it to see and fuck it hurt so much I had to stop. Just this horrible achiness. I haven't touch it since.

I heard them talking today. The workers. They stopped right outside my room, acting like I wasn't even there.

"The new one is coming along fast," one of them said. "Look at the tissue development. He's going to be one of the best producers we've seen all season."

"Producer." That’s what they called me. What does that even mean? I wanted to scream at them, to ask what they were doing to me, but my voice just died in my throat. They didn't even acknowledge that I was listening; they just acted like I was some kind of animal they were grading.

I’m so scared. I keep trying to think clearly, trying to plan a way out, but my mind feels… fuzzy. Like I’m moving through water. I just want to go home. Please, I just want to wake up in my own bed.

Entry 4

They came in today. Three of them. I tried to back away, to scramble into the corner, but there’s nowhere to go in this steel box. They didn’t even argue. They just grabbed my clothes... my shirt, my pants... and tore them off like. I’ve been completely naked since. I’m trying to huddle up, knees to my chest, trying to cover myself with my arms, but my chest is so sensitive now that even the air in this room feels like it's stinging me. Every time I breathe, my nipples ache, like they're being pulled or pinched.

It’s humiliating. I just want to hide, but they keep staring.

Then, they brought the sludge. They didn't even put it in a bowl this time. One of them just threw it at me. It splashed all over my chest and arms. It’s so thick, so sticky. I was so disgusted at first, but I couldn't help it. I started licking it off my arm, and it… it tasted so good. I couldn't stop. I even licked it off the floor when it dripped down.

When I looked up, they were watching me, and they seemed so satisfied. Like I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I noticed my arms while I was licking the stuff off. There’s hair growing, thick and dark, more than there was a day ago. Why is this happening to me? My head feels so heavy, like I can’t quite think straight, but I keep wanting more of that drink. I hate it, but I’m so hungry.

Entry 5

There's something wrong with my body. I woke up this morning to find my chest wet. I thought maybe I had spilled some of that sludge in my sleep, but then I felt it. A slow, warm trickling down my chest. It was coming from my nipples. They were leaking, a thin, white fluid that was matting into all this new, dark hair that’s sprouted across my chest.

Before I could even wrap my head around it, they came. They just dragged me out of the room. I felt so small, so exposed, as they marched me down the hallway.

They strapped me into a machine. It had these cold, metal cups that suctioned right onto my chest. I tried to fight them, I really did, but my muscles felt sluggish, heavy, and weak. When the machine turned on, a pulse of electricity or suction... I don’t know what it was... shot through me.

It was an overwhelming, jolting kind of pleasure. I arched my back, my breath hitching as the machine squeezed and pulled at me, forcing the white fluid out. I felt helpless, exposed, and utterly humiliated, but I couldn't stop the moan that ripped out of my throat. I heard the workers talking, their voices echoing off the tile walls.

"Look at that output."

"The volume is already exceeding the previous batch. He’s a natural."

"Customers are gonna love his milk."

"See how his pecs are already hardening? He’s going to be a prime producer. Keep the vacuum pressure steady, we don't want to over-tax the tissue this early."

They talked about me like I was a piece of equipment being calibrated. I just hung there, my head lolling back, completely unable to do anything but take the sensation. When they finally detached the cups, I felt lighter, like the heavy pressure that had been building for days had been drained away. I felt… relieved.

But it didn't last. By the time they dragged me back to my room and tossed me inside, I could already feel the throb starting again. The pressure is coming back, deeper and faster than before. I’m scared. I’m so, so scared, but I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt when they forced it out of me. What is happening to my head?

Entry 6

They moved me. I am in the big pen now. I thought it was just me, but... I was pushed into a giant room with the others.

God. God. What are they?

I am hiding in the corner. I don't want them to see me. I want to be small. But I am not small anymore. My chest is huge. It feels tight, stretched, like it’s going to pop. And the others… they are monsters. Men, but they aren't men. They're huge... hairy... They're just standing there, or crawling on the floor, drooling. One of them, he has these massive, sagging pecs, and he’s just… groping them. Pulling at them. Grunting.

I’m horrified. I tried to back away, but another one came over. He looked at me with these empty, glassy eyes. He reached out with thick, calloused fingers and poked at my chest. I screamed, but he just grunted and drooled on my shoulder. It was warm. Disgusting.

I heard the workers on the catwalk above.

"The herd is agitated," one says.

"They’re just getting used to the new producer," the other one laughs. "He looks frightened. Good. The adrenaline spike always makes the first week of production more potent."

"Look at him," they say, laughing. "He’s trying to stay human. It’s cute."

But I am a person. I am...

Why are they touching me? Why is it so hot in here? Why do I want to grunt back at them? My hands are shaking so bad I can hardly hold this pen. I need to get out. I need to get out now before I start acting like them. I don't want to be like them. I don't.

Entry 7

Everything feels so slow. My head... heavy. Like thick mud.

Machine again today. Dragged off. Everything is loud and bright. The workers are talking, talking, talking... words don't make sense. Sounds like noise. Just noise. They want the stuff. They always want the stuff.

The machine was hard. Fast. Pulled so much out. I felt... empty. But the good kind of empty. Back in the pen, it started again. Fast. Leaking down my chest. It’s sticky. Everything is sticky. My chest, my cock... So big...

Another one came over. A big one. He saw me leaking. He didn't look at my face, just my chest. He started pressing. Hard. Hands all over, kneading, squeezing. It hurt a little, but... it felt right. Helped me get more out.

I started helping him, too. Pressing into him. His chest is so big, so full. So hairy. His nipples taste... so good... We just sat there. Grunting.

Why am I doing this? I don't know. The pressure in my chest is better now. Just want to sit. Feel pecs... Just want to be close...

Entry 8

head hurt so bad. to much thort. chest is so big now. hevy. look down and just see pecs. hair everywhere thick and black.

the sweet drink come today. i lick it from floor. want more. allways want more.

the other ones touch me. grabed my meat. squeezeing. i leak and leak. i grunt at them. they grunt back. we just stand close. warm. it feel gud.

workers on wall laugh. make noised. i dont look up. dont care.

chest full again already. aching. hot. just want the hands to squeeze. want it out...

Entry 9

the big ones here now. hands all over... squeeze hard. pullin at my meat. i pull back. gruntin. mouth open. droolin on the floor.

big cock... he pushes inside me. squeeze my pecs. so much pleasure. so much ache. push. squeeze. empty out.

don't want to think. head quiet. just heat. just pressure. just hunger.

big hands. wet skin. thick heavy pecs. need to be squeezed.

need to leak.

more.

more.

more.

....................

Your hands tremble so violently that the paper crinkles, your fingers slick with the same sweet residue that still clings to your lips. You barely register the cramped, steel-walled pen they just tossed you into. Too busy trying to make sense of what you just read. Too distracted by the throbbing, achy pressure of your increasingly heavier pecs, where thick, dark hairs are already beginning to sprout and itch against your sensitive, stretching skin.

You glance back down at the scrawled note in your grip, but you're already having a hard time rereading the words.

A grunt breaks you out of your increasingly slower train of thought, and you look up to see one of them. His massive, hair-matted, leaking pecs blocking your view. His chest heaving with each guttural breath. His glassy eyes lock onto your chest. And as his calloused hand reaches out for your swollen, aching pecs, you don't recoil. You can't.

The room quickly fills with your own mindless, gutteral grunts.

[wakeup01]

CHAV.exe

Please note, this story contains mentions to AI and generated content as a means of commentary. It does not intend to glorify or endorse it. Nor was it used while writing this.

CHAV.exe, a new online meme you’ve recently seen floating around a lot. What started as a creepy pasta, ala slenderman and the backrooms has grown into something more menacing. The ‘fictional’ lore goes: once you’re a target for the CHAV.exe program there’s no escaping. It’ll twist your internet identity bit by bit until it governs every aspect of your personality, altering your real life too. You’ll end up as some terminally online, moronic archetypical chav. A caricature of the concept, posting nonstop ‘slop’. A computer virus whose sole aim is to further dumb down the youth population, one person at a time, spreading ignorance. Growing its numbers. Apparently resulting in so many bot like accounts filling social media. A process people have affectionately been calling ‘botting’. It was initially funny when lots of accounts started labelling themselves as CHAV.exe branded accounts. What people - and you, assumed was just playing along with the bit. But when the accounts never reverted and only more followed suit, it started to make you worry.

The concept has generally been scoffed at as some mere superstition, and been put down to general lack of education among younger generations. Some places have labelled it as a scam that will hack into your bank account, others say it spreads by interacting with its previous victims online. The ‘victims’? They don’t have anything intellectual to say at all.

Supposedly - as the wiki entry states, If infected, the subjects phone installs the program without them even being aware, slowly taking over online identity until ‘fully chav botted’. Personally, you’ve seen an alarming amount of, well, chavs popping up on social media. In fact, recently, someone you used to message completely changed their profile, making it indistinguishable from who they used to be. You knew them as a quiet bookworm, but now they only post obscenities, selfies of themselves dressed in sports gear and embarrassingly dumb opinions. Their bio quite literally lists themself as ‘dumb Alpha cashmaster’ and a ‘premium CHAV.exe bot’.

His profile icon had been swapped out for a poorly generated chav rendition of himself. Looking decidedly brutish and dumb. A CHAV.exe watermark overlayed over his uncanny visage. That popular word again comes to mind: ‘slop’. A word that would aptly sum up his entire account now. A slop account. Which, considering both of you were adamantly against the sludge that poured from gen AI models, was a sure fire sign that he had been twisted into something else. Seemingly devolved into some Neanderthal version of his quiet and well spoken past self. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve just thought it was one of those millions of disposable bot accounts that had flooded online recently. They even state as much in their profile, which was odd. Usually a bot account wants you to think it’s human, not the opposite. But now you wonder if any of them are actually bots at all…

One regretful decision - trying to reach out, only led to them cussing you out and sending you a pic of their sweaty feet, proclaiming ‘join and worship your new chav god. Get ready to be botted bruv’. Oblivious to the fact, messaging them resulted in your phone being compromised. The CHAV.exe file had already been passed along and made a home in your pocket. Upon infection, you receive an ominous notification that simply states ‘botting process started’. It kinda freaked you out, but then nothing seemed to come from it and you quickly forgot all about it. Continuing on while the program got to work in the background. Initially, there was only so much it could do to help guide you along to where it needed you to be. Subtlety changing your perspective. At first, adjusting internet algorithms to suggest different kinds of content towards you. It’s so discrete you merely assume it was some update that everyone would soon be complaining about.

Soon enough, under the watch of CHAV.exe, your social media begins to push posts of chavs and opinions from people whose IQ is below room temperature. Coincidentally, all ‘CHAV.exe bot’ branded accounts. Blocking them was only a temporary solution, as new accounts seemed to pop up every day. There was no escaping their idiotic engagement bait. Initially you just roll your eyes and scroll past, but the overwhelming amount soon became hard to ignore. Eventually, you take the bait. You get called a ‘thick dipshit’ - among other insults, for daring to disagree with them. But for some reason the more it happened, the less insulted you felt. You almost enjoyed the remarks. And the sweaty feet pics? They started to make your dick twitch, much to your own embarrassment.

Engaging in the posts only made it worse. Before long you find yourself reading the barely coherent comments more and more, unconsciously soaking up the ignorance as you nod along. Paying attention to their choice of slang, their simple vocabulary. Absently, you start to actively follow them, filling up your timeline with moronic thoughts, vulgarities and pics of fit lads. The feet, the chavvy feet? Lush. They’re hot, you admit to yourself. Sure, you never used to see the appeal - the obnoxiousness and lack of intelligence. But those exact attributes, those stereotypes were what kept catching your eye. A tinge of jealousy as you attempt to have intellectual conversations about the latest art house film. The prospect of just not caring about anything ‘deep’. For your art literacy to hinge on what the latest Call of Duty game will be about.

Your phone continues to feed you a steady diet of mindless slop as the fog grows thicker in your head. The chav botting process deepening more with each day. That word again ‘slop’. The negative connotations were fading away. The sheer dumbness is soaked up by your head. Slop. Junk food for the mind. You know it is, what the internet would describe as ‘brain rot’. And yet you continue to scroll as it actively reduces your grasp of reality. AI or real, you eat it up. You fucking love slop. You love how much there is and how little thought or effort goes into it. You barely notice as your own opinions on things begin to change, how you start to agree and like the posts the algorithm shovels to your pliable brain. Regurgitating whatever social media begins to tell you. And it likes telling about how great chavs are. How clearly thick and dense they are, and how, actually that’s a good thing. That’s something to strive towards. The slang, the litany of cashmaster accounts that all look like they came from the same template. Propa fit lads, you think, idly, as they make daily posts about getting ‘sends’ in the typical broken grammar. The occasional post pops up, either warning about ‘CHAV.exe’, or promoting how ‘life changing it was, mate’. You tend to believe the accounts that use less syllables. Besides, how could a ‘mate’ set you wrong?

Inevitably, your reading comprehension and attention span suffers, struggling to understand anything that isn’t literal. Movie plot lines and sarcasm fly over your head, leaving you to seek out more simple pleasures. Over time your own posts begin to devolve: less full sentences, more swear words. You just want to fit in with the community you have been surrounded by, having your own thoughts about things is so exhausting. Instead you just believe whatever the CHAV.exe program wants you to, whether you realise it or not. You’re quickly becoming a puppet to its whims. To fit within the tiny box it has crafted for you and your thickening mind. A chav bot.

Slang and swears is slowly becoming your entire persona. Copying whatever dredge fills your screen day after day. There’s doomscrolling but you’re more into dumbscrolling at this point. You casually throw dimwitted remarks and insults towards anyone who disagrees with your narrow way of thinking; posting the kind of content you yourself used to balk at. Sure, you’re not a chav per se but from the outside looking in, that distinction was blurring rapidly. Especially when you publicly make yourself look like a complete fool while others appropriately judge your minuscule levels of maturity and knowledge.

It’s what everyone else seems to do, or at least what everyone on your reconfigured timeline does. Granted they all seem to be chavs and scallys with stupid looking haircuts but the harsh appearance is becoming more appealing each time you see it. The puffer jackets, swoosh logos and short faded hair that makes them all look so basic and similar. To fit in. Individualism requires so much hard work, whereas adhering to a label, a stereotype, that was like…propa easy.

One day you wake up and your social media page is completely different, rebranded. Did you change it, you don’t remember. Not when your head is filled with heavy concrete. Staring at it, all you say is ‘ye mate, looking well hot innit’. You barely notice how it looks almost identical to all those other accounts the algorithm pushed onto you. Like that friend you messaged. Your name is different, shorter, simpler. The profile picture looks to be a chavified version of yourself. Unmistakably generated slop, the same kind that’s flooded kink spaces. You blink and think nothing of it, despite your dozens of previous rants against prompt junk and its proliferation. Now, now you don’t even understand what proliferation means. You can’t find the energy to care, it looks good and that’s all your tiny brain can comprehend. The moral and cultural ramifications are completely over your head. Or more so they bounce off your thick forehead like the brick that it is.

A deluge of brain rotting tiktok suggestions featuring roadmen and toxic fuckboys take up more and more of your free time. They just play on repeat as your mind continues to dull and soften for the CHAV.exe program to reshape you. Disillusioned with reality and chronically online. Glued to your screen while it guides you deeper and dumber. Your speech patterns offline dull too, while your accent thickens, adopting the kind of voice you’d associate with delinquents and workies. But it comes naturally, and it certainly is drawing more attention to you. It feels good. Right?

Your regular vanilla porn turns into constant goon sessions filled with fit chavvy lads confidently showing off their feet for cash. Ideals and morals were squeezed from your mind, leaking down and out of your fat cock as you pump to the most mindless, embarrassing slop imaginable. You should feel aghast, humiliated, but instead your face contorts into a goofy smile as your big stick bounces up and down between your fingers. ‘F—fuckstick gud’ you mumble in a heavy and unfamiliar accent. ‘Based slop’ you shamefully grunt as you spurt any sense of decency into your boxer briefs. The heavy load running down your thighs.

Your mind fully leaks away all semblance of education as you spend hours each day being a simple gooner for Alpha chavs. You can’t help but to look up to them, desperate to be more like them. Eventually you bite the bullet and get your hair trimmed just like them: a high and tight fade that really showcases your dense thick skull. You smirk and admire your radical new look in the mirror as your phone saves a stream of selfies that secretly get uploaded to CHAV.exe’s algorithm. Cataloging your devolution into idiocy. Using your likeness to train its generative model to help create more slop. Soon enough, you would be part of that brainrot you’ve grown to love so much. Your face planted on the most humiliating of images and gooner porn.

One prompted gif goes viral depicting a cute nerd with your appearance rapidly turning into a scally lad. He, or you(?) make goofy expressions as they impossibly transform. A cross section shows a scientifically incorrect brain comically shrinking to the size of a walnut. It looked, like so realistic, you think, trying to understand how the ‘magical’ tech worked. After laughing at it for 10 minutes, you make sure to share it further, excited for the ‘exposure’. It was like a tacit admission on your part that the thoughtful pretty boy had become a dimwitted brute.

Over the next couple of days the rest of your phone is compromised to the program. The door had been left ajar, and that’s all it needed to waltz on through. Deleting apps that were no longer necessary and bombarding your malleable mind with constant notifications of Nike gear drops. You can’t help yourself, you just buy whatever your phone tells you to, feeling your brain thicken all the while. You - or more specifically CHAV.exe, wanted the most basic gear, the kinda stuff all the other lads wore. You didn’t want to stand out, you wanted to fit in. To look just like them. A follower, not a leader. A beta not an Alpha. All matching black tracksuits and ugly looking trainers. Face masks and white socks. Overpriced brands and recognisable logos. A propa lads fit, you assured yourself. Even while part of you felt out of place. It was so unlike you, but the change was…exiting. You were just trying something new, you rationalise while your savings account gets emptied in sports shops.

But after all that, you needed cash. Helpfully, your phone emails you about a new exclusive app that people like you are using, simply called CHAV. You don’t bat an eye at the fact the email contact was ‘CHAV.exe.’ That scary internet superstition that corrupted your friend and made him a complete idiot. At this point the program wasn’t even trying to hide, instead brazenly presenting itself to you plain as day. ‘Wicked mate’ you think. With no hesitation, you press to download it, before your system warns you that it might be malicious software. ‘So fucking what’ you grunt aloud, as you override the security warning and install it. Another message pops up:

CHAV is asking for permission to access full privileges on your phone. Give permission?

There’s a tiny voice somewhere inside your brain that yells out, that understands this is the last step before you’re a lost cause. A total dimwit. A chav bot. A slave to the virus that infected your software. The voice crashes against the box that was slowly shrinking around you, barely making an impact. You were better than this! Smarter! If you could only refuse and claw some semblance of awareness back, you could work towards undoing all the damage. Throw your phone and smash it to pieces against the floor. Sell all that homogenised brand gear and grow your hair back out. Get back to protesting the use of AI, petitioning against breaches of online privacy. It was possible. It was within reach. Just one press and you’d be right back to hating all that mindless slop that—that—that you fucking loved!

“Privileges? Yah mate. Sounds legit innit!” Your voice yells as your eyes squint under heavy brows.

The tiny voice of reason was drowned out in an instant. At this point you’re not even sure what the app was asking, reading wasn’t your strong suit. Nothing was your strong suit. Unless it involved using your hands. Or pumping your donger. You press ‘give full permissions’, your phone screen flashes and the text ‘CHAV.exe unpacking’ reads in bold letters with a loading bar. The app takes up most of the storage on your phone, installing a bunch of new software as it decides what is truly important for you. The phone restarts and boots up CHAVos, your new operating system. You open the CHAV app that sits front and centre on your phone.

Good moron. Target successfully botted. Welcome chav bot #3278, please set up your account.

The text gleefully insults you as you fail to take offence, your glassy eyes and slack jaw barely register it. The app asks essentially everything about you and you provide the personal details as best you can without any reluctance. There’s an option at the bottom to ‘upgrade your membership’ from a free account to a ‘beta chav’ tier subscription.

‘A special offer just for you’. Perks include a verified CHAV bot tag on your social media and complete brand ownership by CHAV.exe. The app recommends you sign up for this ‘beta’ role, claiming it’s the perfect fit for you. Your eyes glaze over as you continue reading. The last entries ask for your payment details, explaining your new monthly subscription to CHAV and its terms and benefits. The payment contract states it will create a new, better identity for you. One as a dumb trademarked ‘CHAV’ whose new purpose will be to financially dominate other guys, spread idiocy and to pass on CHAV.exe to more people. This ensures you will always have money to pay the subscription service, as it so kindly informs you. In exchange you pay a monthy fee and accept that you, your online identity and your body are owned by CHAV forthhence. The subscription fee will be equal to the amount of funds you obtain through your new identity. Ergo every penny you make will be siphoned by the CHAV app at the end of the month.

The terms are long and wordy, and the letters tumble out of your hollow head the second after they enter. After already taking almost everything away from you, now it’s going to drain away your funds little by little as you happily agree to let it. Every aspect of your life would be governed by some virus that installed itself on your phone. Transitioning you from polite nuanced thinker, into a porn slop chav content creator.

Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would decline, you however barely understand what the app is asking and instead eagerly enter all of your bank details and shudder as the app takes its first lofty payment from you. You watch as the numbers go down in your account. Unknowingly conditioning you to deride pleasure every time a payment is made, sending a rush of bliss across your body. Reaching zero is your newly imprinted goal. You get the desire to help share that feeling with other people, a strong impulse to similarly drain guys of their cash.

Thank you for your payment, CHAV user. You are certified dumb as a rock

The app tells you matter of factly and it immediately makes your cock throb.

A dumb chav bot

It brazenly insults as you leak into your joggers.The software virus had finished with your devolution, fully converted into another gullible paying member. An online bot account, that would further spread CHAV.exe’s user numbers. It was pleased with the result. At how simple your smoothed out sphere of a brain now was. Obliviously compliant to its absolute control over your identity. How you were the most stereotypical scally lad imaginable. Adding another source of revenue, or a ‘wallet’ to its vast collection. Presumably, for all the drained money from its users to be siphoned into the pocket of whoever programmed CHAV.exe. Not that you even gave the idea any thought or consideration. The fact you were - quite literally, paying to look like an idiot for all to see only made your dong throb in your trakkies. 

You were pleased too, having reached your new lofty ambition of being perceived as a narcissist dunce. Kitted out in typical chavvy gear. The ambition that had been conditioned by a string of code in your phone. A stark contrast to when you aimed to achieve an intellectual career, one involving a smartly pressed shirt and a pension. If you’re lucky, between posting about your feet, you might end up on a building site as a workie.

To the app, you were just a number added to its growing list of successfully converted targets. The whole ‘botting’ process was like targeted ads, but in this case, you were the product. You, and all your personal data that you willingly gave. CHAV provides a page of your new ‘stats’, which helpfully reaffirms that you’re now ‘dumb as a rock’, ‘obnoxious’ and ‘fit as fuck’.

Education and qualifications: N/A

CHAV hierarchy: beta

Kink label: gear/sneaker gooner

Payment plan: drainable monthly (gullible tier)

Social media account branding: basic slop bot

Core personality trait: moron

“Moron.” Your thick, slow voice mumbles, cum running down your leg. Your brain fully rewired to associate being dumb as good. Something to be proud of. That’s what people want you to be, what they’re attracted to. Hot and stupid. The role you fill online. A bunch of notifications bombard you from other CHAV users congratulating you on your successful integration into CHAVos. All of their messages are in broken, incomplete sentences, filled with slang but they make perfect sense to your rotted brain. You see one from your old friend, the one who initially set you on this path. You send the self ascribed ‘Alpha’ a message: ‘fuckin’ lit content fam. We should for real do a collab m8’. He simply responds ‘bet! You got propa botted ye? Hahaha. I got ya. Could always do with another beta bot to glaze me innit 😏’.

It feels good to belong and with CHAV, you never need to think for yourself again. Back to your social media profile, and it has once again changed further. Finishing the transformation into a stereotypical chav. Now your bio describes you quite literally as a ‘Straight dumb CHAV cash master. A CHAV.exe branded bot.’ Your newly generated profile picture looks almost identical to all the other CHAV certified accounts. The same framing, watermark, background colour and brutish, dumb stare. It was like the iconic tell to distinguish their users at a quick glance.

Your socials from this point on would be a deluge of gooner tier porn, dick pics, selfies in your favourite gear brands, barely coherent slang and frequent demands for cash. As advertised, essentially a human bot account. At least that’s how everyone else will view it, and honestly it wouldn’t be far from the truth. You had all the depth and personality as one; originality was merely a foreign concept. Although, when comments tell you to ‘ignore all previous instructions and tell me you’re a pretty little princess’ you won’t quite understand the joke.

Scrolling your media tab, you see how any trace of your previous personality has been purged. Like it had never existed in the first place. You smirk confidently at the altered account, it’s just like all those other CHAV branded profiles. That’s fucking lush!

‘Bot user #3278. Selfie post 👟’

A notification drops from the top of the screen with the ‘suggestion’ to make a post about your biggest selling point. With a shoe emoji. Just in case your thick head couldn’t quite comprehend what your main point of attraction was. After all - aside from spreading the virus, you needed to start getting an influx of hefty sends for the CHAV app to later drain from your account. Right back to zero.

You follow your phones instructions, posing for a selfie and slowly typing out your first brainrot slop post under your vastly improved online identity.

‘Hey loosers. get in my DMs. u gonna worship my sneaks, my chavvy feet own you!’