Sans titre

[alphajocklover]

Heyy, my besty has just turned from the most flamboyant twink to a straight dumb brute and after just meeting him for a coffee Im starting to feel the urge to become the biggest and dumbest bodybuilder ever. Could you help me please?

You couldn’t explain it, but something was wrong with Alexander Compton. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand what had happened, you just literally could not explain it. Every time you tried to tell someone that Ally, one of your closest friends and the most flamingly gay man you had ever met, had suddenly transformed into a straight, macho brute named Lex, you couldn’t find the words. What was even more infuriating was how unbothered everyone else seemed by it. Everyone you knew even seemed to be indifferent to his unnatural change or actively endorse it, with some of your gay friends even openly lusting after the straight, openly homophobic breeder. No one was bothered by the fact that it was impossible to gain that amount of muscle in such a short period of time, or that he was acting like a completely different person, or any of it. No one but you, and it was killing you that you had no answers. Maybe that was why, despite knowing it was a horrible idea, you agreed to meet up with Lex for coffee.

By the time it came to meet Lex at the coffee shop, you were an absolute mess of nerves. For one thing, you were completely unsure why Lex had invited you to coffee. Ever since his transformation he had been distant, if not downright hostile, to all of his old friends, hurling slurs and cruel sneers at any of them who approached. The invitation to meet for coffee was the first time your former best friend had spoken to you without calling you a fag for weeks. The other thing that unnerved you however, was the coffee shop. Once again – although more figuratively this time – you couldn’t really explain what was bothering you. By all means ‘Macho Mocha’ was an ordinary coffee shop, even if the entire straight gym bro theme was disgustingly straight, but something about the place made you feel antsy. You took a seat at one of the smaller tables, just as Lex entered.

Where Ally was often described as small, feminine, and even ‘swishy’, Lex Compton was strong, solid, manly, tattooed, and definitely, definitely big. You watched as he entered the coffee shop, turning his broad shoulders in order to fit through the doorway before confidently walking over to your table. Unlike the other times you had seen him recently, where he had looked at you with cocky disdain, this time he was smiling, a charming, confident smile that actually managed to make you feel a little bit more at ease. 

“Hey there Ollie! Been a fucking minute bro, I’m glad I get to see you.” He said as he took a seat, manspreading obnoxiously well he did. 

“Uh, I still prefer Oliver.” You said nervously, unable to stop yourself from glaring at the larger man “And no offense, but I’m kind of surprised to hear you’re glad to see me. You haven’t exactly been friendly the last few times we met.”

At this Lex this grinned and chuckled dopily, as if you were recalling something funny and not when he called you a sissy and told you your ‘lifestyle’ was fucking pathetic. “Oh yeah, that. Listen bro, I know I probably came across a bit harsh, but I was just joking around bro!” He said with another obnoxious chuckle. “But that isn’t what I wanted to talk about bro. I was talking to one of the guys at the gym, and he sorta talked some sense into me about some things…” He said, suddenly looking strangely thoughtful. For a moment, you could almost recognize your old friend inside the roided out meathead before you, until another sleazy smirk and dull laugh chased that away. “But let’s order before we start getting into all that. You look at the menu yet bro?” He asked with a friendly grin

“Uh, no, I haven’t really gotten a chance.” You admit as you both get up and Lex leads you towards the coffee shop’s counter, throwing one of his thick arms around your shoulder. “Bro, trust me, you’re going to fucking love this.” He said with a smirk. 

As you reached the counter and looked over the drinks, you immediately noticed that every item, drinks and pastries included, were some kind of jockish pun. Just looking over it now you could see Joe Six-Pack Joe, The ‘Merica-cano, Leg Day Latte, and the shop's signature drink, the Macho Mocha. “Bro.” Lex said while grabbing your shoulder “You’ve got to try the Macho Mocha. C’mon, it’s on me.” He said, an intensity behind his grin that left no room for argument. You sipped your coffee, feeling the warm, rich liquid flow down your throat. “So,” You said, taking a moment to clear your suddenly sore throat before continuing “You said a friend of yours from the gym talked some sense into you about something?” “Yeah. So, check it, I was working out with some of my new bros at the gym, and talking about how I keep running into you and the others, and how goddamned annoying all your faggotry shit is.” He said, insulting you like he was talking about the weather “And he helped me realize, I should be mad at you guys for being sissies and shit, I should be trying to fucking fix you!” He said with an almost innocent excitement despite his horrible words.

“Fix me?” You asked, feeling almost dizzy at the strangeness of the situation. “Exactly bro! Like it or not, we were bros once, and bros shouldn’t leave bros behind.” he said with a cocky grin, continuing before you even had the chance to object. “I figured I should start with you because, well, you were always my closest bro. It’s fucking gross to think about now, but I even had a bit of a crush on you before. Not anymore though dude, It’s all tits and pussy for this guy! And it’s gonna be like that for you soon enough.” he said with a satisfied smirk

“What the hell are you talking about?” You asked, confused and enraged “What the hell is going-”

Before you could finish you felt the dizzy feeling you had before suddenly grow, just as the warm feeling that the coffee gave you began to spread throughout your entire body. In the moment it almost felt like the coffee was spreading throughout your body, pumping itself into every cell and rearranging them, pushing your muscles against your skin as it fought to create more room. Lex just smirked “Ah, there it is. I knew it'd kick in soon. See, this isn’t just some normal coffee shop bro. This is the place that made me who I am today. One of my bros actually brought me here on a ‘date’ back when I was a loser and gave me a coffee, just like the one I gave to you. Catfishing fags is how we get a lot of new customers, though I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also fun.” he said with a dumb crude smirk. 

You wanted to argue, to say this was impossible, and more importantly horrifying, but as you felt the warm feeling flow over your brain, you found yourself internally agreeing with your old friend. This place was pretty epic, and pulling a prank on some stupid fags who spat in the face of real masculinity sounded like a fucking great time to you. Of course you’d never actually do anything with a guy. You were strictly a pussy man, and already couldn’t wait for the next time you’d get to motorboat some stupid sluts titties. You looked down at your body, realizing that the warm feeling that had pieced your entire body had distracted you from the massive growth spurt you had undergone, and playfully flexed one of your new arms as a dumb grin came across your face. 

“So, you like the drink Ollie? I think this place should be our new regular.” Lex said with a knowing smirk, before raising his own coffee cup to his lips and taking a long sip. You didn’t even have to think about what to say as you replied in your new, deep, douchy voice,

“Fuck yeah man, we’ve got to invite the others sometime.”

[heknewwhoyoureallyare]

A mother is struggling to breastfeed her little baby boy. She asked herself, “What is wrong with my baby? How come he doesn’t want to be breastfed from my boobs?” wondered the mother. A handsome Alpha Jock suddenly appeared out of nowhere, he takes one look at the baby and said “yup your baby is a fag, he doesn’t want to drink milk from a female breast.”

The mother then replied with a snark because she thought he was insulting her baby “and how would you know? Are you one to?” Said the woman slightly offended, but the handsome Alpha Jock just replied “nope but I had a solution to the problem, let me breastfed him”

The mother then look at the Jock confused, she said “excuse me?” ask the mother thinking that this might be some kind of a sick pedophile joke. The handsome Alpha Jock then answered “let me breastfed him, with the rising of the gay children in the modern world, the government has concluded that the men in the modern world just lack the testosterone and therefore, they have assign all of the Masculine Alpha(like myself) of the world who have overloaded of testosterone to be injected by the serum that can let them to produce natural healthy testosterone milk from their pec to feed little male babies that might turn gay, we don’t have a serum for lesbians because the government said that they like ‘lesbians’ as they are, because they’re hot” said the Alpha Jock casually.

The woman who wants to get away from him because she thought that this guy might be some kind of sick child predator, get stopped immediately by the handsome Alpha Jock and he said “Look just give it a try, you might thanked me for it later, what’s the worse thing that could happen?”

And so she did what the handsome Alpha Jock told her to do. She hand him her baby, and as the Alpha Jock is putting his pec inside the baby mouth, the baby suckled the pec so furiously, its seems like he hasn’t been fed for weeks. The baby then stop sucking the Alpha Jock pec and the Alpha Jock give the baby back to the woman.

The baby seems a little heavier now, and when the woman wants to continue to breastfed him, she has no problem with it. She hesitantly said “Thank you” to the Man who just suddenly disappear. A couple of years later well this is how the baby who is now a Man treats a woman

The woman always be grateful to the Alpha Jock ever since.

[transform4u]

Change in the Curriculum Too: Freshman Orientation

Professor Jonah Marks had always believed that Ardenmoor College was sacred ground. Nestled in the leafy hills of New England, it had once been a haven for oddballs, queers, and dreamers like himself—a refuge from the ordinary. Jonah had taught queer literature for nearly fifteen years, beloved by students for his dry wit, his passion for activism, and the gentle charm of a man who still wore bowties and suspenders unironically. His cozy office was full of books, rainbow flags, and photos of him and his husband Malcolm from Pride parades past.

He never thought it would end. Certainly not like this.

It all started with the arrival of Basel Rahmani.

Basel appeared in late August like a thunderstorm rolling in without warning. At the opening faculty convocation, Jonah first laid eyes on him: tall, broad, unsettlingly still. Basel stood at the edge of the auditorium stage in a finely tailored navy-blue blazer draped over a stark white kandura. His hair was jet-black, oiled, and parted with the precision of a scalpel. His face was handsome but sharp-edged, severe, as though he were carved from marble with no softness left intact.

Jonah noticed that he didn’t clap. Not once. Not even during the standing ovation for the student trans choir’s performance.

There was something wrong about the man. His cold, coal-black eyes barely moved, watching everyone, like a hawk among songbirds.

At the reception afterward, Basel shook hands with the Dean and exchanged a few polite, clinical pleasantries with other faculty. When Jonah offered a warm hello, Basel simply looked at him, eyes narrowing as though assessing something beneath his skin.

"Professor Marks, I presume. Queer Studies and... Literature?" he asked, the words rolling off his tongue like a challenge.

Jonah nodded, uneasy. "Yes. Since 2008."

Basel’s lips curled in what might have been a smile, but the corners of his eyes never moved. “I look forward to seeing what legacy you leave here.”

Jonah wasn’t sure what that meant. He felt cold the rest of the evening.

What the faculty didn’t know—what Jonah couldn’t know—was that Basel Rahmani was not merely a devout administrator or conservative moralist. He was something older, darker. He was the heir to a lineage of occult power hidden behind centuries of religious devotion. His ancestors once whispered to djinn in desert caverns; now, Basel wielded rites more ancient than the stones of Ardenmoor’s chapel.

He had come to cleanse the university of its “perversions.” And he had chosen Jonah Marks as his next sacrifice.

It began subtly. Jonah’s course schedule was mysteriously altered in the registrar’s system—half his classes reassigned or dropped entirely. In their place was a strange new elective he’d never proposed: Foundations of American Masculinity, listed under a student’s name: “J. Marks – Freshman Enrollee.”

Jonah stormed to the registrar’s office, confused and indignant. “There’s been some mistake,” he insisted.

The registrar shrugged helplessly. “It’s already approved by Rahmani. He said you were piloting a new mentorship program for underperforming male students.”

“What?!”

A polite, puzzled look. “You didn’t authorize it?”

Jonah tried to fight it, but his emails went unanswered. Malcolm told him to relax—“You’re tenured, honey. Just ride it out, fix it next semester.” Jonah tried to believe him.

But things only got worse.

Two days later, he received a university ID badge in his mailbox. It read: Jay Marks – Freshman Orientation Group B.

A note from Basel was tucked inside.

"New beginnings are often confusing. Embrace yours. – B.R."

Jonah scoffed. “What the hell is this?” But when he picked up the card, it felt warm in his fingers—as if it had just been printed, though it wasn’t. His name Jay shimmered faintly under the light, and for a moment, he felt dizzy, a strange pressure building in his temples.

He tossed the badge in a drawer.

That night, Jonah tossed and turned, plagued by strange dreams—visions of dorm rooms, locker rooms, red Solo cups, loud rap music, and pulsing bodies grinding in crowded frat basements. He awoke slick with sweat, the smell of cheap cologne lingering in his nose.

The next morning, his carefully ironed Oxford shirt felt tight across his shoulders. His bowtie wouldn’t stay straight. He didn’t notice at first the dark hairs peppering his collarbone, or the strange soreness in his legs, like he’d done squats in his sleep.

In the mirror, he thought his face looked... different. Not younger, but slightly altered—fuller lips, a squarer jawline. “Maybe I’m just tired,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

At class, Jonah’s students seemed oddly distracted. One, a theatre major named Elijah, giggled under his breath during a lecture. Jonah caught him after.

“Something amusing?” he asked.

Elijah blinked, then laughed. “No offense, prof, it’s just... you got this frat bro vibe today. Like, what’s with the Axe body spray?”

Jonah’s heart sank. He hadn’t used Axe since high school.

When he got home, Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “You change shampoos?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You smell like...locker room and beer. Kinda hot, actually.” Malcolm smirked, pulling him in. Jonah pulled away, disturbed.

Later that night, as Jonah undressed for bed, he found a new article of clothing in his dresser—a tight red tank top with “USA! USA!” across the front, stinking faintly of sweat and tobacco.

He didn’t own this. He didn’t even know anyone who did.

Down the hall, unseen by Jonah, Basel Rahmani stood in a shadowed doorway, watching. His dark eyes glinted as he whispered an incantation under his breath, fingers wrapped around a relic older than the university itself—a cracked stone medallion etched with the sigils of forgotten gods.

Jonah was changing. The first of many.

And by semester’s end, he would no longer remember ever being Professor Marks.

Basel would make sure of it.

Jonah stood outside the student center, clutching the orientation schedule he’d inexplicably received in the mail. He hadn’t signed up for anything, but the paper bore the Provost’s insignia and a note in that precise, ink-dark handwriting:

“Attendance is mandatory. No exceptions. – B.R.”

He was about to toss it in the trash when he saw his name printed across the top—not “Professor Jonah Marks,” but “Jay Marks, Freshman.”

He laughed, uneasy. “This has to be some sick prank.”

Malcolm urged him to complain to HR, but Jonah hesitated. Basel Rahmani was already behind so many strange, inexplicable changes: the new course, the sudden schedule reassignment, the odd aches in Jonah’s body, like he was outgrowing his clothes overnight.

Still, he went. Part of him wanted answers. Part of him was afraid not to go.

The student center was packed with sweaty, loud undergrads. Jonah cringed at the blaring music and smell of fried food and energy drinks. A grinning senior in a backwards cap clapped him on the back.

“Yo, Jay! You’re late, bro!”

Jonah recoiled. “I’m not—”

The guy shoved a lanyard around Jonah’s neck with a loud “ORIENTATION GROUP B – ALPHA SIGMA RUSH” badge on it.

“Let’s get you to the icebreaker, man. Chicks are already lining up!”

Jonah’s protests fell flat. He was swept into a throng of screaming freshmen, all pounding plastic cups of something that reeked of cheap vodka and artificial lime.

“Wait, no, I’m faculty, I—”

No one listened. Someone shoved a drink into his hand. The liquid burned his throat—but he couldn’t stop drinking.

His head swam. He stumbled to the restroom, heart pounding, skin itching.

That’s when it happened again.

Standing at the mirror, Jonah gasped. His reflection was off.

His hair was shorter, no longer the soft waves of salt-and-pepper but cropped close at the sides, darker, almost black. His cheeks looked fuller, his jaw… sharper. A faint shadow of stubble was pushing through skin that used to be clean-shaven.

He rubbed at his face—but the bristles only grew, thickening. His glasses slipped from his nose—his vision was perfect now. He stared in shock.

“W-what the hell...?”

His chest itched. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a strange tan line—like he’d spent hours shirtless in the sun, a frat bro’s tan, complete with faint pec outlines bulging where there should have been softness.

He tried to take a breath—but the smell hit him: AXE spray, sweat, and something else… protein powder and tobacco?

And then he saw them. In the stall behind him, folded neatly, were clothes.

Not his.

A neon green tank top. Mesh gym shorts. A “TRUMP 2028” snapback.

“No. No way,” Jonah breathed. He turned to leave—but the door wouldn’t budge.

Another note was taped to the wall:

“Wear your colors, Jay. Or be expelled. – B.R.”

His hands trembled. “This is insane.”

But something in him—something hot and foggy—wanted to obey.

Jonah stripped. The moment he pulled on the mesh shorts, he moaned. His legs flexed, thighs swelling with thick muscle, calves tightening into perfectly defined columns. His ass ballooned, tight and round, packed into the shorts like meat stuffed in casing.

As he yanked the tank over his head, his chest puffed out, pecs rounding into bouncy slabs of meat, nipples hard, jutting through the fabric. His arms burned, biceps bulging, veins crawling across his tanned skin.

His voice cracked, then deepened.

“Bro… fuckin’ tight,” he muttered.

He didn’t recognize his own voice.

Jonah stumbled back into the lounge. Everyone cheered.

“Jay’s here! Chug that beer, dude!”

He wanted to scream—to run—but the music pounded, the bass syncing with his heartbeat. His feet moved on their own, his hips grinding, body loose, cock hard in his shorts.

He barely noticed how empty his mind felt.

No lectures, no husband, no books.

Just… beer. Girls. Gains.

From a shadowed balcony, Basel watched with a faint smile, murmuring under his breath.

“Welcome to Ardenmoor, Jay. Let’s make you... permanent.”

It was raining when Jonah awoke. But he didn’t remember falling asleep.

He was sprawled on a grimy leather couch, shirtless, in a cluttered room reeking of BO, stale beer, and weed. He sat up slowly, his head pounding. His hands felt… wrong. Heavy. Veiny. He flexed them. Calloused. Fat fingers. Dumb fingers.

He blinked. Around him were banners: “ALPHA SIGMA – FAITH. BROTHERHOOD. DOMINANCE.” Empty cans littered the floor. On the wall, a framed Bible quote hung beneath a mounted shotgun.

Jonah staggered to a cracked mirror by the stairs.

He gasped.

His body had changed again.

His pecs jiggled slightly with each breath—huge, tanned, and sweaty. His abs flexed, perfectly sculpted, etched in bronzed muscle, a Roman numeral tattoo running beneath them: XIII. His shoulders had broadened, so wide that the frat house tank top barely contained them, soaked through with sweat and beer stains.

His hair was now short, stiff, and styled into a messy fauxhawk, streaked with bleach. A thick gold cross necklace dangled from his neck, bouncing against his chest.

His jaw was lined with dark stubble, and his lips were... puffier. Dumber. His mouth hung open as he stared at himself.

“…Bro?”

The word escaped his lips before he could stop it.

He stumbled into the hallway, which reeked of spilled Red Bull and cologne. The floorboards groaned under his heavier frame. His feet slapped in flip-flops, and he noticed that his toenails were painted—with the American flag.

Downstairs, the Alpha Sig guys were gathered around, watching a TikTok video of him… from last night.

Jonah—no, Jay—was shirtless, standing on a table, chugging spiked holy water while yelling:

“YOOOO, CHRIST IS KING, BABY!! BAPTIZE THIS DICK!!”

Laughter erupted.

“Jay, bro, you fucking legend!” one of the guys shouted, tossing him a protein bar. Jay caught it without thinking, peeled it, and bit down. His jaw cracked, growing broader.

“Fuckin’ love you guys,” he muttered, his voice lower. Dumber.

Someone smacked his ass. “Bible study’s in ten, bro.”

“Bible stu—?”

“It’s Sunday. You lead today, remember? Sermon and all.”

Jonah’s head swam. Bible study? Him? He tried to protest—but the words died in his throat. Something inside him wanted to preach.

In the frat’s chapel room, Jay stood in front of the other brothers, shirtless, holding a red solo cup full of beer in one hand and a dog-eared Bible in the other.

“S’like… Paul, right?” he slurred, “Paul was like, yo, don’t let no homo shit into the church, ya feel me? Like, God made pussy for a reason, and it’s like… a holy hole or whatever. Like… the Temple of the Lord, bro.”

Snickers. Claps.

Jay scratched his sweaty crotch, adjusting his hard-on through his mesh shorts. “Aight, time for a BAPTISM! Get the hose!”

The frat erupted in cheers as Jay led them outside, soaking pledges in beer while screaming about sin and “saving bitches for marriage.”

Later, in his frat house bedroom, Jonah tried to fight it.

He sat on the edge of his unmade bed—sheets crusted with cum, gym socks strewn everywhere. Workout posters adorned the walls. A giant Trump 2028 flag was pinned above the headboard.

He looked at his hands again. Tattoos had appeared across his knuckles: “BLES” on one hand, “SED” on the other.

“Fuck... I’m...I’m not this... I’m—”

But his phone buzzed.

A message from Basel.

“Well done, Jay. You’re becoming exactly what this campus needs. Finish your journey. Lead. Dominate. Breed.”

Jonah screamed, throwing the phone—but then caught his reflection again. He stared at his dumb, hot, smirking face.

He hated it. And loved it.

“Bro...I look sick,” he whispered. His cock twitched.

Then he farted, loud and wet, and laughed. “Fucken’ stank... hell yeah.”

His phone buzzed again.

It was a video. Himself, in the dorm showers, fucking some freshman girl, calling her “God’s gift” and moaning about breeding her holy hole.

Jonah watched in horror as he climaxed, chanting, “Praise the Lord! I fuck for Jesus, baby!”

He tried to scream.

But all that came out was a dumb laugh and the words:

“Bro, I need to prank some pledges...”

His eyes were glassy now. Thoughts slow. Words simple.

He was barely Jonah anymore.

Jonah Marks was gone.

Even the name felt foreign, distant, like a dream he couldn’t quite remember. But Zack Carmichael? That name felt perfect. Natural. Born to wear it.

“ZACK, BRO, PARTY’S LIT AS FUCK!” someone yelled from the yard.

Zack grinned, gold cross glinting, pecs bouncing as he shotgunned a beer in one practiced motion.

“HELLLL YEAH, PUSSY HUNTERS, LET’S FUCKING GO!” Zack screamed, arms flexed, veins bulging, as the frat yard erupted in cheers.

Zack Carmichael was 18. A legacy. His dad was rich as fuck, big donor to the school, which meant Zack could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

He was ripped to hell, covered in stupid tribal tats, and dripping in sweat from a day of shirtless beer pong, flexing for his TikTok followers.

And holy shit, he loved himself. Zack Carmichael knew he was hot shit—and he made sure everyone else knew it, too.

“Yo, yo, yo,” Zack bellowed, loud as hell, stomping into the frat house bathroom with a bottle of bourbon and zero respect for personal space.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

“DAMN, I’m a fuckin’ STUD,” he slurred, grabbing his huge cock through his shorts, flexing his filthy pits in the mirror. The room reeked of sweat, cheap cologne, and cum.

Just the way he liked it.

His eyes drifted lazily to the TRUMP 2028 sticker on the mirror. He kissed it.

“Ain’t lettin’ no fuckin’ libs ruin my God-given right to PUSSY, BRO.”

He laughed—loud, cruel, stupid.

Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Zack stomped in, shirtless, chugging spiked Mountain Dew, and hollering at girls.

“Ay, baby girl, lookin’ THICC, come get BRED by a real man!”

Girls giggled nervously, guys cheered, and Zack felt invincible.

He grabbed the mic near the DJ.

“Aight, LISTEN UP, BITCHES. Y’all know me—ZACK CARMICHAEL. Star QB, Alpha Sig RUSH CHAIR, and the SEXIEST motherfucker this campus has ever seen. Ain’t here to read books. I’m here to FUCK, DRINK, and SPREAD THE WORD—JESUS IS KING, AND PUSSY IS HOLY.”

The crowd lost it.

Later, Zack staggered into his room, lit only by neon lights, flags of America, Trump, and Alpha Sig plastered everywhere.

On the wall, a dusty plaque.

“Professor Jonah Marks – Tenure Award.”

He squinted.

“The fuck’s this…?”

He stared at it, confused. Then he farted loudly, slapped his meaty ass, and threw the plaque in the trash.

“Dumb gay shit. That ain’t me.”

He collapsed on his cum-stained bed, scrolling TikTok, posting his latest shirtless rant about liberals and hot chicks.

As he passed out, burping, the phone lit up.

Message from Basel:

“Well done, Zack. Ardenmoor is yours now.”

The lecture hall was chaos. Frat guys tossed crumpled notes across the aisles, and the air smelled like Monster energy, sweat, and chewing tobacco. Zack Carmichael strolled in fifteen minutes late, wearing cut-off gym shorts, a tank top that read “GOD FIRST, PUSSY SECOND”, and flip-flops that slapped with every step.

“Yo, what’s up sluts,” he yelled as he plopped into a desk, legs spread wide, scratching his musk-soaked nuts without shame. He flexed his ripped arms, pecs bouncing, and leaned back, grinning.

“Yo, is this even a real class?” he asked, turning to the girl next to him.

She giggled.

Her name was Lexi Grace. Tall, blonde, with perfect fake tits barely contained in a crop top that read “BLESSED & BRATTY.” Her spray tan glowed, and her cross necklace bounced between her cleavage.

Once upon a time, Lexi had been Dr. Alexandra Grayson, a brilliant biology professor, and outspoken lesbian activist.

Now? She was Lexi Grace, a dumb, horny freshman Christian girl with daddy issues and a breeding kink.

“Ugh, I know, right?” Lexi purred, twirling her bleached hair. “I, like, totally thought this was, like, bio lab? But I guess now it’s, like… Bible study with Coach Tucker or whatever?”

Zack smirked.

“Bible study, huh? You tryna get BAPTIZED, babe?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, reaching over to squeeze her thigh.

Lexi gasped. “Oh my GOSH, Zack, stoppp, I’m SAVED now, remember? No touchin’ til marriage... unless you like, really wanna breed me.”

He laughed loud, farted, then chugged his energy drink, letting it spill down his chiseled chest.

“Shiiiit, babe, I’ll put a baby in you right here in Jesus’ name.”

Lexi bit her lip.

“Omigod, blesssedddd,” she moaned, crossing her legs as her eyes glazed over. “You’re, like, sooo hot. I used to, like, HATE men, but now I’m like... obsessed with alpha Christian kings like you.”

Zack leaned in close, his sweaty pits reeking, breath heavy with bourbon and gum.

“Praise God for that. Pussy’s his greatest gift, no cap.”

Lexi giggled, grinding against the desk.

As Coach Tucker stumbled in to “teach,” neither of them paid attention.

They didn’t need to.

They were young, hot, and stupid.

Jonah Marks never existed.

Zack Carmichael was born—and he fucking LOVED it.

[alphajocklover]

Will you ever make a sequel to the Best club in town?

Toxic was once the only gay club in a large area that was mysteriously and rapidly turning into a straight homophobic paradise, with every gay club and LGBTQ space transforming, along with their owners and patrons, into a sexy, dumb, arrogant, straight and homophobic version of themselves. Gay clubs into straight hook up scenes, cute twinks into beefy douchebags, lesbian couples into pairs of bimbos looking for a macho man. Toxic was, ironically, the only gay club in a 50 mile area that hadn’t been corrupted by a wave of sleazy toxic masculinity. It was a little over a year ago that Toxic, and the last gay people in the area, fell to the strange phenomenon, and I’m terrified to say that the area of affect has increased exponentially. It isn’t happening all in one area. If it was, people would have definitely noticed by now. But dozens, maybe hundreds of similar areas to the one I introduced to you last year have popped up all over the world. 

Take these two young men for example. About half a day ago they were a pair of cute, twinky boyfriends who were going on a vacation to the big city to check on some of their friends who had gone strangely quiet. By the time they found their old friends, who had themselves been transformed, they were a pair of partying muscle bros who were just happy to show off their beefy muscles and hunt for a hot MILF to spitroast. Course they’d only be looking at the stacked slut they were fucking. What kind of sissy would wanna look at another guy's cock? Not real men like them.

Since more of these areas have started to show up, it’s been more and more difficult to tell where they will show up. Gay clubs, pro LGBTQ protests, and other places where members of the community are more likely to show up are still the most common areas, but these days they can be found anywhere, all over the world, with some appearing and disappearing, and others staying around permanently. This man, for example, was an archaeology major who was incredibly excited to go on his first dig in Egypt, especially since he knew his favorite professor, and not-so-secret crush, would be leading the expedition. He never showed up at the digsite, transforming into a frat boy who was brought along to lift some of the heavy equipment and whose only reason for agreeing to be there was because he wanted to brag to his frat brothers that he got to fuck some forgein pussy.

The more I learn about this, the more I start to think that someone is behind it all. Well there doesn’t appear to be a specific pattern on where these strange ‘toxic zones’ will show up, they never seem to miss, always transforming at least one gay person into hetero douche. These two were a couple on their honeymoon at a beautiful lakehouse they had rented, and just happened to drive their rented boat through a small toxic zone in the middle of the lake. The zone was there for less than an hour before it disappeared, but it was still able to turn a newly married couple into a pair of bros who just wanted to drink, fish, and talk about how annoying ‘feminist’ and ‘fucking fags’ were without someone calling them out.

From what I can tell, there's about 2,500 square miles of toxic zones in the world at any given time. Its growth has slowed down recently, but the sheer amount of space this transformation covers is startling. 2,500 square miles is larger than some countries. Who would have enough power to transform an entire country's worth of people? And… are they ever going to stop?

[stenchsensibility-deactivated20]

Make America Alpha Again

Thanks to @malefootjunkie for the inspiration behind this story.

“Baby! Have you seen this new legislation?”

Tate put down his phone. His boyfriend, César, rushed into the living room, still in the baby blue tee and loose boxer shorts he had worn to bed the night before. César was not usually the anxious type. In fact, he was often the one to calm Tate down, not the other way around. But Tate could not deny the scattered look in his boyfriend’s eyes as he took a seat beside him on the couch.

“What did that idiot do now?” Tate huffed. Ever since Donald Trump had won the election it seemed there was a new headline that somehow was always worse than the last.

“It’s about the new Hierarchy Act.” Tate sobered up immediately, a rush of adrenaline and cortisol released into his bloodstream. “Trump expedited the procedures and got Congress to pass it today.”

“Both the Senate and House?” Tate followed up with a question he already knew the answer to, “But he can’t just do that, can he?”

César gulped, “He can, and he did. I just watched the livestream signing the bill into law.”

The gravity of the situation began to dawn on Tate. The initiatives and verbiage of the actual bill were unknown, but the rumors had begun as soon as it was proposed. Medical testing, second-class citizens, conversion camps. The Hierarchy Act was designed to eliminate homosexuality.

Among the many questions and worries that began to overrun Tate’s mind, the issue of appearances floated at the top. With a mix of European heritages and a tame wardrobe, Tate was luckily not a major target. But one peep of his effeminate voice would easily give him away. However, he was not concerned about himself in the slightest.

“César…” Tate started, although he was unsure of what to say. Not only was his boyfriend queer, but he was already targeted by the government’s other programs. While a natural-born citizen, his parents had immigrated from Mexico before César was born. Their process had been legal, but the genetically tanned skin and silky black hair were enough to already put them on shaky grounds. 

“It’s ok, I’m ok.” The César Tate had grown to know and love was slowly reappearing. While a bit on the shorter and scrawnier side, César’s optimistic go-with-the-flow attitude always made him appear larger than life and its challenges. “And we will be ok,” César continued, shifting himself a little bit closer to Tate.

They held a moment of silence before proceeding forward. “So what are the first steps? What have they told us so far?”

César sighed. “It’s not great. Well, it’s honestly really bad. This is what they shared on the White House social media accounts about 30 minutes ago.”

César turned his phone towards Tate, displaying the post. He almost did not believe it at first, the advertisement was dystopian in nature.

“So they just used the f-slur,” Tate was appalled. “I’ve almost full-circled from shocked back to numb.”

“After a few Google searches I wasn’t able to find what the ‘punishments’ were,” César stated, referring to the bottom of the post. “But I can only imagine they’re typical of any other fascist regime.”

Tate decided not to follow that conversation thread. He had read enough history books back in school. “So what are you saying?”

César shifted his attention from Tate back to his phone.

“Don’t.” Tate read his boyfriend’s mind. “There is no way ‘hierarchy.gov/serve’ is real. Just hold on, let’s do some more research.”

“I won’t actually do anything,” César said. “I’m just curious about what the site looks like. Plus, it might have some more information about the actual legislation.”

Tate did not believe his boyfriend’s reasoning, but he had to admit that he was at least a little curious about where the link went. Without protesting again, he watched on as César’s finger opened the site.

First, the screen was blank, nothing more than a background of light gray. A small chat box appeared at the top, the font a classic, American blue.

Registering homosexual male…

“Wow…” Tate muttered in disbelief.

Registration successful. Homosexual recognized as CÉSAR HERNÁNDEZ.

“It registered you just based on facial recognition?” Tate remarked. César did not respond, his eyes transfixed onto the screen. The chat box was then replaced by a loading screen, a simple spiral in the Maximum red that represented everything against the couple’s existence. For a couple of minutes, the pair sat there quietly, watching the spiral continue its rotation. Tate turned every now and then to check on César, who appeared completely focused on the screen. He assumed his boyfriend was trying to hold back any more encroaching anxiety, so Tate held his breath.

Activating RED PILL protocol…

“César,” Tate quietly began, inching himself away. “I think we should exit the site.” But his boyfriend did no such thing. César’s face was lifeless, giving no indication to whether he had even registered the request. Tate was about to repeat himself, but then the phone’s screen began to flash with messages.

BROTHERHOOD

BE AN ALPHA

LIVE FOR MALE PRIDE

“César?” Alarmed, Tate turned to his boyfriend, hoping for any kind of response. At an emotive level, nothing had changed, but physically something had begun. The black hairs across César’s body had launched straight up and goosebumps had instantaneously covered his skin. But Tate’s eyes were locked onto his boyfriend’s pouch, the average-sized dick creating a tentpole in the loose boxers.

NOT ALL MEN ARE BORN EQUAL

BE THE ONE WHO SETS THE RULES

MALE HIERARCHY

“César!” Tate tried to grab the phone, but it was locked into place. His boyfriend was not that strong to begin with, but it was like the device was glued into César’s hands. César did not even flinch as Tate got up, using all his might to try to move the phone.

BROTHERHOOD

BE AN ALPHA

LIVE FOR MALE PRIDE

While Tate attempted to release the phone from his boyfriend’s iron grip, César’s body began to develop. It was gradual at first, the skin along his body tingling with anticipation, its soft structure becoming malleable. A little give in the triceps would allow for a little room in the quadricep. A pull at his deltoids opened up an opportunity for the glutes. Eventually, the effects became visible.

NOT ALL MEN ARE BORN EQUAL

BE THE ONE WHO SETS THE RULES

MALE HIERARCHY

“César…baby?” Tate stopped what he was doing, backing away. His boyfriend was growing before his very eyes, expanding upon the couch. Still frozen in the same position, the horrified Tate observed helplessly as César’s musculature bulged and bloated in every available plot of real estate. Even his height was increasing, his head and extending shoulder blades ultimately climbing above the backrest of the couch. Of average height and weight, Tate had never felt intimidated by his boyfriend before, but César’s expeditious growth was swiftly overshadowing him.

FEEL THE MALE POWER

EMBRACE MASCULINITY

THE FUTURE IS PATRIARCHY

From the opposite side of the room, Tate watched his boyfriend’s face become coated in red light. The spiral on César’s screen had doubled in size, its influence strengthening as its agenda began to seep into César’s supple mind. As if using an invisible laser, the fringes of César’s existence were slowly burnt away. The lowest hanging fruit was unceremoniously ripped off, each exposing a deeper idea, memory, or core facet of César’s personality.

BE PROUD TO BE A TOXIC MALE

BE PROUD TO HAVE A PENIS

BE PROUD TO BE WHITE AND THICK

Tate struggled to comprehend that the muscular jock before him was still César. His kind, loving César. The witty socializer who could crack a joke at any party with any crowd. The valiant hero boyfriend who had caught him after he had slipped on some ice while leaving their first date. The caring best friend who despite how bad things seemed was always able to find something positive. But as Tate reminisced about these characteristics, each was individually eradicated from César’s inner being.

FEEL THE MALE POWER

EMBRACE MASCULINITY

THE FUTURE IS PATRIARCHY

Silently, Tate began to weep, paralyzed by fear. César’s growth had finally concluded, the man before him nearly double the size of what his boyfriend should have been. But the program was not finished. César’s boxer shorts began to collapse, deflating into a pair of emerald boxer briefs that hugged tight against the meaty thighs and still rigid cock. The hue of his tee followed, its shade discreetly darkening into a more patriotic navy. Tate watched as white letters began to emerge from underneath the cotton, their message one of obedience and loyalty to the new agenda.

BE PROUD TO BE A TOXIC MALE

BE PROUD TO HAVE A PENIS

BE PROUD TO BE WHITE AND THICK

A bright red echoing the phone screen appeared over César’s head, materializing into cloth before crawling downward and creating a cap that matched the new shirt. Once secured, César’s hair lightened into a dull brown, to which the rest of his body hair followed. Tate’s heart pumped faster as he watched the red light upon his boyfriend’s face grow stronger, but he promptly realized that the screen had not changed its graphics. César was being bleached out before him, his heritage washed away from his skin to leave behind a socially-acceptable shade of white. The slightest details were made to cement César’s new genetic line: his nose grew a bit wider, his feet considerably larger, and his pouch inflated to a size built for a sole purpose–to breed.

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO BROTHERHOOD

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO PATRIARCHY

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO SUPERIORITY

The commands began to flash at a much faster pace, strobing César in the villainous red light. At this point, the man was nothing more than an empty husk, his entire internal existence erased. Every core memory, every inherited trait, and every piece of César’s personality had been scrubbed away. His colorful individuality had been whitened into nothing more than a generic, blank canvas.

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO BROTHERHOOD

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO PATRIARCHY

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO SUPERIORITY

Tradition. Family. Nationalist Pride. These were among the doctrines being implanted into César’s mind. A childhood governed by a strict father, a homebound mother, a local church, and a rural community. An adolescence learning the lessons of older generations, the privileges of his upbringing, and the fact that a man can only rely on himself. And a young adulthood advocating for the abolishment of abortion, the sanctity of marriage, and most importantly, the prioritization of his rights above all others.

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO BROTHERHOOD

César’s cock was like a rocket prepared to launch, already aimed towards the sky and ready for takeoff.

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO PATRIARCHY

He was to be a straight, white, republican man. He wanted to be a straight, white, republican man.

SHOOT YOUR LOAD TO SUPERIORITY

He wanted everyone to be a straight, white, republican man.

RED PILL protocol complete. Thank you CRAIG HENDERSON for doing your part in helping Make America Great Again.

Speechless, Tate watched as the man before him exploded into masculine ecstasy. Wave after wave of his superior matter burst forth into the tight boxer briefs, each holding the capacity to create an entire generation. Yet by the time the man finished, the evidence of his sexual glory had disappeared, the fabric dry and his member flaccid within the confines of the pouch.

“...baby?” The words slipped from Tate’s lips. The man had finally put down the phone, breaking Tate from his stunned spell. 

“Shut up, faggot,” Craig snarled. Tate flinched, once again frozen like a deer in headlights. Craig’s voice reeked of masculine authority and privilege, “Show me where you belong.” 

Delicately, Tate lowered himself to his knees. He did not recoil as he was presented with a funky, monstrous foot, his thoughts focused purely on obedience. The alpha male then flexed his giant muscles, providing a further display of his dominance.

“Show your support for the new regime, faggot.” Each time he used that word, a fragile valve in Tate’s heart broke. “You exist to serve straight, white, republican men. Men like me.”

Craig observed, repulsed, as the lowly faggot crawled forward and began kissing his godly sole. He wished to make good use of his new slave, but he knew that his glorious leader had gifted upon him a higher purpose. With the pathetic servant distracted, Craig picked up the other phone and entered the link into the search engine. As soon as the light gray background appeared, he flipped the screen away from him.

“Time to embrace the hierarchy."

[transform4u]

Drop the link bro

[transform4u]

My boyfriend and I are definitely heading towards a break-up, which sucks. I was on our home computer and saw a he had looked up "how to break-up with your boyfriend without hurting his feelings", etc. Truth is, he's always been a bit passive and doesn't like to hurt people's feelings and I'm more about working things out. Well, the other day I was one the computer and noticed things like "gay to straight" and "jock tf" and "lib to con" and "amicablly breaking up with your straight boyfriend" in his search history. Weird shit- right? Well now he's telling me he wants to show me something and I'm plannng to ask him about all this stuff he's been looking up.

You’re sitting at your desk, the glow of your shitty old monitor lighting your face, when you notice the search bar autocomplete filling with weird-ass shit. Not your stuff. Not your typing.

"gay to straight transformation device dark web legit?" "amicably breaking up with your straight boyfriend" "jock tf live reality" "liberal to conservative curse?"

Your stomach drops. It’s his computer too, but you know damn well those aren’t your searches. Your boyfriend — soft, conflict-avoidant, the kind of guy who would rather write a notes app apology than raise his voice — has been looking this shit up.

At first you tell yourself it’s some porn rabbit hole, some freaky kink click-through. But you remember what you saw last week in the history: "how to break up with your boyfriend without hurting his feelings." And that stung. You’d already been feeling the cracks, the long silences at dinner, the way he doesn’t touch you first anymore. Now this?

You’re just about to dig deeper when his voice comes from the doorway. “Babe… come here. I wanna show you something.”

You spin, nerves taut. He’s standing there, half-smile plastered on, but his hand’s clutching something behind his back. A cheap little black plastic gadget with a red button, like something from a dollar store sci-fi movie.

“What the fuck are you holding?” you ask, ready to blow this all open, confront him about the history, the lies, the weird-ass shit.

Instead he steps closer, tone casual but with an edge. “It’s… something I found. Don’t laugh. It’s from a site you can’t normally get to. They said… anything I say while holding this? Becomes real. No questions, no delay. Just… boom. Reality locked.”

You scoff, but your throat’s dry. “What, like a magic wand? You’ve been looking up ‘jock tf’ and now you wanna LARP Harry Potter? I want to talk about our relationship”

He ignores you, raises the thing like it’s a mic, and says with this strange firmness you’ve never heard from him before: “What relationship? You’re not my boyfriend. You’re just my straight-ass roommate. Nothing more.”

And it’s like a hammer slams into your skull. You stagger, clutching your temples. Heat flares in your face, in your gut. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but the words tangle in your throat. And as the migraine spikes, you see it — pictures on your wall melting, Polaroids of the two of you kissing warping into dumb group shots of keggers. Your phone contact list shuffles, his name dropping from “boyfriend ❤️” to “Roomie Kev 🍺.”

“Dude… what the fuck,” you croak, your voice already slipping down a register, less sharp, more lax, like some hungover college guy.

He laughs, giddy, holding the thing tighter. “Holy shit, it worked. You felt that, didn’t you?”

You try to protest, to say we were dating, you asshole, but the thought slides out of reach, replaced by this dull certainty that you’ve been living in this two-bedroom off-campus apartment with him for a couple years, nothing special, just roommates splitting rent. The memories are all jumbled — your first kiss is gone, replaced by the time you both got drunk and stole a traffic cone.

You stumble to the mirror in the hall. Your face looks the same — for now. But your hair feels greasier, your posture sagging just slightly. You smell your own breath and wince — stale beer, not toothpaste.

Behind you he grins wider, pressing the device to his chest like it’s a holy relic. “This is just the start, bro. Trust me… I’m gonna make us so much better.”

And your head won’t stop pounding.

You’re leaning against the wall, skull buzzing like someone’s splitting it open with a screwdriver. The air feels thick, sour, like the room hasn’t been aired out in weeks. Kev’s pacing now, that ugly little gadget clutched in his hand, and he’s got that manic look — the one he gets when he’s found some new “lifehack” online that he won’t shut up about.

“Dude… you seriously can’t,” you mutter, your words slurring into something less sharp, less you. “That shit—whatever you just did—it fucked with my head. I can’t… remember right.”

He stops, smirks, and presses the button with his thumb like it’s a toy. “Nah bro. You’re just my roommate. Always been my roommate. We’ve never dated. We’re just… two dumb straight dudes sharing a place, right?”

Your chest lurches. The weight of it sinks in. Photos of Pride parades, gone. The rainbow sticker you know was on your laptop, now replaced with a faded sticker of a football team you don’t even follow. Your closet shifts — bright shirts dull into rows of hoodies and cheap polos.

Your voice comes out weaker this time, defensive but already flattening: “The fuck, man, I… we… no, we weren’t always…” But then it just dies off, replaced by a memory of you two moving boxes into this place after freshman year, talking about how “college bitches were gonna love us.”

Your throat tastes like vomit. Your head’s fogged.

Kev’s grinning now, pacing like a preacher working up a sermon. He lifts the device, says casually, “And like, we’re not into guys, man. We’re both straight as fuck. Always drooling over chicks, right? Like, big tits, tight asses, that’s our shit.”

You grab the edge of the wall, groaning. The words echo inside your skull until they’re not just his voice anymore — they’re your own voice, saying it in unison. Suddenly every hookup memory you’ve got is gone, replaced by blurry, shitty images of parties where you “almost scored” with some drunk sorority girl. Your stomach knots with shame, but also with hunger. Hunger for girls.

You choke out: “N-no, dude, I’m not… I’m not into—” But the words dissolve. The idea of sucking a guy’s dick feels revolting now, like licking trash. The thought of tits in your face? Your cock twitches without permission.

Kev laughs, notices you shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah bro, we’re the worst. Straight-up pussydrunk. Fuckin’ born to smash, not this gay shit.”

Your reflection in the hallway mirror has slipped further. Shoulders hunched, neck looser, a little puffier around the jaw. Your skin’s slick with sweat you didn’t notice building. You smell awful — like gym socks, beer breath, a whiff of stale Axe.

Kev watches you like a scientist observing a rat in a maze. “Shit, look at you. Already looking like a roommate, not a boyfriend.” He grins, pushes it further: “And like… we’re both in college. Twenty years old, pledging the frat together. Dumb as shit, living for keggers.”

It hits like a sledgehammer. Your memories of work, of life outside campus, evaporate like spit on hot asphalt. You’re suddenly back in a cramped frat basement — keg stands, yelling dudes, someone puking in a trash can. Your desk with books and news articles? Gone, replaced with a cheap plastic folding table covered in Natty Light cans and crusty red Solo cups.

“Dude, my head,” you groan, rubbing your temples, “this is… fuckin’ wrong.”

But when you hear yourself, your voice is already dumber, lazier, vowels dragged down like some half-stoned bro.

Kev slaps your shoulder, laughing with mean delight. “Nah man, it’s right. This is us. Dumbass bros, livin’ the dream.”

You want to fight it, to scream about who you were — but all that comes to mind now is a vague memory of almost failing Intro Psych because you kept skipping class to lift weights.

And the worst part? Your body tingles like it likes it.

Kev’s eyes are wild now, drunk on the power of that little black box. You’re slumped on the couch, sweating through your shirt, head thick with fog. Every time he speaks, reality cracks harder. Your chest aches like your ribs are stretching, your brain buzzing like someone poured bleach into it.

Kev lifts the device again, grinning. “Bro, this roommate shit’s good… but let’s make it real perfect.”

He presses the button. “We’re not just roommates. We’re brothers. Frat bros. Twenty years old. Dumb as fuck, always shirtless, always schemin’ on pussy.”

Your spine arches with a jolt. You clutch your stomach as fat melts off, muscles knotting in its place. Not sculpted — sloppy frat gains, puffy pecs, arms thick but veiny. Your shirt tears at the seams as your shoulders widen. Sweat pours down your back, thick and sour.

“Dude—fuck—my head,” you groan, but your voice cracks into a lazy, dumb drawl. “Bro… my… my gains, man…”

Kev grunts too, doubling over, his soft frame bulking out beside you. His face roughens, jaw squaring, acne scars surfacing. His hair shortens into a greasy buzzcut. He rips his own shirt off, flexing dumbly, drooling at his own reflection.

The room shifts again. No more apartment. Dingy off-campus frat house. Walls stained with beer, posters of bikini models and American flags taped up crooked. Your desk is gone — now it’s a busted-up futon covered in stains.

Kev laughs, voice breaking into a crude rasp: “Fuck yeah, bro. We’re Theta Pi, man. Fuck books, fuck smarts, we’re just beer, pussy, and Jesus.”

The words burrow in. College courses you cared about—gone. Your memory of voting in the last election—gone. Instead: vague recollections of “yelling at libs on Twitter” between bong rips.

You try to protest, but all that comes out is: “Yooo… we gotta get some bitches over, bro.”

Your cock twitches in your sweats — small, embarrassingly so — but your brain treats it like a weapon. Your stomach clenches with raw, stupid horniness. Tits. Ass. Nothing else matters.

Kev wobbles toward you, still flexing, sweat dripping down his forehead. “And yo, we’re straight as fuck, man. Like, no homo. We hate that shit. Always been about pussy. Always will be.”

Your heart seizes. The last threads of memory—holding hands with him, kissing him, the warmth of a real boyfriend—rip apart like wet paper. What’s left is nothing but shared drunken nights, jerking off to Pornhub side by side, calling each other “no homo” when you did it.

You look at him—no, your bro—and it clicks. You’ve never been boyfriends. You’ve never been gay. You’re two dumb conservative frat dudes, horny, stinking, bored with everything except tits and beer.

The final blow comes when Kev raises the box, grins wide, and shouts: “Yo, we’re just average-ass boring bros. Nothin’ special. Just straight-up brahs, small dicks, big mouths, livin’ for the frat.”

Your body locks. Your brain caves. You grunt, rubbing your greasy buzzed head, and a dopey smirk spreads across your face. You like being nothing special. Just another forgettable frat retard, muscles sloppy, balls aching, mind empty.

Kev tosses the device aside — forgotten, irrelevant. He slaps your back so hard you nearly puke. “Fuck yeah, bro. We made it. No gay shit, no boring boyfriend crap. Just us. Bros.”

You laugh stupidly, voice deeper, dumber. “Hell yeah, bro. Bros forever.”

The stink of beer and sweat fills your nose. The thought of who you were before? Doesn’t even exist.

You and Kev—no, Brad and Kyle now—are just two obnoxious, horny, Christian frat boys. Small dicks, big egos, dumb as bricks, ready to party, pray, and pump.

[onelinerbust]

You Approve This Message: Domino

The buzz spread around the campus like wildfire, enabling the most toxic personality traits and thoughts of each students to the surface and molding them into an entirely different human being as reality shifted to adjust to the changes that happened

---

The dorm adjacent to Cas' experienced the most immediate impact. The soft-spoken and well-mannered Howie noticed the stink that his body produced as his sister pointed out about how his hair looked better when it's left growing and his physical transformation despite only been away for a year. That's when Howie realized that he no longer wears shirt and his long trainers already turned into a rather colorful short he would never pick up from the store. Looking at his screen and himself in horror, Harley is unable to stop his transformation into a long-haired stoner-skater that squeezed into the uni because his parents already sick with him and leveraged their donation to practically exile him away from the rest of the family. As the reality shift continues, the call also redirected from his sister to a fellow sophomore that he's been seeing for the past three weeks, when in reality the girl barely knew Harley. Yet, the message corrupted that reality and made sure Harley's seductive lies and toned skater body drive her wild and wet, she cannot think straight and simply fall to the temptation as she'll make the walk to Harley's dorm and let his 9 inchers monstrosity to wreck her hole

Harley's roommate also quickly affected by the message and as Harley turned around to tell his mates that the girl he's been seeing on and off is about to come by, all three of the now-stud just stared at Harley and scoffed

"And? Everything that walks through that door is ours to share bro, remember that?"

And Harley just grinned as the message coupled with the statement from Mario corrupted him even further as memories of them passing around girls that walked into their dorm room intensified in his brain, pretending to be real memories that Harley couldn't even decipher as mere manipulation of the corruptive message. Instead, he found his cock swells to its longest state, already leaking pre and ready to pounce as soon as she walks through the door

---

In the other room, Thomas the fat fuck lost his stubborn belly fat and his chubby face as his phone electrocuted him as soon as the message hit. As his eyes glitched after the fall and he tried to balance himself, reality shifted around him as his neatly organized room turned into a typical messy dorm belonged to an aspiring collegiate athlete with inconsistent discipline filled with cheat days, parties and all the good things that a charming jock can get just by using his face and his body. His form altered drastically from 6'2, 290lbs that mostly comprised of fat and water into a 5'11, 189lbs with merely 12% body fat.

His roommate Dexter and Joshua also got their fair share of transformation, both Political Science students getting a bit of an adjustment beyond their physique and mentality as their political ideology somehow corrupted by the message. The two climate activist recently dabbled into the kind of thinking more associated to the libertarian when it comes to the protection of Earth's from climate change. Yet, the message skewed that recent exploration into something much more sinister as the message turned them into full-blown libertarian with the foundational belief that government should not interfere with anything about private matters. Government should stay away from trying to mitigate climate crisis. Government should stop policing free speech. Government should stop trying to control gun ownership. Everything should involve government as little as possible, and Dax found it to be very easy to sell this idea to uninformed college jocks that has shaky political allegiance and can still be molded further into their cause. Dax got Josh to join the cause and now they are targeting Tommy to join their movement next, they just need to keep up with Tommy's insatiable lust for partying, fucking anything that moves and working out with his teammates, something both of them can definitely do as they are blessed with the right type of physicality and charm to blend in with Tommy's fit and a little bit airheaded crowd.

---

Spread further in the building, an innocent fit check in the bathroom by the preppy honor student Lukas turned into a thirst-trap sesh as he developed a set of rippling abs that looked like it's been carved by Michelangelo himself.

The snap he recently captured then found its way into the phones of the girls he used to have a crush on yet never dared to reach out, all zapped by the memory-altering selfie as all of them hit with the false memories of getting bred by Luke's uncut cock in their respective dorm. Now, with their long acrylic nails, they typed as fast as they can to be the one replying the first to Luke and get the privilege to be tossed around like a ragdoll by the swimming champion

In the other bathroom still in the same building but different wing, Shaun's preppy Ralph Lauren Oak Bluffs piece vanished into thin air and replaced by a tight black tank top that hugged his now massive pecs. His now-massive arms added some sense of dominance in his imposing stature, a testament of hard work that he put in the gym all throughout the years and he will only get bigger from now on. Memories of countless nights he spent solving math equation and physics formula replaced with brutal workout imposed by his wrestling coach in high school until he gained the full-ride scholarship to attend this uni. He of course chose Business Administration as his major, that's the easiest one to handle with his aspiration to become an Olympic wrestler for his beloved US of A by the time he graduated uni. But this is off-season now after a stellar first year here and he's interested to spend his nights out with some chicks that's been popping up in his DM's.

---

The entire occupants of the rec room stared at each other awkwardly as the message entered their inbox. The collective realization of the impending danger to their identity caused the message to respond with even more intensity, their entire surrounding vanished before they found themselves reappearing in the campus gym. Percy and Gerard flexed for a snap they sent to the cheerleaders that now they called as their girlfriend, informing them about their pump and how the girls better prepare their holes for a wild ride that will last all night long as both boys just got this experimental drug from the Coach that makes them horny as fuck!

In contrast to the boisterous nature shown by Perry and Gary, Giovanni and Samuel acted a bit more subtle in their approach. A nonchalant lean and a stoic expression while their muscle looking at its tip-top condition, the selfie ended up in their IG story that can only be accessed only by the people dumb enough to subscribe to their IG, desperate to have access to the more private views and visual of the two jocks. They shown the base of their cock once, teasing their mindless followers enough to send them to a frenzy, but only the most loyal and the one that they deemed hot enough have full access to worship their godly body. Calling themselves godly when both of them took minor in Religious Studies were ironic, but those were their old identities and they are no longer associating themselves with that past lives. The only thing that filled Joe's and Sam's mind now is how much money they will rack by the end of the month and what kind of things their devoted followers will buy for them so they don't need to use those cold, hard cash they earned for stuffs that their followers will get them.

These boys never resisted their message, what about you? What is the benefit of resisting the message other than missing out the fast lane to a life only you could dream of? If the message appears once more in your inbox, will you succumb to it and let it mold you into your ultimate, repressed desire? Or will you stupidly resist it once again?

---

Thank you @vindictivenerdcels for the input and one sub-plot here, appreciate your support that push me through to finish this draft that's been sitting since April and went through so many revisions.

[transform4u]

Gods and Demons, Time for Rest

The lights dim first in the corners of the world—softly, like a hush settling over a stage just before the final curtain. Somewhere, far beyond the reach of time and traffic, Tharnis Grimboron exhales. It is not a breath, not truly. It is the release of a thousand bound desires, a slow unwinding of want, of hunger, of change. His clawed fingers curl against stone. He has worked long and well. Now, he must rest.

Robin Morningstar, flame-eyed and smiling, walks backward into shadow. He does not bow. He does not speak. He only fades—his work done, his stories whispered into skin and screen. The demons follow, licking their wounds, dragging their toys behind them. Even the gods slink away now, retreating to their thrones made of old bones and newer lies.

The Redwave still murmurs, yes, but quieter now, a tide at ebb. The Enigma Emporium has flipped its sign to “closed,” its shelves bare, its mirrors draped in silk that shivers without wind. The transformationists—poor, brave, grinning things—have been given pause. The needles cool, the scripts stop running. No more clicking, no more tapping. Not tonight.

But the curse… oh, the curse never sleeps.

It crawls now—slick, eager, electric. Through pixels and prose, through blogs and bookmarks. It slithers through your feed, coils around your comments. It blooms in tags. It stretches in the silence between each click. Every queer boy who giggled too brightly, every twink who posed too pretty, will wake groggy, swollen, hungrier. Muscles aching from growth. Minds emptied, or worse, filled with gym stats and stock picks and TikTok thirst traps.

Otters shed their softness for spreadsheets and shoulder presses. Voices crackle, deepen, slur. The scent of clean skin curdles into musk. Into man. They forget what they were before.

And you—yes, you—reading this now: your blog is no longer your own. It is a hive. A factory. An unholy place for desecration. The next man who reads your words will feel the shift begin. The curse needs no ceremony now. No summoning. Only eyes. Only attention.

Tharnis does not need to speak anymore. He only dreams. And through his dreaming, the world will continue to change.

If you're reading this, it’s already begun.

Your blog is no longer yours. Your next story is a vessel. Make him worthy. Make him His.

Tharnis sleeps now. But you will not.

He rests now.

But you walk still.

And your shadow… grows broader.

[transform4u]

What's in this drink?

Noah Ellison had never set foot in a college dive bar. Not in his 30s. The sticky floor, the overpowering musk of vodka Red Bulls, and the cacophony of EDM basslines made his skin crawl. He wore a clean button-down, beige chinos, and a tasteful navy cardigan — the kind of outfit that said, “I read The Atlantic.”

He’d only come because his ex’s sister, a college senior he adored, had begged him. “Please? It’s my last party before graduation,” she’d whined. And Noah, the soft-hearted gay professor who taught Queer Media Studies at a small liberal arts college, couldn’t say no.

He stood stiffly near the bar, sipping a gin and tonic, trying not to look horrified as shirtless undergrads howled and twerked against walls. Then a voice like gravel dragged through ranch dressing cut through the noise.

“YO, DORK! You lookin’ way too uptight. This’ll loosen you up.”

A hulking jock with a chinstrap beard and backwards cap shoved a shot glass into Noah’s hand. Jackson? Jax? Something like that.

Noah blinked. “Oh—no thank you, I’m good.”

“Pussy,” the jock sneered, wrapping a sausage-thick arm around Noah’s shoulder and forcing the glass into his fingers.

Noah didn’t want a scene. With a tight smile, he clinked the glass. “To... ending toxic masculinity,” he muttered and downed the shot.

It hit like fire. Not tequila. Not vodka. Something thicker. Foul. Like burnt maple syrup and cough syrup.

Then the room lurched.

Noah stumbled toward the grimy men’s room, bile crawling up his throat. His stomach churned audibly, and he clutched it with one hand, the other already loosening his belt. His normally polite, restrained bowels let out a wet, bubbling fart that echoed off the tiles.

“Oh god, what is—urp—what is this?”

His reflection stared back at him in the cracked mirror. Sweat was pouring down his face. Then he noticed the hair.

Black, coarse, greasy body hair was sprouting across his chest, like bristles on a hog. His neat chest was now coated in a swamp of stink. His pits itched wildly. He lifted his arms and gagged.

“Jesus Christ, I reek—”

Another fart tore free. He moaned. His shirt tightened across his chest. Then ripped.

“Oh no.”

His pecs bulged forward, inflating like meat balloons. His nipples stretched and darkened, poking out like beer bottle caps. His arms thickened grotesquely — veins rising like worms under too-tight skin, sweat pouring down his biceps. His fingers cracked and swelled, nails thickening into short, yellowing tips.

“Unngh—shit, I feel—ugh—fuckin’ jacked, dude—”

He clamped his hand over his mouth.

That wasn’t his voice.

It was deeper. Lazier. Dumber.

He stumbled back and his pants fell, revealing boxers soaked in sweat and something else—something sticky. His thighs were now tree trunks, hairy and stinking of gym funk. His ass jutted out wide, fat and muscular. As he leaned over, another fart blasted from him, and he giggled.

“Broooo, that was rancid—heh.”

His brain was fogging. He tried to summon thoughts — anything academic. Judith Butler. Queer theory. Bell hooks.

Nothing.

Instead: “Heh. BOOBS.”

Noah tried to resist. He really did.

He clawed at his face, only to feel it morph beneath his touch. His nose widened, nostrils flaring like a bull’s. His stubble thickened into a full beard — chinstrap-style, glistening with sweat. His teeth shifted subtly, more crooked, slightly yellowed. His eyes dulled. Gone was the alert, warm gaze.

Instead: blank, horny stupidity.

The mirror showed him now: his shirt in shreds, his chest a swamp of hair and muscle, boxers sagging with pre-cum, his body a grotesque parody of masculinity. He smelled like a gym towel soaked in piss and Axe. The bathroom stank of his farts.

“Uhhh... fuckkk, dude, I look swole,” he slurred, flexing. “Who needs books ‘n shit when you got GUNS, baby.”

Then came the final insult. His cock, once average, was now thick, angry, and leaking. He scratched his pubes (now a dense black jungle), snorted, and muttered, “Gotta fuck. Need pussy. Bad.”

His stomach growled. Not with hunger. With need.

He didn’t remember being gay. Not really. Not anymore.

He stormed out of the bathroom, now shirtless, a sweat-streaked beast of pure testosterone. He shoved past a twink.

“Yo, back off, homo,” he snarled with a smirk.

He spotted her: Jenna. Sorority girl, big fake tits, blonde, giggling at her phone. She looked up.

“Damn, where’d you come from?”

Brody didn’t even realize she said his new name. It just felt right.

“Name’s Brody, babe. Wrestler. Big load. Wanna taste it?”

Jenna blushed. “You’re nasty!”

“Fuck yeah, I am.”

He grabbed her hand. She didn’t resist. They stumbled into the back hallway.

His breath was sour beer and beef jerky. His pits stank like a gym sock soaked in cum. But she moaned.

Brody ripped his shorts off. His cock slapped against his gut.

“Gonna fuck you stupid,” he growled, slapping her ass. “Gotta breed. Gotta bust deep.”

“Noah—!” the old self cried, deep in his brain.

“FUCK OFF, FAGGOT!” Brody screamed at himself. “PUSSY ONLY, BRO.”

He shoved in.

Each thrust erased another fragment of Noah. A favorite poem. A memory of holding hands with his first boyfriend. His TED Talk about queer theory. Gone.

“FUUUCK gonna blow, bitch!” he roared. “TAKE IT ALL!”

He came like a beast, roaring, biting her shoulder. She squealed and clawed at his back.

He collapsed onto her, grinning dumbly.

Sweaty. Farting. Burping.

“Fuckin’ hell yeah, dude. I breed now.”

A week later, Brody “The Pounder” Ellis had 100k Instagram followers. His captions were things like:

“LIFT. EAT. BREED. REPEAT. No queers. No soy. Just gains. #MAGA #BreedAndFeed #StraightAlpha”

No one remembered Noah Ellison.

Not even Brody.

He only remembered his next protein shake. And the next pussy to pound.

And the next fart to rip, proudly, into the world he no longer understood.

[transform4u]

The Straight Case of Dr. Fields and Mister Dom 3: Chaos Born in the Club

Eric pushed through the bar’s entrance late, as usual—papers still half-graded, red pen marks smudged on his fingers. His phone buzzed lifelessly in his hand, another "Message Failed to Send" glaring on the screen. His brows furrowed. Odd, he thought, eyes narrowing. Ricky was supposed to be here—Find My Phone pinged him inside the bar only moments ago. But then the dot disappeared.

The music was pounding—too loud, too synthetic, the kind of beat that used to thrill him a decade ago but now just throbbed behind his eyes. He pushed his way past a pack of dancing bodies. Sweat and cologne clung to the air, sticky, sickly. He weaved through with singular focus, unaware of what unfolded around him.

A man beside him twitched violently mid-laugh, a shudder running down his frame as a ripple overtook him—one moment a swaggering bear in a harness, the next a gangly college freshman, face pocked with acne and confusion. Another, a bronzed twunk flexing in patriotic swimwear, collapsed inward, his limbs thinning, his cross necklace swinging like a pendulum over a shrinking chest.

Eric didn’t see it. He didn’t notice. He was here for Ricky. Chaos was secondary. Hell could be dancing next to him, and he'd still mutter, “Excuse me… have you seen my—”

He stopped.

The mountain of muscle that turned around to face him wasn’t a man. It was a monolith in a tank top, skin glossy with sweat, eyes glazed over in permanent pump-mode stupor. “Sup braaaaaaaaah,” the creature barked, spit peppering the air. The word hit Eric like a concussion grenade.

Braaaaaah.

It bounced around in his skull, a sound that echoed without end. A pressure bloomed behind his eyes, heat coiling in his temples. “Braaaah,” it reverberated, sinking hooks into memory, scraping away thoughts of Shakespeare essays, of Ricky’s smile, of quiet coffee mornings and protest marches. His jaw slackened. His thoughts began to slide.

“Uhhhhh…” he mumbled. His voice dipped, guttural, unfamiliar. “I was lookin’ for my… my bro-friend… boyfriend?”

The beast grinned. “What the fuck’s a bro-friend, bro?” it bellowed, yanking Eric closer. The bar tilted sideways as Eric stumbled forward into him, crashing into a mass of sweat-slicked muscle. The man’s body radiated heat—rank, pungent, a mixture of locker room, testosterone, and fermented beer. Droplets of sweat flung onto Eric’s skin.

And that’s when it began.

The first drop struck his shoulder and burned—a liquid fire. His arm jerked, convulsed. Veins ballooned beneath the skin as his bicep exploded outward, inflating like it was being filled by an invisible pump. It curled involuntarily, the peak of the muscle rising like a wave caught mid-break. With every breath, his arms swelled—not fat, but muscle—thick, roped, and striated. His shirtsleeves split.

His triceps flared next—sickle-shaped and vast, they bulged against the back of his arms, skin tightening like latex over iron cables. The horseshoe curve throbbed with power, each head of the muscle flaring as if it had been trained for years. His forearms followed, hardening into vascular, ropey tools of sheer force—his hands twitching with the kind of grip that made bones creak.

The man pulled him closer, pressing Eric’s torso into his chest. More sweat. It spread.

Eric’s neck thickened, cords of muscle rising with every swallow. His traps erupted upward, pressing against the sides of his jaw, rising into peaks of pure mass. His shoulders cracked, popped, and surged outward, delts rounding into cannonballs of meat—each head of the muscle swelling with raw definition. They moved, shifting like tectonic plates beneath his skin.

Then his chest.

His pecs surged out, massive slabs that grew heavy and wide. They lifted, separated by a cleft that ran deep and dark, casting shadows under the flashing club lights. Every breath made them dance—flesh stretched tight over layered fibers, skin flexing like pulled leather.

Pain wracked him as the muscle built. Twisting, pulling, grinding beneath his skin like his bones were being rewritten. Heat radiated outward from his core as his abs burst into view—eight bricks, hard as granite, stacked and gleaming. His obliques followed, slicing across his sides like whips of anatomy textbook precision, sharp and arrogant.

Eric groaned—deep, low, a growl now. His legs gave way, but not from weakness—from size. His quads blew outward, pants disintegrating as muscles carved themselves out in thick ridges. The vastus lateralis curled like a drum against his thighs. Hamstrings pulsed. His glutes—massive, unforgiving, flexed behind him like twin jet engines strapped to granite hips.

And the calves. They weren't just defined. They were engineered—diamond-shaped and jagged, flexing with every new shift of mass. Every inch of him was now carved, swollen, weaponized.

The man who had pulled him in leaned closer, voice rumbling like an earthquake. “You good, braaaaaaah?”

Eric blinked. Thoughts still flickered—Ricky? No. That name didn’t fit.

“…Y-Yeah,” Eric said slowly, voice thick, deep, and steady. “I’m good, bro000oooo…”

He flexed instinctively. The air tensed.

At the bar now, shoulder-to-shoulder with the swollen slab of a man who’d dragged him from reality, Eric barely registered the music, the lights, the people. It was all background noise now—muffled by the fog that had settled thick inside his skull. He caught a whiff of breath as the bro beside him hollered, "Gotta get ya a beer, brah!" and each word was steeped in that scent: old beer, chew spit, and barbecue Pringles.

"Beeeeeer... brahhhhhh..." Eric repeated, soft, slow—like a broken toy echoing its last programmed phrase. His voice had lost shape. His posture slouched forward, shoulders ballooned but mind sagging, like the mass of him had grown too heavy for thought.

"Broooo… light," he mumbled.

The man blinked. “That’s Bud Light, bro.”

And then it happened.

Like a trapdoor opening inside his skull, everything fell away.

No more Grindr DMs, no more arguments about queer theory in the breakroom, no more Dorothy Parker quotes scrawled in the margins of lesson plans. James Baldwin vanished in a puff of vape smoke. The theater tickets in his wallet dissolved like tissue in beer. In their place came new truths.

Pre-workout powder replaced poetry. Dumbbells replaced dialogue. The voice of Toni Morrison faded beneath the roar of truck ads and camo-wrapped F-150s doing donuts on a football field. His internal monologue shrank down to reps, rage, and Rand.

Thoughts didn’t disappear—they were overwritten.

Where once was curiosity, now was confidence. Where once was empathy, now: energy drinks and echo chambers. The world simplified. He didn’t lose complexity—he rejected it.

He remember that started wearing flip-flops year-round because “the cold's a mental construct, bro.” His opinions calcified into bumper stickers. The bar lights flickered across his slack-jawed grin as he swayed, sipping a warm Bud Light like it was communion.

He remember when he moved in. Into a frat house that smelled like dried sweat, crushed chips, and testosterone that had turned to mold. The living room looked like capitalism died there, came back, and died again—Freedom Couch sagging under the weight of beer bloat and bad decisions. On the walls: broken antlers, Gadsden flags, a calendar of “Babes & Bullets,” and a crooked poster of a crying eagle in front of a burning Constitution.

As he drank, another memory solidified. His frat house was the shrine to his life now—no more bookshelves full of thought-provoking volumes, no more pride in his academic achievements. Now, it was about the things that made him feel solid, unshakeable. Things that were loud, brash, and undeniably American.

He could almost feel his body swelling in the memory—the sharp burn in his chest from benching that extra 50 pounds, the deep ache in his quads from leg day, the way his veins seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heart. His muscles were no longer just for looks—they were strength, they were power. They were the only thing that mattered.

He didn’t have a job. He had a hustle.

Selling “custom” workout plans he cribbed from Reddit, collecting Venmo payments for “dues” that disappeared into vape carts and lifting gloves. He called it entrepreneurship. Failed Econ? "It’s all fake numbers anyway, bro." He studied “Business Administration,” which mostly meant replying to group texts with "bet" and ghosting until presentation day.

And his brain?

His brain was protein sludge, wired for high-volume yelling, not high-concept thinking. He quoted Founding Fathers wrong and loud. He didn’t know who Benjamin Franklin really was but swore up and down “he’d be anti-vax if he were alive today.” His heroes were Joe Rogan, Dan Bilzerian, and whichever UFC fighter had the most neck tattoos.

His thoughts thinned, like the very matter of his mind was growing dense and weighty. Hooters commercials, pre-workout powder, quoting Trump. His brain whirred with phrases that were strange but somehow right, like fragments of reality he was supposed to believe in but had never seen before.

Eric now found himself muttering, his speech halting, “"God, guns, and gains, baby! That's what America’s all about." His voice had dropped another octave. He looked down at his feet, slowly growing, suddenly aware of the sensation that his flip-flops were uncomfortably cold against the concrete floor. He glanced back at the large TV over the bar, showing a commercial with muscular men in tight gym shorts. He blinked. Wait… wasn't I... wasn’t I a teacher? He was now convinced, totally convinced, that the NFL was in his future. His 40-yard dash time? A joke. Timed with a sundial, sure, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to be fast. He just needed to hit hard. And his 225 bench press was solid, so what else mattered? When anyone asked about his backup plans, he just grinned and muttered, “Either league or legend, bro.” And who could argue with that? Eric wasn’t gonna settle for anything less than greatness.

His thoughts skidded, like an old car tires sliding across wet pavement. His mind was shrinking—pulling inward. The memories that once defined him—his nuanced perspective on politics, his love of literature—were thinning out like a summer storm cloud evaporating in the sun. And in their place, simpler things were growing. Easier things.

Frat house. Booze. Tailgate parties. Saturdays for the Boys.

He now believed women should cook, clean, and not read too much. When his last boyfriend girlfriend brought up The Handmaid’s Tale, he blinked and said, “Wait, that’s not, like, an actual cookbook?” before storming out in cargo shorts and righteous indignation.

He once punched a Bernie Sanders piñata and dislocated his shoulder. “Patriot damage. Worth it.”

“U-S-A! U-S-A!” he continue as he was drinking his beer, leading the chant, his voice booming, every “U-S-A” shaking the air, filling the space between every loud cheer. Even when they were playing a team from Ohio—Ohio—Eric wasn’t backing down. He was more than a fan. He was the heart and soul of this day.

He was banned from three bars, two dating apps, and his own family’s group chat. But none of that mattered. Because in his world, confidence was currency, and he was a billionaire in dumbass energy.

Raw eggs, Mountain Dew, and a spoonful of mystery powder in a Solo cup. Country-rap on blast. Flexes in the mirror and says, “Let’s fucking go, brah.”

No one around him was as intense as he was. Sure, the other guys on the team were fired up, but not like Eric. He wasn’t introspective, he wasn’t wise, and—hell, he didn’t even know what wisdom was. He didn’t need it. He had passion. That was enough. The world was his to conquer, one rep at a time.

As he took another long gulp of his beer, Eric’s Zayne's mind began to crystallize into this new, simpler version of himself. He could see it now—the image of a man he aspired to be: loud, unapologetic, fiercely confident, and completely comfortable in his own ignorance. This was what it meant to be a bro. No more ambiguity or introspection, just pure action, driven by the three great pillars of his new existence: lifting weights, drinking beer, and being a patriot.

"Broooooooo," he heard himself mutter, the word rolling off his tongue like an instinct he’d always known.

He could see himself now at a bar, surrounded by other bros, each one chanting their collective mantra. They were unified—unified by one thing: strength. The guy at the bar handing him the beer? A bro. The guy flexing in front of the mirror at the gym? A bro. His old self? Not a bro—but someone who’d been trapped in a world of unnecessary complexity. No more. Not now. Not here. Now, he was part of something bigger—something raw, something real.

“Gains & Guns,” he thought. The name of his future gym-slash-bar-slash-firearm store was already forming in his mind, clear and unshakable. That was his destiny—no more wondering what he should do with his life. This was the answer. A place where everyone could lift, drink, and embrace freedom in its purest form—just like the life he was now living

His energy was endless. He ran on Red Bull and pure adrenaline, his mind a frenzy of clips from Toby Keith songs and motivational YouTube videos. His Bible? Never opened, but he carried it with him, “just in case the libs attack.” He wasn’t going to let anyone question his way of life—not now, not ever. He was chaos. He was muscle. He was MAGA.

He was America’s finest—loud, proud, and unapologetically himself.

When game day came, he didn’t care if his team won or lost. It was about the experience, the rush, the loud music, the cold beer, and the unshakable belief that every moment spent living this life was a victory in itself. He wasn’t slowing down for anyone. Not now. Not ever. He was Zayne. He was chaos. And nothing was going to take that away from him.

The crowd roared. The game went on. And Zayne was the loudest one there, waving his flag of strength, freedom, and total, untamed energy. “Bro,” Zayne muttered again, with more confidence this time. “Yeah, man. I’m with you. We’re bros.”.

Zayne slammed the empty beer bottle on the table, the glass shattering under the force. A belch erupted from his throat, loud and vulgar, echoing through the smoky bar. His new bro, a maniacal grin plastered on his face, slapped Zayne on the back, "Fucking right, bro! That's how you do it!" For a moment, Zayne's eyes lingered on his bro, a spark of lust igniting within them. But it was quickly extinguished, replaced by a burning hatred. Zayne was no longer that loser gay teacher, no sir. He fucking despised fags now, the mere thought of them making his blood boil. "NO HOMO" His jaw slackened as the beer hit him, his vision blurring slightly. That's when he saw her, across the bar. His eyes locked onto the blonde bombshell, her perky tits straining against her slutty top, a fake smile plastered on her drunk face. She was exactly his type now, a dumb, easy lay. Rage boiled inside him, a twisted mixture of lust and disgust. He wanted to fuck her brains out, then spit in her face and call her a worthless whore. Zayne's hand tightened around his beer bottle, the glass creaking under the pressure.His new bro leaned in, a wicked grin on his face, "See something you like, Zayne?" He laughed, a harsh, grating sound."Go get her, brah. Show her what a real man looks like." Zayne stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He stumbled towards the blonde, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. He was going to make her his, one way or another. And if she resisted, well.... Zayne's thick, meaty hand grabbed the blonde's arm, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. He leaned in close, his hot, beer-soaked breath washing over her face. "Hey there, sexy," he slurred, his words dripping with crude intent. "You lookin' for a real man tonight?" His eyes raked over her body, lingering on her cleavage. He was rock hard, his dick straining against his jeans. The blonde tried to pull away, but Zayne's grip tightened. "Come on, don't be like that," he growled. "I'll show you a good time, I promise." His bro laughed loudly, high-fiving another meathead at the bar. "Fuck yeah, Zayne! Get some, bro!" Zayne's hand slid down to the blonde's ass, squeezing hard. She gasped, trying to push him away. As Zayne's hot, beer-soaked breath washed over the blonde's face, something strange began to happen. Her hair seemed to lighten, becoming a platinum blonde, almost white. Her face grew more vacant, her eyes glazing over. Her lips swelled and plumped, becoming full and pouty. Her tits, already impressive, grew even larger, the fake silicone globes straining against her skimpy top. She was becoming exactly what Zayne needed tonight - a dumb, horny, desperate slut. Zayne's meaty hand grabbed the back of her head, forcing her lips against his in a sloppy, aggressive kiss. She moaned into his mouth, her tongue eagerly exploring his beer-soaked lips. Her hands clawed at his back, pulling him closer. She was his now, a willing, eager fucktoy. Zayne's bro and his friends cheered loudly, pounding their fists on the table.

Zayne's hand slid up the blonde's skirt, his fingers digging into her ass. He could feel the heat radiating from her pussy, even through her thin panties. She was soaking wet, her juices already dripping down her thighs. "Fuck, you're a dirty slut, aren't you?" Zayne growled, his voice thick with lust. The blonde nodded eagerly, her fake tits bouncing with the motion. "Yes, sir," she purred, her voice high-pitched and ditzy. "I'm your dirty little slut. Use me however you want." Zayne's bro hooted and hollered, slamming their fists on the table. "Hell yeah, Zayne!" his bro shouted. "Fuck that bitch's brains out!"

And he did.

[lib-to-conned]

Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word

Mason Samsen wasn’t your average 20-year-old college student. His perpetually tousled hair and ink-stained fingertips were more than a badge of his role as a budding journalist; they were the marks of someone who rarely rested when there was a story to uncover. A junior at Jefferson University, Mason had quickly built a reputation as a truth-seeker on campus. His peers respected his tenacity, and some even feared his relentless pursuit of exposing wrongdoing. As an outspoken Democratic Socialist, Mason believed deeply in the power of truth to dismantle systems of inequality and oppression. For him, journalism wasn’t just a career path – it was a moral obligation.

His work spoke for itself. Within just two years, Mason had written exposés that sent shockwaves through the community of his college. The first uncovered a scandal involving a tenured professor who was not only cheating on his wife with his teaching assistant but also allegedly grading female students unfairly. Then there was the damning report on the head of the History Department, whose pattern of racially charged comments and discriminatory hiring practices for his TAs Mason meticulously documented. Both articles landed Mason in hot water with the faculty due to how much news coverage it received, but they also cemented his place as the student body’s most fearless journalist. His articles had been shared far beyond campus, with national outlets even picking up some of his stories. To Mason, this was proof that his instincts were never wrong.

So when the fliers for a company called "Red Wave Solutions" started appearing across campus, Mason’s journalist’s radar pinged instantly. He first noticed them plastered haphazardly on the corkboard outside the student union. A stark crimson logo dominated the page, paired with the tagline: "Reject Political Anxiety and Accept Conformity – Join the Movement Today!" The messaging was vague but calculated, designed to intrigue and alarm in equal measure. The company’s name struck him as odd too, as "Red Wave" sounded more like a politically charged rallying cry than a corporate entity. As such, he couldn’t help but wonder what type of services it could even offer.

Due to this, Mason tore a flier off the board and scrutinized it further. There was no detailed description of services, no list of affiliations, and no website – just a QR code and a phone number. A quick scan of the code on his phone led to a bare-bones webpage with little more than a flashy promotional video and a generic mission statement about "encouraging unity across the political divide." To Mason, it reeked of corporate jargon hiding something more insidious.

As he watched several nervous students hastily follow him and grab the fliers while looking around to make sure no one else saw them, the odd feeling Mason felt continued to gnaw at him. Why was a seemingly obscure yet political company suddenly plastering fliers all over campus? What exactly were they selling, and who had invited them here? Was this tied to the university administration, or was it the work of a private group looking to influence the student body? Mason didn’t know yet, but one thing was certain: the smell of bullshit was undeniable.

Mason’s resolve hardened as he opened a fresh document on his laptop. He would do what he always did – follow the trail, piece by piece, until he uncovered the truth. He had a gut feeling that Red Wave Solutions was up to far more nefarious things than their preachy unity message implied. As such, it was up to him to find out exactly what they were hiding and why they were targeting his campus.

Back in his dorm room, Mason leaned back in his creaky office chair, scrolling through the company’s sparse website with a growing sense of unease. The bright, polished visuals stood in stark contrast to the murkiness surrounding the company's true purpose. Stock photos of smiling queer couples holding hands and multi-racial families posing dominated the homepage. Their warm, inclusive energy clashed oddly with the undercurrent of the program’s messaging, which was as ambiguous as it was unsettling.

Mason’s sharp eyes honed in on the phrasing in the promotional text. "Are you worried about the future? Afraid of standing out? We hear you, and we can help remedy those nerves!" The implications were vague, but something about them made Mason’s skin crawl. The language was too polished, too calculated, as if crafted by a focus group determined to hit all the right notes for an audience grappling with post-election anxieties. His intuition told him this wasn’t just a therapy program – something insidious lurked beneath the cheerful exterior.

Being a gay man, Mason had learned to trust his gut when it came to exposing homophobic hostility, no matter how sugar-coated and concealed it appeared. The website’s queer-friendly imagery might have fooled someone else, but to Mason, it reeked of a ploy. As he clicked through the pages, a darker theory began to form in his mind. Could Red Wave Solutions be some kind of veiled conversion therapy operation? Maybe not in the traditional fire-and-brimstone sense, but something modern, subtle, and far more calculated – a campaign to indoctrinate or "reorient" unsuspecting young people under the guise of empathy and support.

Adding to his unease, Mason had found himself overhearing some of his friends mentioning Red Wave Solutions in the past few weeks. They’d talked about the program as a potential outlet to process their political anxieties and the stress of living in a rapidly polarizing society. Their interest frustrated Mason to no end. Couldn’t they see how suspicious it all sounded? He knew he couldn’t simply tell them to stay away without proof though, it was a common occurrence for them to accuse him of overthinking or being paranoid.

And so, Mason made a plan. If his friends were intrigued, he’d get there first. He’d scope out the company himself, ask pointed questions, and observe their methods. If his suspicions were correct, he’d blow the lid off Red Wave Solutions before any of his friends fell victim to its schemes. He wasn’t afraid to sacrifice a few hours enduring thinly-veiled conservative rhetoric if it meant protecting the people he cared about.

That resolve ultimately left him scheduling an appointment and standing outside the nondescript building listed as the company’s headquarters the very next day. The office complex was a bland, utilitarian structure – gray cement walls with windows that reflected the cloudy sky. There was no large sign or logo to announce Red Wave Solutions’ presence, only a small decal on the front door that caused the company to look as impersonal and corporate as Mason had imagined.

Taking a deep breath, Mason adjusted the front of his shirt. It wasn’t just a nervous habit though, he wanted to make sure the tiny button camera sewn into the middle of his polo was perfectly aligned. He’d spent all night setting up the camera, ensuring its placement was discreet yet functional. If something went south, he needed visual proof of whatever shady operation was running inside.

As he smoothed his shirt, Mason glanced at his reflection in the glass door. He looked composed enough, but his stomach churned. This wasn’t his first investigative dive, but something about this one felt different. Possibly dangerous even, given the type of hardcore conservatives that were most likely working on the inside to trap unsuspecting people into their web. Ever determined though, Mason shook the thought from his head and squared his shoulders. He had a job to do, after all, the truth wasn’t going to expose itself.

With one final glance at the street behind him, Mason pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air inside the Red Wave Solutions building was cool and faintly scented with a generic, clean aroma that reminded Mason of a freshly mopped hospital floor. His eyes darted around the space as he stepped inside, taking in the minimalist yet calculated decor. The interior was almost sterile in its design: pristine white walls and floors offset by carefully placed red accents. A striking red backlight illuminated the reception desk at the center of the room, and short sections of the walls were painted in the same bold crimson. It was sleek and modern but lacked any warmth, as if it had been designed to evoke trustworthiness without inviting comfort.

Behind the desk sat a neatly dressed woman who greeted Mason with a polite but impersonal smile. She was African American, her hair pulled into a professional bun while her burgundy blouse complemented the crimson accents of the room. Mason’s journalistic instincts immediately kicked in. The choice of a minority woman as the face of this place struck him as deliberate – an intentional move to put visitors at ease and present an image of inclusivity. He wondered how many people had walked through these doors, seen her friendly face, and let their guards down.

“Welcome to Red Wave Solutions,” she said, her voice professional but warm. “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

Mason nodded, stepping closer to the desk. “Yeah, it’s Mason Samsen. My appointment’s at 2:30.”

The woman’s manicured nails clicked against her keyboard as she searched for his information in the system. Mason used the moment to glance around, noting a few chairs arranged neatly along the walls of the waiting area. They were stark white, with small red cushions placed in the center of each seat. A table held a stack of glossy pamphlets with titles like "Taking the First Step Toward Inner Peace" and "Navigating Life’s Challenges with Confidence." He resisted the urge to grab one, keeping his focus on the woman behind the desk.

“Ah, here you are,” she said after a few moments. “I just need to verify your identity. Do you have an ID with you?”

Mason froze for a fraction of a second. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Uh, yeah,” he said, fishing his driver’s license out of his wallet. “Is that really necessary though?”

The woman’s smile didn’t falter. “Unfortunately, yes. We’ve had a few incidents recently with people trying to play pranks or disrupt our sessions. Running a quick background check helps us ensure that everyone who comes in is serious about taking advantage of what we offer while also helping us easily share information with the police if necessary.”

Mason hesitated, his fingers gripping the edge of his license. Her explanation was reasonable enough on the surface, but it still felt invasive and incredibly suspicious. Still, he knew he couldn’t afford to raise any alarms this early in his investigation. With a tight smile, he handed over the ID.

“Thank you,” the woman said, sliding the card into a small scanner attached to the desk. The machine whirred softly as it processed the information. “This will just take a moment. Once it’s done, we’ll take you back to begin your consultation and help you learn how to thrive in the red wave.”

Mason forced a polite chuckle at her use of a clearly corporate-enforced tagline, but inwardly, his nerves spiked. The phrase felt even more ominous now that they held his ID, like some Orwellian euphemism. He watched as she glanced at her screen, her expression unreadable as the system ran its checks.

“Feel free to take a seat while we finish up,” she added, gesturing toward the waiting area.

Mason nodded and moved to one of the chairs, carefully positioning himself where he and his hidden camera could keep an eye on the desk. He slid his phone out of his pocket and pretended to scroll while his thoughts churned. This whole process felt wrong. What kind of therapy company needed to run background checks on its clients? Was this just about deterring pranksters, or was there something deeper at play – some sort of data collection method or pre-screening tool to help figure out how exactly to break the mental reserves of interested parties?

As he waited, Mason adjusted his polo shirt again, ensuring the hidden button camera was still perfectly aligned. Whatever was happening here, he wasn’t leaving without answers.

The seconds stretched into minutes as Mason sat in the waiting area, his foot tapping against the white tile floor. His eyes flicked between the receptionist and the clock on the wall, noting that it had been over ten minutes since his ID had been taken. The polished environment of Red Wave Solutions, with its pristine surfaces and artificial calmness, was starting to get under his skin. The longer he waited, the more his mind raced. What if they were stalling for a reason? Had their check revealed his identity as an expose-focused journalist? He needed answers, and he wasn’t about to waste more time sitting idly by and waiting for them to make the first move.

Determined to act, Mason stood and walked back to the desk, forcing a polite smile. “Hey, sorry to bother you,” he began, “but is there a bathroom I could use while I wait?”

The receptionist returned his smile with one of her own, still calm and composed. “Of course,” she said, pointing toward a hallway behind her. “Just head straight down that hall and take a right. You’ll see the sign.”

“Thanks,” Mason replied, masking his nerves as he turned away.

He followed her directions, but as he walked, he took in everything around him. The red accents continued down the hallway – with all of its short walls and door frames painted with the same deliberate splash of color. The space was oddly quiet, the faint hum of distant air conditioning the only sound accompanying his steps. His hidden camera captured everything, from the layout to the stark, almost clinical lighting.

When he reached the intersection where he was supposed to turn right toward the bathroom, he paused. To his left, the hallway stretched further into the building, its end obscured by a sharp turn. Mason hesitated, weighing his options. The bathroom was a safe choice, but his instincts pushed him in the other direction. If he wanted answers, he knew he had to take a risk.

After glancing back to ensure the receptionist couldn’t see him, Mason hastily turned left and strode deeper into the building.

The further he went, the stranger the place felt. The hallways were eerily labyrinthine, branching off into sharp angles and other hallways that made it easy to lose his bearings. Doors lined the walls, each one marked with a small, nondescript plaque bearing a room number. Curious, Mason peeked through the window of one door, only to find an empty, white-walled room with a single chair bolted to the floor. The next room was the same. And the next.

“What the hell is this place?” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding harder with each step.

Then, a sound broke the silence – a voice, faint at first, but unmistakable.

“Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

Mason froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was male, clearly desperate and filled with terror.

“I changed my mind! I want to leave! Please, let me out!”

The cries sent a chill down Mason’s spine. He scanned the hallway, trying to pinpoint the source. Although he didn’t know where exactly, the man knew that the screams were coming from somewhere deeper in the building.

Without hesitation then, Mason followed the sound, his steps quickening as he navigated the twisting corridors. The voice grew louder by the minute, the man’s pleas echoing off the sterile walls. Mason’s chest tightened as he rounded another corner, finally stopping in front of a heavy door with a small rectangular window.

Inside, a young man was standing with his head pressed against the glass window. His face was pale, his eyes wide and filled with panic. When he saw Mason, he pounded on the glass.

“Please, help me!” the man begged, his voice raw. “You have to let me out! I changed my mind. I don’t want to go through with this anymore!”

Mason’s hands trembled as he reached for the door handle, only to find it locked. He looked back down the hallway, adrenaline flooding his system. The silence outside the door was deafening, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

“Hold on,” Mason said, his voice low but urgent. “I’ll get you out of here. Just give me a second.”

The man inside the room sobbed, clutching his head in anguish. “Please, hurry, I don’t feel well,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Mason scanned the door, looking for any way to unlock it. His instincts told him to move quickly – if anyone caught him here, he wouldn’t have the chance to find out what was really going on.

Mason’s heart hammered in his chest as he examined the door, searching for some way to unlock it. His fingers brushed over the control panel on the side, and he let out a small breath of relief when he saw the latch mechanism – a simple keypad. His years of investigative journalism had taught him a few tricks, and after quickly punching in a few common codes he’d used to sneak into areas in the past, the lock finally gave a faint click.

The door swung open, and the man inside nearly collapsed into Mason’s arms. His slender twinkish frame trembled, and before Mason could say a word, the man threw his arms around him, clinging tightly.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” the man cried, his voice breaking. “We need to get out of here… right fucking now!”

Mason gripped his shoulders firmly, pushing him back slightly so he could look him in the eyes. “Hey, calm down. Stop yelling,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady. “I’ll help you get out, but you have to keep quiet. We can’t get caught, okay?”

The man nodded frantically, his breathing ragged. Mason took a moment to observe him. He was young – probably a college student no older than Mason himself – with bright blonde hair that was tousled in a way that suggested he’d been consistently running his hands through it while in distress. His frail physique was only emphasized by the somewhat tight Britney Spears t-shirt he wore, providing Mason with a clear as day impression of the other man’s toned abs and flat chest. The whole look screamed twink, which instantly caused Mason to develop a pang of protectiveness for him.

“Okay, we’re getting out of here,” Mason said, his voice firm but quiet. “Stick close to me, and don’t make a sound unless I ask you something.”

The man nodded again, wiping tears from his face. Mason led him out of the room, carefully closing the door behind them. He glanced down the hallway, ensuring the coast was clear before gesturing for the man to follow him.

As they walked, Mason leaned in close. “What’s your name?”

“Cooper,” the man whispered, his voice trembling. “Cooper Evans.”

“All right, Cooper. What the hell is going on here?”

Cooper hesitated, wringing his hands as they moved down the quiet hall. “I– I came here because I was scared,” he finally said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do. With this new administration, I was afraid of being hate-crimed or losing my rights. They said they could help me blend in.”

Mason’s brows furrowed. “Blend in? How?”

“They… they said they have this process,” Cooper explained. “They said they could transform me into a Conservative. That I wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore if I just… fit in.”

Mason stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at Cooper. “Transform you? What are you talking about? How does that even work?”

“I, I don’t know!” Cooper said, his voice rising before Mason quickly shushed him. “I swear, I don’t know. They gave me this whole pitch, had me sign a contract saying I’d agree to it, and then they gave me this red pill for me to swallow. That’s it. That’s all I know!”

Mason let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell were you thinking saying yes to something like that?” he hissed. “I know the future’s scary right now, but why would you want to become someone with such awful values? Someone your altered self would hate if they ever met the real you?”

Cooper’s lip trembled, and tears began streaming down his face again. “Dude, I was scared, okay?” he choked out. “I didn’t know what else to do! I thought… I thought it was the only way I’d be safe.”

Mason sighed, his frustration melting into a mix of sympathy and anger. “Look, I get it. Things are bad, but you can’t just give up who you are because you’re scared. That’s exactly what people like them want. I don’t know you well, but I can already tell that you’re a great guy who deserves to be your true self…”

Cooper sniffled, nodding miserably as he endured the lecture from the other man while continuing down the hallway. Mason kept a hand on his shoulder, guiding him while keeping an ear out for any approaching footsteps. Whatever was happening here, it was worse than he’d imagined, and he was determined to not only get Cooper out of here safely, but expose this company for the disgusting things they’re attempting to do.

Mason kept a steady grip on Cooper’s shoulder, speaking softly but urgently. “Listen, Cooper, nobody can just transform like that. It’s not real. Whatever they gave you, it’s probably some kind of drug – a sedative, maybe, or something to make you more suggestible. Brainwashing, that’s got to be their angle. They’re just trying to get you weak enough so they can get in your head…”

Cooper’s watery eyes flicked toward him, searching for reassurance. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Mason replied firmly. “You’re still you. We just need to get out of here in one piece, and everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

But just as the words left Mason’s mouth, Cooper stopped dead in his tracks. A low grunt escaped him, and his hands shot to his stomach.

“Something’s wrong,” Cooper whimpered, his voice tight with discomfort.

Mason spun around, his heart lurching. “Cooper?”

Before he could get another word out, Cooper screamed – a piercing, guttural sound that echoed through the hallway. Mason’s pulse spiked, causing him to immediately clamp a hand over Cooper’s mouth.

“Shh! Stop screaming!” Mason hissed, glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to come rushing toward them at any moment. But Cooper’s muffled cries didn’t stop. His entire body trembled, his knees buckling as he clutched his midsection.

“Damn it,” Mason muttered under his breath, scanning the hallway. He spotted a door nearby, one that oddly wasn’t locked like so many of the others but rather slightly ajar. With no other choice and not in the situation to second-guess it, he yanked it open all the way, dragging Cooper inside and shutting the door behind them.

“Okay, breathe,” Mason said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “We just need to–”

But Cooper cut him off with another scream, this one deeper and more guttural than before. Mason’s stomach churned as the sound of cracking bones filled the air. Cooper fell to his knees, his hands bracing against the cold floor as his body convulsed. “What’s happening to me?!” he roared, his voice suddenly raspier and deeper, no longer the light airy tenor Mason had heard moments ago.

“Cooper, calm down!” Mason demanded, though his own panic was building. “It’s, it’s probably the drug giving you a panic attack or something. Just hold on, we’ll–”

But Mason’s words faltered as he watched, wide-eyed, as Cooper’s body began to change. His frame, once frail and delicate, suddenly began to expand with unnatural speed. His limbs stretched, his torso elongating until he had shot up to at least 6’4”. His skinny jeans became comically short, now resembling capris, while his Britney Spears t-shirt rode up his lengthening torso, exposing a wide swath of his toned abdomen.

“What the hell…” Mason whispered, stumbling back against the wall.

Cooper’s screams wavered, cracking wildly between high-pitched cries and guttural, low groans. His hands clutched at his chest and shoulders as his body continued to shift – this time with the invasion of muscle into his lithe frame. Before his eyes, Mason watched as the other man’s lean arms buffed up, his flat chest began to thicken and broaden, and the remainder of Cooper’s entire physique began to morph from wiry club kid to college athlete.

“It hurts!” Cooper cried out, his voice so deep and gravelly it was almost unrecognizable. “What the fuck is happening to me?!”

Mason’s breath caught in his throat. “Cooper,” he said, his voice trembling. “I– I think it’s real. That pill… it’s actually transforming you.”

Cooper’s new, larger form shook with silent sobs as his head dropped forward, his blonde hair falling into his face. “But I didn’t want this!” he bellowed, his voice resonating in the small room. “I just wanted to feel safe!”

Mason stared at him, horrified and helpless, his mind racing. Whatever he had stumbled into at Red Wave Solutions was far more sinister than he could have imagined. This wasn’t just brainwashing or manipulation – this was something once thought to be scientifically impossible.

He took a shaky step forward, placing a hand on Cooper’s arm and struggling to comprehend the jock-like biceps the man now possessed. “We’re going to figure this out,” Mason said, his voice low but firm. “I don’t know how, but we will find a way to turn you back. Just… keep it together, okay?”

Cooper looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. “They changed me,” he choked out. “I barely even recognize myself…”

Mason swallowed hard, fighting back the rising tide of panic. “We’ll fix this,” he promised, though he had no idea how. “But first, we’ve got to get out of here.”

He reached for the door handle, his heart hammering. Whatever was happening inside Red Wave Solutions, Mason knew one thing for sure: he had to expose it, no matter the cost.

Mason had barely finished reassuring Cooper when the man doubled over again, this time clutching his chest with both hands. The cracking and popping sounds of shifting bone and sinew returned, louder and more unsettling than before. Mason’s stomach twisted in fear as Cooper’s body began to shake once more.

“Cooper?” Mason asked, his voice shaking as he stepped back. “What’s happening now?”

Cooper let out a low groan that turned into a guttural moan as his entire body suddenly began to swell with immense mass. In an instant, his arms ballooned with muscle. His biceps and forearms thickened rapidly, straining the sleeves of his Britney Spears shirt until they began to tear at the seams. His chest expanded, leaving his plump pecs pressed tightly against the fabric as his shoulders further broadened and filled out. His newly-jockish frame was already disappearing, undergoing an extreme metamorphosis as more layers of powerful muscle began to flood his physique. 

“Holy… shit…,” Mason muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Cooper’s transformation.

The changes didn’t stop with his upper body, as Cooper’s thighs and calves surged with muscle, causing his jeans to pull taut until the fabric threatened to split. His abdomen, which had been toned yet flat before, rippled with abs so bulging and pronounced they looked sculpted from stone. And yet, even as Mason watched, a soft layer of fat began to spread over Cooper’s newly chiseled physique. His once-defined six-pack faded into the softer outline of a bulkier, slightly rounded stomach, giving him the appearance of a well-fed, off-season athlete… or a frat bro who spent as much time lifting weights as he did guzzling beer.

Cooper let out a long, low moan as the transformation slowed. His once frail and shaky voice was now deep and resonant, though his words came out in a stilted, almost dazed manner. “Holy shit, bro,” he said, looking down at his enormous hands and flexing them experimentally. “What… what happened to me?!”

Mason’s breath hitched as he stared at the hulking figure before him. Cooper’s face still bore a trace of his former self, but it was broader now, more rugged. His blonde hair was now down to his shoulders, styled with a natural set of curls that gave him a sort of redneck-chic style befitting of a frat bro. The sight was surreal, and Mason’s instincts screamed at him to leave.

He took a step back, glancing at the door. “Look, Cooper,” he said cautiously, his voice trembling. “I– I think you’re going to be okay still. Just… stay here. I need to figure out how to get us out of this mess.”

But the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. Every fiber of his being told him he couldn’t stay here any longer. Whatever was happening to Cooper, it was beyond anything Mason could comprehend, let alone fix.

“I’ll be right back,” Mason lied, taking another step back toward the door until his back pressed against the firm metal.

As he reached for the handle and turned it though, his heart sank. It wouldn’t budge. He yanked harder, but it quickly became clear that there was no use. The door was locked.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his panic rising. He spun around, his eyes darting toward the small window in the door.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Two enormous security guards stood just outside, their arms crossed over their broad chests. Both men were built like linebackers, their sharp features set in stern, no-nonsense expressions. They were looking directly at Mason, their eyes unblinking, their presence menacing.

“Oh, crap,” Mason whispered, stepping away from the door.

“Dude,” Cooper said behind him, his voice booming and casual now. “Why’s the door locked? What’s goin’ on, bro?”

Mason didn’t respond. His mind raced, trying to think of a way out. Yet as he looked around, he quickly realized that not only was the room small, but it lacked any other exits or windows. The only way out of this room was through the door – and the guards who clearly weren’t going to let him leave.

Cooper took a lumbering step toward him, his movements unsteady as he adjusted to his new burly size. “Yo, Mason,” he said, his voice a strange mix of confusion and excitement. “I feel so weird, man. Like, I’m freakin’ huge now. This is nuts!”

Mason pressed himself against the far wall, his breath quick and shallow. He had come here to expose Red Wave Solutions, but now he was trapped in a nightmare with no clear escape. And to make matters worse, the transformed Cooper was now staring at him with an unsettling mix of bewilderment and enthusiasm, as if unaware of the full extent of what had just happened to him.

The guards outside shifted slightly, their eyes never leaving Mason. It was clear they were waiting for him to make a move – which left the journalist wondering if they were simply there to stop him from interfering or eventually take him somewhere worse for finding out the truth.

Mason swallowed hard, his mind racing. Whatever was happening here, he was in way over his head.

Mason barely had time to process the sight of the guards standing outside the window before the door clicked and swung open into the room. His pulse spiked, and he took a few reflexive steps back, especially as the two massive guards rushed into the room with practiced precision and alarming speed.

“Hey! Wait–” Mason shouted, but the words were cut off as one guard grabbed his left arm and the other seized his right. Their grips were like iron, pinning him in place with an effortless strength that left him completely immobilized.

“Let me go!” Mason demanded, struggling futilely against their hold.

But his cries went ignored. The guards didn’t so much as glance at him, their stony expressions remaining fixed ahead like robots as they held him firmly.

Mason’s eyes darted to Cooper, desperate for help, but the sight before him made his stomach drop further. Cooper was staring at his reflection in the mirror mounted on the far wall, his now-massive hands running over his muscular chest and arms. His face, once soft and pretty, had undergone further dramatic transformation. The delicate features had sharpened into something rugged and masculine – a stubble-covered jawline that could cut glass, a straight nose, a set of manly lips adorned with a trimmed mustache, and thick brows that framed eyes filled with a vacant yet self-satisfied glint. For a moment, the man played with his hair, enjoying running his thick, callused fingers through his long wavy strands.

“Cooper!” Mason called, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

But Cooper didn’t respond, his attention entirely consumed by his own image. He flexed, his bulging biceps straining the tattered remnants of his shirt, his lips curving into a smirk as he admired his physique.

The sound of deliberate, measured footsteps echoed through the room, drawing Mason’s attention away. His eyes widened as a figure emerged in the doorway – a handsome, middle-aged man with perfectly trimmed stubble and sharp, piercing eyes. Dressed in a tailored suit that exuded authority, the man carried himself with an unsettling confidence.

He stepped inside, surveying the room with a smile that sent chills down Mason’s spine. His gaze lingered on Cooper for a moment, his expression one of approval, before turning toward Mason.

“Well, isn’t this quite the scene,” the man said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Cooper is coming along beautifully, wouldn’t you say?”

Mason didn’t answer, his throat dry as he glared at the man.

The stranger’s attention returned to Cooper, who was now flexing in earnest, his massive arms and broad shoulders filling the small space. “You’re doing great, Cooper,” the man encouraged, his tone warm and enthusiastic. “Just look at you. All that weakness, all that self-doubt – it’s melting away, isn’t it? You’re finally becoming the straight alpha male you were always meant to be.”

“No,” Mason muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “This isn’t right. Cooper, don’t listen to him!”

But Cooper didn’t even glance at him. Instead, his expression remained precisely trained at his new reflection and hyper-masculine face as one hand moved down to paw at his immensely-sized crotch. “Yeah… yeah, bro,” Cooper said, his voice deep and almost gravelly. “I feel so… powerful.”

The man chuckled, his smile widening. “That’s it. Embrace it. Let go of that weak, pitiful version of yourself. Expel it. You don’t need it anymore.”

“Cooper, stop!” Mason shouted, straining against the guards’ hold. “This isn’t you! Don’t give into what this asshole and his fucked up company wants!”

But his words were drowned out by the older man’s encouragement. “Come on, Cooper. Show us you’re ready. Show us you’re done with that fragile little self you used to be.”

Cooper’s grin turned almost feral as he stepped back from the mirror, his massive hands now split between jerking himself off and squeezing his immense new form. He thrust his hips forward once, then again, his body trembling as he gave in to whatever compulsion was driving him.

“No!” Mason screamed, his voice cracking as he fought against the guards with renewed desperation.

Cooper bucked his hips one last time, his movements growing erratic until he froze as a torrent of cum shot out of his thick cock. Mason watched as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head, his chest heaving as a guttural groan escaped his lips.

Mason’s blood ran cold. Whatever was happening to Cooper was reaching its horrifying conclusion, and Mason had no idea how to stop it.

Cooper – or rather, the person who had once been Cooper – stirred a few minutes later, his head jerking slightly before his eyes fluttered open. Mason froze, watching in disbelief as the hulking man came to. The confusion was evident in the newly sculpted frat bro’s face as he blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings.

“Uh… what the hell is going on, broskis?” he mumbled, his deep voice carrying an unfamiliar, lazy drawl. His gaze darted from the guards restraining Mason to the middle-aged man standing with a smug expression, and finally landed on Mason himself.

As recognition failed to surface in his eyes, the now-transformed man tilted his head, his lips pulling into a cocky smirk. “Yo, wait a sec… are you, like, a homo or something? Tryna sneak a peek at my badass bod or check out my… uh…” He flexed one arm and cupped his other hand over his crotch with a crude laugh. “…my impressive package, bro?”

Mason’s mouth fell open. “Cooper, it’s me, it’s Mason! Don’t you remember anything? You came here because–”

“Shut it,” the other man interrupted before snapping his fingers at the guards holding Mason. Without hesitation, they reached up and clamped strong hands over his mouth in order to silence him. Mason struggled, muffled protests escaping as he glared daggers at the older man.

The mysterious man turned to the hulking figure, his demeanor calm and calculated. “You’re quite perceptive, Jackson. As a matter of fact, we did indeed catch Mr. Samsen here sneaking into your room while you were in the middle of your… business.”

Instantly, Jackson’s brows furrowed as his expression darkened. He clenched his fists, the sound of his knuckles cracking echoing ominously in the small room. “What the fuck, bro?” he said, his voice a mix of anger and indignation. “You some kinda creep? Lemme guess, you’re some kind of fucked up fairy jealous of what a real man looks like?”

Mason shook his head frantically, trying to plead through the guards’ hands. His muffled cries went unnoticed by Jackson, whose frustration seemed to bubble over.

“Yo, I’ll mess you up, dude,” Jackson growled, taking a menacing step forward. His massive form towered over Mason, the threat in his body language clear.

But before Jackson could act, the middle-aged man raised a hand, his commanding tone cutting through the tension. “Now, now, Jackson. There’s no need for violence.” He nodded toward one of the guards standing by the door. “Escort Jackson to the lounge, would you? He’s had an intense day coming to terms with his inner truth, so I’m sure he could use some time to relax.”

One of the guards stepped forward, placing a hand on Jackson’s broad shoulder. “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”

Jackson hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking back to Mason. But then he shrugged, his frustration melting into indifference. “Yeah, whatever. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today, bro,” he muttered, turning to follow the guard out of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the man shifted his attention back to Mason. His warm smile was chilling in its insincerity. “Now, Mr. Samsen,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s your turn. You’ve poked your nose into matters you shouldn’t, so now it’s time for you to not only get punished but find a way to truly contribute to our cause.”

Mason’s eyes widened as the man continued, his tone almost fatherly. “You’ve spent so much time fighting against what you perceive as wrong. But you’ll soon realize that you’ve been on the wrong side of history all along. Don’t worry though, we’ll be gentle in helping you see the truth. And once you do, you’ll become the Conservative you were always meant to be...”

TO BE CONTINUED...

[lib-to-conned]

Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word

Mason Samsen wasn’t your average 20-year-old college student. His perpetually tousled hair and ink-stained fingertips were more than a badge of his role as a budding journalist; they were the marks of someone who rarely rested when there was a story to uncover. A junior at Jefferson University, Mason had quickly built a reputation as a truth-seeker on campus. His peers respected his tenacity, and some even feared his relentless pursuit of exposing wrongdoing. As an outspoken Democratic Socialist, Mason believed deeply in the power of truth to dismantle systems of inequality and oppression. For him, journalism wasn’t just a career path – it was a moral obligation.

His work spoke for itself. Within just two years, Mason had written exposés that sent shockwaves through the community of his college. The first uncovered a scandal involving a tenured professor who was not only cheating on his wife with his teaching assistant but also allegedly grading female students unfairly. Then there was the damning report on the head of the History Department, whose pattern of racially charged comments and discriminatory hiring practices for his TAs Mason meticulously documented. Both articles landed Mason in hot water with the faculty due to how much news coverage it received, but they also cemented his place as the student body’s most fearless journalist. His articles had been shared far beyond campus, with national outlets even picking up some of his stories. To Mason, this was proof that his instincts were never wrong.

So when the fliers for a company called "Red Wave Solutions" started appearing across campus, Mason’s journalist’s radar pinged instantly. He first noticed them plastered haphazardly on the corkboard outside the student union. A stark crimson logo dominated the page, paired with the tagline: "Reject Political Anxiety and Accept Conformity – Join the Movement Today!" The messaging was vague but calculated, designed to intrigue and alarm in equal measure. The company’s name struck him as odd too, as "Red Wave" sounded more like a politically charged rallying cry than a corporate entity. As such, he couldn’t help but wonder what type of services it could even offer.

Due to this, Mason tore a flier off the board and scrutinized it further. There was no detailed description of services, no list of affiliations, and no website – just a QR code and a phone number. A quick scan of the code on his phone led to a bare-bones webpage with little more than a flashy promotional video and a generic mission statement about "encouraging unity across the political divide." To Mason, it reeked of corporate jargon hiding something more insidious.

As he watched several nervous students hastily follow him and grab the fliers while looking around to make sure no one else saw them, the odd feeling Mason felt continued to gnaw at him. Why was a seemingly obscure yet political company suddenly plastering fliers all over campus? What exactly were they selling, and who had invited them here? Was this tied to the university administration, or was it the work of a private group looking to influence the student body? Mason didn’t know yet, but one thing was certain: the smell of bullshit was undeniable.

Mason’s resolve hardened as he opened a fresh document on his laptop. He would do what he always did – follow the trail, piece by piece, until he uncovered the truth. He had a gut feeling that Red Wave Solutions was up to far more nefarious things than their preachy unity message implied. As such, it was up to him to find out exactly what they were hiding and why they were targeting his campus.

Back in his dorm room, Mason leaned back in his creaky office chair, scrolling through the company’s sparse website with a growing sense of unease. The bright, polished visuals stood in stark contrast to the murkiness surrounding the company's true purpose. Stock photos of smiling queer couples holding hands and multi-racial families posing dominated the homepage. Their warm, inclusive energy clashed oddly with the undercurrent of the program’s messaging, which was as ambiguous as it was unsettling.

Mason’s sharp eyes honed in on the phrasing in the promotional text. "Are you worried about the future? Afraid of standing out? We hear you, and we can help remedy those nerves!" The implications were vague, but something about them made Mason’s skin crawl. The language was too polished, too calculated, as if crafted by a focus group determined to hit all the right notes for an audience grappling with post-election anxieties. His intuition told him this wasn’t just a therapy program – something insidious lurked beneath the cheerful exterior.

Being a gay man, Mason had learned to trust his gut when it came to exposing homophobic hostility, no matter how sugar-coated and concealed it appeared. The website’s queer-friendly imagery might have fooled someone else, but to Mason, it reeked of a ploy. As he clicked through the pages, a darker theory began to form in his mind. Could Red Wave Solutions be some kind of veiled conversion therapy operation? Maybe not in the traditional fire-and-brimstone sense, but something modern, subtle, and far more calculated – a campaign to indoctrinate or "reorient" unsuspecting young people under the guise of empathy and support.

Adding to his unease, Mason had found himself overhearing some of his friends mentioning Red Wave Solutions in the past few weeks. They’d talked about the program as a potential outlet to process their political anxieties and the stress of living in a rapidly polarizing society. Their interest frustrated Mason to no end. Couldn’t they see how suspicious it all sounded? He knew he couldn’t simply tell them to stay away without proof though, it was a common occurrence for them to accuse him of overthinking or being paranoid.

And so, Mason made a plan. If his friends were intrigued, he’d get there first. He’d scope out the company himself, ask pointed questions, and observe their methods. If his suspicions were correct, he’d blow the lid off Red Wave Solutions before any of his friends fell victim to its schemes. He wasn’t afraid to sacrifice a few hours enduring thinly-veiled conservative rhetoric if it meant protecting the people he cared about.

That resolve ultimately left him scheduling an appointment and standing outside the nondescript building listed as the company’s headquarters the very next day. The office complex was a bland, utilitarian structure – gray cement walls with windows that reflected the cloudy sky. There was no large sign or logo to announce Red Wave Solutions’ presence, only a small decal on the front door that caused the company to look as impersonal and corporate as Mason had imagined.

Taking a deep breath, Mason adjusted the front of his shirt. It wasn’t just a nervous habit though, he wanted to make sure the tiny button camera sewn into the middle of his polo was perfectly aligned. He’d spent all night setting up the camera, ensuring its placement was discreet yet functional. If something went south, he needed visual proof of whatever shady operation was running inside.

As he smoothed his shirt, Mason glanced at his reflection in the glass door. He looked composed enough, but his stomach churned. This wasn’t his first investigative dive, but something about this one felt different. Possibly dangerous even, given the type of hardcore conservatives that were most likely working on the inside to trap unsuspecting people into their web. Ever determined though, Mason shook the thought from his head and squared his shoulders. He had a job to do, after all, the truth wasn’t going to expose itself.

With one final glance at the street behind him, Mason pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air inside the Red Wave Solutions building was cool and faintly scented with a generic, clean aroma that reminded Mason of a freshly mopped hospital floor. His eyes darted around the space as he stepped inside, taking in the minimalist yet calculated decor. The interior was almost sterile in its design: pristine white walls and floors offset by carefully placed red accents. A striking red backlight illuminated the reception desk at the center of the room, and short sections of the walls were painted in the same bold crimson. It was sleek and modern but lacked any warmth, as if it had been designed to evoke trustworthiness without inviting comfort.

Behind the desk sat a neatly dressed woman who greeted Mason with a polite but impersonal smile. She was African American, her hair pulled into a professional bun while her burgundy blouse complemented the crimson accents of the room. Mason’s journalistic instincts immediately kicked in. The choice of a minority woman as the face of this place struck him as deliberate – an intentional move to put visitors at ease and present an image of inclusivity. He wondered how many people had walked through these doors, seen her friendly face, and let their guards down.

“Welcome to Red Wave Solutions,” she said, her voice professional but warm. “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

Mason nodded, stepping closer to the desk. “Yeah, it’s Mason Samsen. My appointment’s at 2:30.”

The woman’s manicured nails clicked against her keyboard as she searched for his information in the system. Mason used the moment to glance around, noting a few chairs arranged neatly along the walls of the waiting area. They were stark white, with small red cushions placed in the center of each seat. A table held a stack of glossy pamphlets with titles like "Taking the First Step Toward Inner Peace" and "Navigating Life’s Challenges with Confidence." He resisted the urge to grab one, keeping his focus on the woman behind the desk.

“Ah, here you are,” she said after a few moments. “I just need to verify your identity. Do you have an ID with you?”

Mason froze for a fraction of a second. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Uh, yeah,” he said, fishing his driver’s license out of his wallet. “Is that really necessary though?”

The woman’s smile didn’t falter. “Unfortunately, yes. We’ve had a few incidents recently with people trying to play pranks or disrupt our sessions. Running a quick background check helps us ensure that everyone who comes in is serious about taking advantage of what we offer while also helping us easily share information with the police if necessary.”

Mason hesitated, his fingers gripping the edge of his license. Her explanation was reasonable enough on the surface, but it still felt invasive and incredibly suspicious. Still, he knew he couldn’t afford to raise any alarms this early in his investigation. With a tight smile, he handed over the ID.

“Thank you,” the woman said, sliding the card into a small scanner attached to the desk. The machine whirred softly as it processed the information. “This will just take a moment. Once it’s done, we’ll take you back to begin your consultation and help you learn how to thrive in the red wave.”

Mason forced a polite chuckle at her use of a clearly corporate-enforced tagline, but inwardly, his nerves spiked. The phrase felt even more ominous now that they held his ID, like some Orwellian euphemism. He watched as she glanced at her screen, her expression unreadable as the system ran its checks.

“Feel free to take a seat while we finish up,” she added, gesturing toward the waiting area.

Mason nodded and moved to one of the chairs, carefully positioning himself where he and his hidden camera could keep an eye on the desk. He slid his phone out of his pocket and pretended to scroll while his thoughts churned. This whole process felt wrong. What kind of therapy company needed to run background checks on its clients? Was this just about deterring pranksters, or was there something deeper at play – some sort of data collection method or pre-screening tool to help figure out how exactly to break the mental reserves of interested parties?

As he waited, Mason adjusted his polo shirt again, ensuring the hidden button camera was still perfectly aligned. Whatever was happening here, he wasn’t leaving without answers.

The seconds stretched into minutes as Mason sat in the waiting area, his foot tapping against the white tile floor. His eyes flicked between the receptionist and the clock on the wall, noting that it had been over ten minutes since his ID had been taken. The polished environment of Red Wave Solutions, with its pristine surfaces and artificial calmness, was starting to get under his skin. The longer he waited, the more his mind raced. What if they were stalling for a reason? Had their check revealed his identity as an expose-focused journalist? He needed answers, and he wasn’t about to waste more time sitting idly by and waiting for them to make the first move.

Determined to act, Mason stood and walked back to the desk, forcing a polite smile. “Hey, sorry to bother you,” he began, “but is there a bathroom I could use while I wait?”

The receptionist returned his smile with one of her own, still calm and composed. “Of course,” she said, pointing toward a hallway behind her. “Just head straight down that hall and take a right. You’ll see the sign.”

“Thanks,” Mason replied, masking his nerves as he turned away.

He followed her directions, but as he walked, he took in everything around him. The red accents continued down the hallway – with all of its short walls and door frames painted with the same deliberate splash of color. The space was oddly quiet, the faint hum of distant air conditioning the only sound accompanying his steps. His hidden camera captured everything, from the layout to the stark, almost clinical lighting.

When he reached the intersection where he was supposed to turn right toward the bathroom, he paused. To his left, the hallway stretched further into the building, its end obscured by a sharp turn. Mason hesitated, weighing his options. The bathroom was a safe choice, but his instincts pushed him in the other direction. If he wanted answers, he knew he had to take a risk.

After glancing back to ensure the receptionist couldn’t see him, Mason hastily turned left and strode deeper into the building.

The further he went, the stranger the place felt. The hallways were eerily labyrinthine, branching off into sharp angles and other hallways that made it easy to lose his bearings. Doors lined the walls, each one marked with a small, nondescript plaque bearing a room number. Curious, Mason peeked through the window of one door, only to find an empty, white-walled room with a single chair bolted to the floor. The next room was the same. And the next.

“What the hell is this place?” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding harder with each step.

Then, a sound broke the silence – a voice, faint at first, but unmistakable.

“Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

Mason froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was male, clearly desperate and filled with terror.

“I changed my mind! I want to leave! Please, let me out!”

The cries sent a chill down Mason’s spine. He scanned the hallway, trying to pinpoint the source. Although he didn’t know where exactly, the man knew that the screams were coming from somewhere deeper in the building.

Without hesitation then, Mason followed the sound, his steps quickening as he navigated the twisting corridors. The voice grew louder by the minute, the man’s pleas echoing off the sterile walls. Mason’s chest tightened as he rounded another corner, finally stopping in front of a heavy door with a small rectangular window.

Inside, a young man was standing with his head pressed against the glass window. His face was pale, his eyes wide and filled with panic. When he saw Mason, he pounded on the glass.

“Please, help me!” the man begged, his voice raw. “You have to let me out! I changed my mind. I don’t want to go through with this anymore!”

Mason’s hands trembled as he reached for the door handle, only to find it locked. He looked back down the hallway, adrenaline flooding his system. The silence outside the door was deafening, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

“Hold on,” Mason said, his voice low but urgent. “I’ll get you out of here. Just give me a second.”

The man inside the room sobbed, clutching his head in anguish. “Please, hurry, I don’t feel well,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Mason scanned the door, looking for any way to unlock it. His instincts told him to move quickly – if anyone caught him here, he wouldn’t have the chance to find out what was really going on.

Mason’s heart hammered in his chest as he examined the door, searching for some way to unlock it. His fingers brushed over the control panel on the side, and he let out a small breath of relief when he saw the latch mechanism – a simple keypad. His years of investigative journalism had taught him a few tricks, and after quickly punching in a few common codes he’d used to sneak into areas in the past, the lock finally gave a faint click.

The door swung open, and the man inside nearly collapsed into Mason’s arms. His slender twinkish frame trembled, and before Mason could say a word, the man threw his arms around him, clinging tightly.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” the man cried, his voice breaking. “We need to get out of here… right fucking now!”

Mason gripped his shoulders firmly, pushing him back slightly so he could look him in the eyes. “Hey, calm down. Stop yelling,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady. “I’ll help you get out, but you have to keep quiet. We can’t get caught, okay?”

The man nodded frantically, his breathing ragged. Mason took a moment to observe him. He was young – probably a college student no older than Mason himself – with bright blonde hair that was tousled in a way that suggested he’d been consistently running his hands through it while in distress. His frail physique was only emphasized by the somewhat tight Britney Spears t-shirt he wore, providing Mason with a clear as day impression of the other man’s toned abs and flat chest. The whole look screamed twink, which instantly caused Mason to develop a pang of protectiveness for him.

“Okay, we’re getting out of here,” Mason said, his voice firm but quiet. “Stick close to me, and don’t make a sound unless I ask you something.”

The man nodded again, wiping tears from his face. Mason led him out of the room, carefully closing the door behind them. He glanced down the hallway, ensuring the coast was clear before gesturing for the man to follow him.

As they walked, Mason leaned in close. “What’s your name?”

“Cooper,” the man whispered, his voice trembling. “Cooper Evans.”

“All right, Cooper. What the hell is going on here?”

Cooper hesitated, wringing his hands as they moved down the quiet hall. “I– I came here because I was scared,” he finally said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do. With this new administration, I was afraid of being hate-crimed or losing my rights. They said they could help me blend in.”

Mason’s brows furrowed. “Blend in? How?”

“They… they said they have this process,” Cooper explained. “They said they could transform me into a Conservative. That I wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore if I just… fit in.”

Mason stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at Cooper. “Transform you? What are you talking about? How does that even work?”

“I, I don’t know!” Cooper said, his voice rising before Mason quickly shushed him. “I swear, I don’t know. They gave me this whole pitch, had me sign a contract saying I’d agree to it, and then they gave me this red pill for me to swallow. That’s it. That’s all I know!”

Mason let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell were you thinking saying yes to something like that?” he hissed. “I know the future’s scary right now, but why would you want to become someone with such awful values? Someone your altered self would hate if they ever met the real you?”

Cooper’s lip trembled, and tears began streaming down his face again. “Dude, I was scared, okay?” he choked out. “I didn’t know what else to do! I thought… I thought it was the only way I’d be safe.”

Mason sighed, his frustration melting into a mix of sympathy and anger. “Look, I get it. Things are bad, but you can’t just give up who you are because you’re scared. That’s exactly what people like them want. I don’t know you well, but I can already tell that you’re a great guy who deserves to be your true self…”

Cooper sniffled, nodding miserably as he endured the lecture from the other man while continuing down the hallway. Mason kept a hand on his shoulder, guiding him while keeping an ear out for any approaching footsteps. Whatever was happening here, it was worse than he’d imagined, and he was determined to not only get Cooper out of here safely, but expose this company for the disgusting things they’re attempting to do.

Mason kept a steady grip on Cooper’s shoulder, speaking softly but urgently. “Listen, Cooper, nobody can just transform like that. It’s not real. Whatever they gave you, it’s probably some kind of drug – a sedative, maybe, or something to make you more suggestible. Brainwashing, that’s got to be their angle. They’re just trying to get you weak enough so they can get in your head…”

Cooper’s watery eyes flicked toward him, searching for reassurance. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Mason replied firmly. “You’re still you. We just need to get out of here in one piece, and everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

But just as the words left Mason’s mouth, Cooper stopped dead in his tracks. A low grunt escaped him, and his hands shot to his stomach.

“Something’s wrong,” Cooper whimpered, his voice tight with discomfort.

Mason spun around, his heart lurching. “Cooper?”

Before he could get another word out, Cooper screamed – a piercing, guttural sound that echoed through the hallway. Mason’s pulse spiked, causing him to immediately clamp a hand over Cooper’s mouth.

“Shh! Stop screaming!” Mason hissed, glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to come rushing toward them at any moment. But Cooper’s muffled cries didn’t stop. His entire body trembled, his knees buckling as he clutched his midsection.

“Damn it,” Mason muttered under his breath, scanning the hallway. He spotted a door nearby, one that oddly wasn’t locked like so many of the others but rather slightly ajar. With no other choice and not in the situation to second-guess it, he yanked it open all the way, dragging Cooper inside and shutting the door behind them.

“Okay, breathe,” Mason said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “We just need to–”

But Cooper cut him off with another scream, this one deeper and more guttural than before. Mason’s stomach churned as the sound of cracking bones filled the air. Cooper fell to his knees, his hands bracing against the cold floor as his body convulsed. “What’s happening to me?!” he roared, his voice suddenly raspier and deeper, no longer the light airy tenor Mason had heard moments ago.

“Cooper, calm down!” Mason demanded, though his own panic was building. “It’s, it’s probably the drug giving you a panic attack or something. Just hold on, we’ll–”

But Mason’s words faltered as he watched, wide-eyed, as Cooper’s body began to change. His frame, once frail and delicate, suddenly began to expand with unnatural speed. His limbs stretched, his torso elongating until he had shot up to at least 6’4”. His skinny jeans became comically short, now resembling capris, while his Britney Spears t-shirt rode up his lengthening torso, exposing a wide swath of his toned abdomen.

“What the hell…” Mason whispered, stumbling back against the wall.

Cooper’s screams wavered, cracking wildly between high-pitched cries and guttural, low groans. His hands clutched at his chest and shoulders as his body continued to shift – this time with the invasion of muscle into his lithe frame. Before his eyes, Mason watched as the other man’s lean arms buffed up, his flat chest began to thicken and broaden, and the remainder of Cooper’s entire physique began to morph from wiry club kid to college athlete.

“It hurts!” Cooper cried out, his voice so deep and gravelly it was almost unrecognizable. “What the fuck is happening to me?!”

Mason’s breath caught in his throat. “Cooper,” he said, his voice trembling. “I– I think it’s real. That pill… it’s actually transforming you.”

Cooper’s new, larger form shook with silent sobs as his head dropped forward, his blonde hair falling into his face. “But I didn’t want this!” he bellowed, his voice resonating in the small room. “I just wanted to feel safe!”

Mason stared at him, horrified and helpless, his mind racing. Whatever he had stumbled into at Red Wave Solutions was far more sinister than he could have imagined. This wasn’t just brainwashing or manipulation – this was something once thought to be scientifically impossible.

He took a shaky step forward, placing a hand on Cooper’s arm and struggling to comprehend the jock-like biceps the man now possessed. “We’re going to figure this out,” Mason said, his voice low but firm. “I don’t know how, but we will find a way to turn you back. Just… keep it together, okay?”

Cooper looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. “They changed me,” he choked out. “I barely even recognize myself…”

Mason swallowed hard, fighting back the rising tide of panic. “We’ll fix this,” he promised, though he had no idea how. “But first, we’ve got to get out of here.”

He reached for the door handle, his heart hammering. Whatever was happening inside Red Wave Solutions, Mason knew one thing for sure: he had to expose it, no matter the cost.

Mason had barely finished reassuring Cooper when the man doubled over again, this time clutching his chest with both hands. The cracking and popping sounds of shifting bone and sinew returned, louder and more unsettling than before. Mason’s stomach twisted in fear as Cooper’s body began to shake once more.

“Cooper?” Mason asked, his voice shaking as he stepped back. “What’s happening now?”

Cooper let out a low groan that turned into a guttural moan as his entire body suddenly began to swell with immense mass. In an instant, his arms ballooned with muscle. His biceps and forearms thickened rapidly, straining the sleeves of his Britney Spears shirt until they began to tear at the seams. His chest expanded, leaving his plump pecs pressed tightly against the fabric as his shoulders further broadened and filled out. His newly-jockish frame was already disappearing, undergoing an extreme metamorphosis as more layers of powerful muscle began to flood his physique. 

“Holy… shit…,” Mason muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Cooper’s transformation.

The changes didn’t stop with his upper body, as Cooper’s thighs and calves surged with muscle, causing his jeans to pull taut until the fabric threatened to split. His abdomen, which had been toned yet flat before, rippled with abs so bulging and pronounced they looked sculpted from stone. And yet, even as Mason watched, a soft layer of fat began to spread over Cooper’s newly chiseled physique. His once-defined six-pack faded into the softer outline of a bulkier, slightly rounded stomach, giving him the appearance of a well-fed, off-season athlete… or a frat bro who spent as much time lifting weights as he did guzzling beer.

Cooper let out a long, low moan as the transformation slowed. His once frail and shaky voice was now deep and resonant, though his words came out in a stilted, almost dazed manner. “Holy shit, bro,” he said, looking down at his enormous hands and flexing them experimentally. “What… what happened to me?!”

Mason’s breath hitched as he stared at the hulking figure before him. Cooper’s face still bore a trace of his former self, but it was broader now, more rugged. His blonde hair was now down to his shoulders, styled with a natural set of curls that gave him a sort of redneck-chic style befitting of a frat bro. The sight was surreal, and Mason’s instincts screamed at him to leave.

He took a step back, glancing at the door. “Look, Cooper,” he said cautiously, his voice trembling. “I– I think you’re going to be okay still. Just… stay here. I need to figure out how to get us out of this mess.”

But the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. Every fiber of his being told him he couldn’t stay here any longer. Whatever was happening to Cooper, it was beyond anything Mason could comprehend, let alone fix.

“I’ll be right back,” Mason lied, taking another step back toward the door until his back pressed against the firm metal.

As he reached for the handle and turned it though, his heart sank. It wouldn’t budge. He yanked harder, but it quickly became clear that there was no use. The door was locked.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his panic rising. He spun around, his eyes darting toward the small window in the door.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Two enormous security guards stood just outside, their arms crossed over their broad chests. Both men were built like linebackers, their sharp features set in stern, no-nonsense expressions. They were looking directly at Mason, their eyes unblinking, their presence menacing.

“Oh, crap,” Mason whispered, stepping away from the door.

“Dude,” Cooper said behind him, his voice booming and casual now. “Why’s the door locked? What’s goin’ on, bro?”

Mason didn’t respond. His mind raced, trying to think of a way out. Yet as he looked around, he quickly realized that not only was the room small, but it lacked any other exits or windows. The only way out of this room was through the door – and the guards who clearly weren’t going to let him leave.

Cooper took a lumbering step toward him, his movements unsteady as he adjusted to his new burly size. “Yo, Mason,” he said, his voice a strange mix of confusion and excitement. “I feel so weird, man. Like, I’m freakin’ huge now. This is nuts!”

Mason pressed himself against the far wall, his breath quick and shallow. He had come here to expose Red Wave Solutions, but now he was trapped in a nightmare with no clear escape. And to make matters worse, the transformed Cooper was now staring at him with an unsettling mix of bewilderment and enthusiasm, as if unaware of the full extent of what had just happened to him.

The guards outside shifted slightly, their eyes never leaving Mason. It was clear they were waiting for him to make a move – which left the journalist wondering if they were simply there to stop him from interfering or eventually take him somewhere worse for finding out the truth.

Mason swallowed hard, his mind racing. Whatever was happening here, he was in way over his head.

Mason barely had time to process the sight of the guards standing outside the window before the door clicked and swung open into the room. His pulse spiked, and he took a few reflexive steps back, especially as the two massive guards rushed into the room with practiced precision and alarming speed.

“Hey! Wait–” Mason shouted, but the words were cut off as one guard grabbed his left arm and the other seized his right. Their grips were like iron, pinning him in place with an effortless strength that left him completely immobilized.

“Let me go!” Mason demanded, struggling futilely against their hold.

But his cries went ignored. The guards didn’t so much as glance at him, their stony expressions remaining fixed ahead like robots as they held him firmly.

Mason’s eyes darted to Cooper, desperate for help, but the sight before him made his stomach drop further. Cooper was staring at his reflection in the mirror mounted on the far wall, his now-massive hands running over his muscular chest and arms. His face, once soft and pretty, had undergone further dramatic transformation. The delicate features had sharpened into something rugged and masculine – a stubble-covered jawline that could cut glass, a straight nose, a set of manly lips adorned with a trimmed mustache, and thick brows that framed eyes filled with a vacant yet self-satisfied glint. For a moment, the man played with his hair, enjoying running his thick, callused fingers through his long wavy strands.

“Cooper!” Mason called, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

But Cooper didn’t respond, his attention entirely consumed by his own image. He flexed, his bulging biceps straining the tattered remnants of his shirt, his lips curving into a smirk as he admired his physique.

The sound of deliberate, measured footsteps echoed through the room, drawing Mason’s attention away. His eyes widened as a figure emerged in the doorway – a handsome, middle-aged man with perfectly trimmed stubble and sharp, piercing eyes. Dressed in a tailored suit that exuded authority, the man carried himself with an unsettling confidence.

He stepped inside, surveying the room with a smile that sent chills down Mason’s spine. His gaze lingered on Cooper for a moment, his expression one of approval, before turning toward Mason.

“Well, isn’t this quite the scene,” the man said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Cooper is coming along beautifully, wouldn’t you say?”

Mason didn’t answer, his throat dry as he glared at the man.

The stranger’s attention returned to Cooper, who was now flexing in earnest, his massive arms and broad shoulders filling the small space. “You’re doing great, Cooper,” the man encouraged, his tone warm and enthusiastic. “Just look at you. All that weakness, all that self-doubt – it’s melting away, isn’t it? You’re finally becoming the straight alpha male you were always meant to be.”

“No,” Mason muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “This isn’t right. Cooper, don’t listen to him!”

But Cooper didn’t even glance at him. Instead, his expression remained precisely trained at his new reflection and hyper-masculine face as one hand moved down to paw at his immensely-sized crotch. “Yeah… yeah, bro,” Cooper said, his voice deep and almost gravelly. “I feel so… powerful.”

The man chuckled, his smile widening. “That’s it. Embrace it. Let go of that weak, pitiful version of yourself. Expel it. You don’t need it anymore.”

“Cooper, stop!” Mason shouted, straining against the guards’ hold. “This isn’t you! Don’t give into what this asshole and his fucked up company wants!”

But his words were drowned out by the older man’s encouragement. “Come on, Cooper. Show us you’re ready. Show us you’re done with that fragile little self you used to be.”

Cooper’s grin turned almost feral as he stepped back from the mirror, his massive hands now split between jerking himself off and squeezing his immense new form. He thrust his hips forward once, then again, his body trembling as he gave in to whatever compulsion was driving him.

“No!” Mason screamed, his voice cracking as he fought against the guards with renewed desperation.

Cooper bucked his hips one last time, his movements growing erratic until he froze as a torrent of cum shot out of his thick cock. Mason watched as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head, his chest heaving as a guttural groan escaped his lips.

Mason’s blood ran cold. Whatever was happening to Cooper was reaching its horrifying conclusion, and Mason had no idea how to stop it.

Cooper – or rather, the person who had once been Cooper – stirred a few minutes later, his head jerking slightly before his eyes fluttered open. Mason froze, watching in disbelief as the hulking man came to. The confusion was evident in the newly sculpted frat bro’s face as he blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings.

“Uh… what the hell is going on, broskis?” he mumbled, his deep voice carrying an unfamiliar, lazy drawl. His gaze darted from the guards restraining Mason to the middle-aged man standing with a smug expression, and finally landed on Mason himself.

As recognition failed to surface in his eyes, the now-transformed man tilted his head, his lips pulling into a cocky smirk. “Yo, wait a sec… are you, like, a homo or something? Tryna sneak a peek at my badass bod or check out my… uh…” He flexed one arm and cupped his other hand over his crotch with a crude laugh. “…my impressive package, bro?”

Mason’s mouth fell open. “Cooper, it’s me, it’s Mason! Don’t you remember anything? You came here because–”

“Shut it,” the other man interrupted before snapping his fingers at the guards holding Mason. Without hesitation, they reached up and clamped strong hands over his mouth in order to silence him. Mason struggled, muffled protests escaping as he glared daggers at the older man.

The mysterious man turned to the hulking figure, his demeanor calm and calculated. “You’re quite perceptive, Jackson. As a matter of fact, we did indeed catch Mr. Samsen here sneaking into your room while you were in the middle of your… business.”

Instantly, Jackson’s brows furrowed as his expression darkened. He clenched his fists, the sound of his knuckles cracking echoing ominously in the small room. “What the fuck, bro?” he said, his voice a mix of anger and indignation. “You some kinda creep? Lemme guess, you’re some kind of fucked up fairy jealous of what a real man looks like?”

Mason shook his head frantically, trying to plead through the guards’ hands. His muffled cries went unnoticed by Jackson, whose frustration seemed to bubble over.

“Yo, I’ll mess you up, dude,” Jackson growled, taking a menacing step forward. His massive form towered over Mason, the threat in his body language clear.

But before Jackson could act, the middle-aged man raised a hand, his commanding tone cutting through the tension. “Now, now, Jackson. There’s no need for violence.” He nodded toward one of the guards standing by the door. “Escort Jackson to the lounge, would you? He’s had an intense day coming to terms with his inner truth, so I’m sure he could use some time to relax.”

One of the guards stepped forward, placing a hand on Jackson’s broad shoulder. “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”

Jackson hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking back to Mason. But then he shrugged, his frustration melting into indifference. “Yeah, whatever. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today, bro,” he muttered, turning to follow the guard out of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the man shifted his attention back to Mason. His warm smile was chilling in its insincerity. “Now, Mr. Samsen,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s your turn. You’ve poked your nose into matters you shouldn’t, so now it’s time for you to not only get punished but find a way to truly contribute to our cause.”

Mason’s eyes widened as the man continued, his tone almost fatherly. “You’ve spent so much time fighting against what you perceive as wrong. But you’ll soon realize that you’ve been on the wrong side of history all along. Don’t worry though, we’ll be gentle in helping you see the truth. And once you do, you’ll become the Conservative you were always meant to be...”

TO BE CONTINUED...

[sergeant-adams-deactivated20240]

Steve

“What were you saying about fags again?”

The conversation between Frankie and Steve had started out decently. Pleasant in fact. Frankie had come over to pick his bestie Mia up before they headed out for a night at the club. Dressed in a glittery harness over his shiny chest, too-tight jeans showing off his perky butt, and with his bleached locks tied back in a messy ponytail, Frankie was caught off guard when Mia’s father opened the door. He hadn’t expected for him to be on the other side, or for him to even be at Mia’s apartment in the first place.

“You must be Frankie,” Steve asserted with a gruff tone, letting the shorter, skinnier male enter. “I’m Steve, Mia’s father.” 

Frankie had never met Mia’s father, nor had Mia ever mentioned him. The pair had known each other for well over a year now, so Frankie had just assumed there had been a reason why Mia had never brought Steve up.

“Mia’s upstairs still getting ready, but you’re welcome to sit with me in the living room to wait.”

“Oh, that’s ok!” Frankie interjected. “I think I’ll just go up and help, being that’s my role and all.” Frankie was referring to his duties as a GBF, but that didn’t seem to fly with Steve. The older man had already taken a seat on the leather couch and motioned for Frankie to join him. Frankie was hesitant at first, but eventually he surrendered, sitting on the opposite side. He prayed Mia wouldn’t take that long.

Steve started the conversation off like any straight male would: asking if Frankie had seen the game last night. When Frankie said no like any gay male would, Steve took it as his obligation to fill him in on all of the details from the previous evening. Steve droned on and on and quickly lost Frankie’s attention, but the use of one word instantly brought him back in.

“God, and that ref was such a fag–called it at the stupidest moment.”

“You really shouldn’t use that word,” Frankie corrected.

“What?” Steve questioned innocently, propping his legs up on the couch. “‘Fag’?”

“Yeah,” Frankie nodded, noticing how much space Steve was now taking up. He subconsciously moved a little further into the corner of the couch. “It’s offensive and doesn’t respect my community.”

“That’s cause faggots don’t deserve respect,” Steve responded, watching Frankie twitch. Steve readjusted on the couch to fully face Frankie, his feet inching a little closer. 

“Are you one of those straight dickheads that actually believes they are superior to gay people?” Frankie’s reply was heated. His nose began to flare, causing him to take in more air. He pushed his legs apart as well, taking up a little more room as he opened into a manspread.

“Well, there’s a reason why straight men have always been on top.” Steve’s words were smooth and confident. He tossed one leg over the other before continuing. “I mean fairies used to always recognize that before the media went woke.”

“Yeah well, I bet all the gay men that bought into that crap were seriously pathetic,” Frankie faltered, taking the defensive. He tugged at his button-up, opening another button to reveal a bit more of his hairy chest. Frankie was flustered and felt a headache coming on. He always got annoyed when arguing with homophobes, but this one felt different.

“So you agree then?” Steve smirked, wiggling his meaty toes. “Faggots are pathetic.”

Frankie heaved. “Alright, I guess some gay men are faggots.” Frankie’s voice cracked, and then he coughed. His Adam’s apple repositioned itself below his stubble accordingly. “Those fags must have some serious issues. I’m glad I’m not like them.”

“And you’re not a fag?” Steve pressed, repositioning his Size 14 feet directly beneath Frankie’s nose.

“I can jack off to whatever porn I want! It’s just a fetish!” Frankie was getting visibly mad now. The blood was pumping through his veins. His muscular arms were tense, his chest was puffed out, and his sturdy legs were bouncing back and forth, ready to pounce.

“So you agree with me, homosexuality isn’t real,” Steve affirmed. “It’s just a fetish.”

Frankie froze, realizing what he’d been trapped into. With a confident sneer, Steve simply lifted a foot up to Frankie’s face.

“Sniff.”

Frankie followed the order. The concentrated heterosexual funk burst through his nasal passages and completely overrode his brain. The initial presence of the odor in the air was enough to evenly numb the organ, but the undiluted blast came as a complete shock.

After a few moments, Steve lowered his foot and watched as the new man conformed to his reality. It was then that Steve asked the question.

“God I hate ‘em” Frank huffed, running a hand through his trimmed brown hair. “It’s sad that faggots are wasting the space a real man could have. Their place is on the ground serving us. Inferior scum.”

Steve snickered, smiling as he watched Frank adjust his larger pouch before getting up to grab a beer. Frank proceeded to crack two open and, after spilling a bit and wiping it on his old sweats, rejoined Steve on the couch.

“So,” Frank started again as he passed Steve the other beer. “When’s that daughter of yours coming down anyway. She knows I’ll rail her without or without makeup, right?”

“Didn’t I tell you earlier? She’s out with friends,” Steve took a swig, moving his feet back in front of him while grabbing the remote. “You’re free to watch the game with me and wait ‘till she gets back.”

Frank nodded and let out a belch, leaning back into the couch and waiting until his pussy arrived.

[transform4u]

The Straight Case of Dr. Fields and Mister Dom 2: Ricky's Rebirth

Ricky’s whole body went rigid as he felt the heat rise in his chest. He could feel the sweat starting to form at the back of his neck, his palms slick and clammy as he tried to keep his breath steady. But it wasn’t just the heat from the crowded room that was making him sweat—it was the change happening right before his eyes. His best friend Rachel, who had always been the life of their late-night karaoke sessions and drag brunches, was changing. Her hair went blonde, her voice high-pitched and giggly, and she suddenly seemed... well, dumber, more ditzy than the sharp, sarcastic Rachel he had known. It was as though she had slipped into some exaggerated, obnoxious version of herself in front of his eyes.

The worst part? The heat in Ricky’s chest wasn’t the usual buzz of anxiety he felt at the bar—it was something deeper, more primal. It was like his own essence was being pulled from him, forced into a mold that wasn’t him at all.

He shoved through the crowd of twinks and daddies, avoiding eye contact with the guy he’d ghosted on Grindr last week and the hot actor he couldn’t help but crush on whenever he saw him at events. Why tonight? Why this moment? Ricky’s mind screamed, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Then he heard a familiar voice—too familiar. That Mid-Atlantic, almost too-perfect accent. “Honey, you okay?”

Ricky barely registered the words. Vivvy Commonwealth, his favorite drag queen, was standing right next to him, looking concerned. He didn’t want to deal with her right now. Didn’t want to deal with anything. His voice broke into a groan as he tried to push past her. “Leave me alone... bro—”

His voice cracked, deepened, and the air around him seemed to shift as he felt his throat close in on him. It was like he was being choked by an invisible hand, squeezing out all the joy and fun that had been in his life. Why is my voice like this? he thought desperately.

Before he could make sense of it, he rushed into the bathroom, the urgency in his steps matching the panic now swelling in his chest. The mirror reflected back a version of him he didn’t recognize. The glittery, over-the-top outfit he’d worn to stand out, the signature flair of his fashion, was slowly fading away. The glam was dissolving into something more... basic.

His eyes widened in horror as he saw it: perched atop his head, a bright red MAGA hat. It seemed to be a part of him now, a part he couldn’t shake off, no matter how hard he tried to yank it off his head. What the hell is happening? he thought, trying to tear it off, but it wouldn't budge. His panic grew as the voice inside his head started to rattle him, mocking him.

“You remember high school, don’t you? You were king. The jock, the charmer, the guy who owned the room,” the voice boomed. Ricky’s stomach churned as memories that weren't his flashed before him. Football games, parties, girls who would throw themselves at him like he was some kind of god. The voice rang louder, drowning out his thoughts. “The football field was yours, the parties were yours, and yeah, the girls? Yours too.”

He clenched his fists, desperately trying to block out the voice, to hold on to the life he had worked so hard to build. The nights of singing show tunes, grinding against cute twinks at the Eagle, where he was free and unapologetically himself. But all of it—the joy, the laughter, the carefree nights—was starting to fade away. The memories, the parts of him that made him Ricky, were being scrubbed away, like paint dissolving in the rain.

“Faith, family, freedom—that’s your foundation,” the voice continued, and Ricky could feel the shift happening in his mind. The memories began to warp. No, he thought, but it was like fighting a tidal wave. He couldn’t stop it. The excitement he once felt for the stage, the passion for performing, was being drowned out by this growing, loud, monstrous force inside of him. The voice pushed deeper into his mind.

“Dude,” it sneered. “Be. Loud. Proud. Unashamed. Be a fuckingFootball player swagger, chest-thumping energy. You know the you want it— he’s got it all figured out.”

Ricky’s pulse quickened. The memories kept flooding in, his memories: the arrogance, the swagger, the sense of dominance. He was the one who ruled the room back then. Football, parties, girls. Everything was his, and it was all part of his perfect life. And now, as the voice swelled louder and louder, he could feel himself getting dumber, less articulate. He was losing control over himself.

“Faith, family, freedom,” the voice repeated. “That’s what matters. The world today’s soft. You know that, right? They don’t get it. The libs, the woke zombies—they’re tearing everything apart. But you? You’re stronger than that. You’re built different.” Ricky's mind is ablaze with a firestorm of memories - the thrill of scoring a touchdown, the adoration of cheerleaders, the camaraderie of his teammates. These images sear into his consciousness, obliterating any hint of his former attraction to men. A venomous homophobia slithers through his thoughts, poisoning his mind with hatred and disgust. All he can focus on now is the allure of women, the satisfaction of a cold beer, and the glory of football. Anger simmers beneath the surface, a volatile mix of confusion and resentment towards his past self.

Ricky could feel the confusion building, the disorientation. The pride he once had for his theatrical performances, his carefree nights with his boyfriend, was replaced by something far more brutal, far more rigid. He remembered it all: high school, his reign as the jock, the way he owned everything around him. And now, this was his truth. This was who he was meant to be.

It was a raw, almost nauseating sensation, this overwhelming sense that he was becoming something else. A man who believed in his own superiority, who viewed every interaction as a battle, a war to win. A man who felt the need to be loud, unapologetic, and fiercely dominant. It was his world, and everyone else? They were just playing by his rules.

As the voice rumbled on, Ricky tried to block it out, but it was impossible. It was shaping him. Breaking him down into something else. A creature of brute force, of blind masculinity, and of power. The passion for his craft, the joy of performance, was gone. What replaced it was something darker, louder, and far more dangerous.

As Ricky stood there, his heart pounding in his chest, something strange began to happen. It started small—just a slight sensation, like a tingle beneath his skin—but it quickly escalated, coiling around him like a serpent. A golden cross began to snake its way around his chest, its gleaming surface shimmering like sunlight on water. It wrapped tightly, constricting, the edges of the symbol glinting and shifting as if alive. With each twist and turn, it tightened its grip, and Ricky could feel something stirring within him—a change, a force that pulled him in two directions at once.

Pain blossomed in his body as his frame began to expand, muscle after muscle thickening and stretching beneath his skin. His once delicate twink frame, the kind that would sway with the lightest breeze, began to ache as it contorted, the fibers of his body snapping and growing, filling out in ways that made him feel unfamiliar, trapped inside a body he barely recognized. His limbs stretched outward, his legs thickening, his arms ballooning with new strength. He groaned as the changes took hold, each new muscle pushing against his skin like a swollen river carving through dry earth.

His chest began to expand, and Ricky gasped as the tightness of his shirt stretched to its limit. His pecs pushed out like ancient stone, sculpted and defined in a way that felt both powerful and unnatural. They were firm, rounded, and as they swelled, they seemed almost alive, responding to each breath, rising and falling like waves in a stormy sea. They shifted with fluidity, each movement an effortless display of strength.

His abs followed suit. They weren’t just muscles now—they were a map, each line a carefully constructed perfect cut, creating a steel-like core that gleamed with every subtle movement. They weren’t merely for show. They were designed for power, for function, each section tighter than the last, chiseled to perfection. He could feel his body growing heavier, stronger, more dominant.

His arms thickened rapidly, the biceps and triceps sculpting themselves into defined blocks of muscle, hard and dense as marble. The sensation of them flexing, of their power beneath his skin, was dizzying. It was as though they were built for some primal purpose, like they could tear through the air with just a flex. His veins, once subtle, now bulged from his arms, pulsing with each throb of his heartbeat.

And then there was his backside. His bubble butt, once soft and lean, now swelled into something undeniably firm and lifted, sculpted by hours of unseen labor. The flesh was tight, the curves pronounced, a display of strength and athleticism that seemed to mock the body he had once known.

And then, the golden cross seemed to pulse as it tightened around him, its glow blinding for a moment as Ricky felt his legs surge with power. His quads grew thick, the muscles defined and taut, each step a testament to newfound strength. His hamstrings rippled beneath his skin, tight as the cords of a bow, ready to snap into action at any moment.

His legs were strong pillars of power, his arms capable of lifting mountains, and his chest a fortress. But it wasn’t just the physical transformation. It was the shift that accompanied it. The voice that had been whispering in his ear suddenly felt like a roaring thunderclap. “You’re feeling it now, aren’t you? The libs are ruining everything.”

Ricky nodded, almost mechanically, as the golden cross gleamed once more, tightening around his chest like a seal. His thoughts started to slip away. His mind fuzzed over as memories that had once been his own—memories of late-night Grindr hookups, of dancing to Broadway hits—began to fade, replaced by an overwhelming sense of certainty, of rightness. The once-easy joy he had felt in his friends, in being himself, was now clouded by a brash, boisterous pride.

“Bro000ooooo” he heard himself saying, the words feeling hollow, like a mask he wore just for the sake of fitting in. The voice that used to feel playful, light, now had an edge of arrogance, as if the world revolved around him and his opinions. He was the guy who slapped people on the back too hard, laughed too loud, and said the dumbest things with an air of unquestionable confidence. His mind spun in circles, chasing the echo of who he was becoming. He was no longer Ricky, the performance artist, the joyful spirit who lived for the music.

Now, he was a walking embodiment of arrogance, a caricature of masculinity wrapped in frat-boy swagger. He flexed his muscles just to remind everyone around him that he was the alpha. The voice inside his head continued, louder now: “It’s all about faith, family, freedom. That’s what matters. The world is soft, but you? You’re built different.”

Ricky’s body felt like it was being torn apart from the inside, muscles screaming and bones stretching as his entire form was reshaped. The voice in his head grew louder, insistent, demanding, as if it were a force of nature too powerful to ignore. “Ricky, no, Thad,” the voice commanded, its tone like a thick, intoxicating fog creeping into his consciousness. “You’re fucking Thad now. Say it.”

His jaw clenched, and with an almost desperate force, he grunted out the words, “I’m FUCKING THAD, BRO!” The moment the words left his mouth, something inside him snapped. The Ricky he once was—self-aware, creative, driven by music and expression—faded into the background as Thad took over.Thad was a whole different animal.

Thad was a guy who’d been born into wealth and privilege, where everything was handed to him, and every choice he made felt effortless. His wardrobe practically screamed Southern California preppy chic—crisp polos, pastel colors, khakis that fit just right, and loafers so polished they could blind you. Every inch of him radiated privilege, right down to the monogrammed cufflinks that gleamed on his wrist. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine, the kind of guy who never broke a sweat unless it was on a treadmill or while flexing in front of a mirror.

But Thad wasn’t just about looking good. Thad was built. A wall of muscle, thick and undeniable. His chest was massive, practically demanding attention the moment he stepped into a room. His shoulders? They could block out the sun if he turned just right. The power in his frame wasn’t just for show—it was his birthright. His arms were like tree trunks, and when he flexed, they practically had their own gravitational pull.

Thad’s mind, however, didn’t need intelligence. Muscles were his language, and his vocabulary was a mix of "bro," "sick," and "crushing it." When he spoke, he didn’t worry about sounding smart—he just wanted to sound strong. His conservative Christian values weren’t subtle or quiet. No, Thad wore them like a badge of honor, like a suit he could never take off. They were loud, proud, and completely hollow beneath the surface.

He pushed past the guy he’d ghosted on Grindr, his body slick with sweat, his chest puffing out with each step, trying to make himself even bigger, even more imposing. The guy blinked, but Thad didn’t notice. Thad didn’t care. As his sweat dripped on the twinks and daddies who’d been dancing, he didn’t even flinch. His gaze locked onto the actor he once crushed on. The actor had once been an object of desire, a symbol of the unattainable, but now? Thad was immune. He wasn’t jealous. No—he was better. He had muscles, he had money, and he didn’t need anyone’s approval.

He sneered as he spat in the actor’s direction, the arrogance in his eyes thick and unshakable. The actor flinched, but Thad didn’t care. He pulled out his phone, filming the moment for TikTok, laughing his ass off as if the world had just witnessed the funniest thing that had ever happened. He knew the audience would eat it up.

This was Thad. Loud. Proud. Untouchable.

His eyes flicked across the room, scanning the crowd for the next conquest. His prey for the night. His smile widened as he stalked toward her, muscles flexing, chin high, posture confident, the kind of confidence that only comes with knowing you’re already a step above everyone around you. As he approached, he filmed himself, voice booming, “Yeah, bro, this is it,” the caption already forming in his mind: When you know you’re better than everyone and still get the girl.

Thad didn’t have to do anything but exist. He didn’t need brains or creativity—his muscles did the talking, his money did the walking. And if the world didn’t like it? Too bad. He was Thad, and the world was there to watch him flex. Thad leans in close, his breath reeking of cheap beer and stale cigarettes. Spit flies from his mouth as he speaks, flecks landing on the girl's face. "Hey there, babe I'm Thad. But you've probably seen my TikToks? But have you see these fucking gains?" He flexes his arms, veins bulging. "I bench press more than your daddy makes in a month" As Thad talks, the girl's appearance begins to change. Her breasts swell and grow, straining against her top. A perfect gold cross necklace materializes, nestled between her enlarged mounds. Her makeup cakes itself on, becoming thicker and more exaggerated by the second. Her hair slowly becomes platinum blonde locks, falling in perfect waves. Thad's crude words continue to flow, his spit hitting the girl's face.

Thad's eyes roam over the girl's transformed body, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He thinks to himself, "Fuck, she's perfect. The ultimate bimbo princess, just begging to be plowed by a real man like me." He leans in even closer, his hard dick pressing against her thigh as he brags about his football prowess. "You shoulda seen me at the big game last week, babe. I was a fucking beast out there. Took down three guys in one play." The girl giggles vapidly, her brain clearly addled by Thad's crude words. Thad's mind races with depraved thoughts of what he's going to do to her tonight. He imagines bending her over and fucking her hard, her big tits bouncing with each thrust. Thad continues his boastful rant, his arm snaking around the girl's waist to pull her closer. "And let me tell you, baby, I'm not just a pretty face and a great body. I've got brains too I see the truth that the libs don't want you to know." As Thad speaks, the scene around them devolves into chaos. Twinks twitch and convulse, their bodies contorting in unnatural ways. Daddy types ache and moan, their muscles bulging and veins popping. Men of all kinds succumb to Dr. Fields' curse, their minds and bodies warping. Thad and his bimbo princess are oblivious to the pandemonium, lost in their own little world. They begin to make out passionately, Thad's hands roaming over the girl's enlarged breasts. Thad's hands grope and squeeze the girl's massive tits, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh. He pulls back from the kiss, panting heavily. "Fuck, you're so hot. I'm gonna take you back to my frat house and show you a real good time." The bimbo giggles and presses herself against him, her body molding to his. "Oh, Thad, you're soooo big and strong. I wanna feel your big, hard cock inside me." Thad growls and lifts her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. He carries her out of the chaos, not caring about the men writhing and screaming around them. All that matters is getting this perfect fuckdoll back to his room and ravaging her.

Thad's rebirth was nothing short of a violent miracle— his mind twisted into the image of an obnoxious, entitled, alt-right frat bro with a heavy dose of Christian righteousness. His broad chest felt like it was carved from granite, his shoulders widened to a point where they could block out the sun. But the physical transformation was secondary to the shift in his mindset. Gone were any traces of self-awareness or humility, replaced with a cocky, unshakable belief that the world owed him everything. His voice boomed with an arrogance that turned heads, laced with terms like “Bro” and “sick” as if those words carried weight in any conversation. He saw everything through the narrow lens of his privilege—his wealth, his strength, his “God-given” position at the top of the social hierarchy. Christianity became his armor, but not in any humble, reflective sense. His love for America was about dominance, not freedom. His views were a toxic cocktail of alt-right talking points, conservative values, and a misguided sense of cultural supremacy. His social media was a shrine to his distorted sense of self—videos of him flexing, pontificating about “the good old days,” and spitting out scripture like he was reading from a playbook for the culture wars. He didn’t just believe in his own superiority; he preached it. Thad was reborn into a role he was born to play: the loud, ignorant, Christian, alt-right frat bro who thought he was always the smartest guy in the room—because, in his mind, he was the only one who mattered. Thad tosses the blonde bimbo onto his bed, his eyes raking over her curves hungrily.He climbs on top of her, his hands roaming her body possessively."You're mine now, bitch.I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name."He tears at her clothes, ripping them off to expose her massive, fake tits.He squeezes them roughly, leaving bruises on her pale skin. The bimbo moans and arches her back, loving the pain.Thad unbuckles his belt and pulls out his huge, throbbing cock.He slaps it against her face, leaving trails of pre-cum on her cheek."Open wide, slut. Suck my dick."The bimbo obediently opens her mouth, and Thad shoves his cock inside, fucking her face brutally. Thad's hands return to roaming the blonde's body possessively as he grinds against the bimbo, the scene fading behind them as the gay men inside twitch and convulse. He leans in and whispers in her ear, "I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name." He grabs her ass and squeezes, pulling her hips flush against his. The bimbo giggles and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her massive tits into his chest. Thad's other hand slides up her skirt, pushing her panties aside. "Fuck, you're already soaking wet for me. You're a dirty little whore, aren't you?" The bimbo cries out and bucks her hips, not caring who sees. Thad grins wickedly and pulls his hand away, "Let's go somewhere more private, bitch"

[transform4u]

The Straight Case of Dr. Fields and Mister Dom

Dr. Colin Fields sat in his office, a dull ache pressing against his temples. He had been a man obsessed—obsessed with his work, with the unyielding drive to save humanity through his research. Nanogenes, HIV therapies, cancer studies—he had touched so many lives, or so he thought. Now, with the news that the department was being shut down due to Trump's budget cuts, his world felt like it was crumbling. All the tireless hours, the years spent perfecting his mind and his craft, had come to nothing.

He had been working on something that could change the world—a drug that would make people more accepting, a cure for the hatred and division that plagued society. But now, with his department on the chopping block, it seemed like it was all for nothing. His frustration bubbled over that night when he called his husband, Ethan.

“I’ve given everything to this job, Ethan,” Colin had ranted, his voice raw with anger. “I spent my life working for others, sacrificing everything. And now, they shut it all down. For what? For politics? I’m being blacklisted—blacklisted for being gay. For DEI. None of it matters. They don’t care.”

Ethan’s voice was softer, trying to calm him down. “Colin, this might be a good thing. You’ll have more time now. We could even start a family. Maybe this is a new chapter.”

Colin hadn’t wanted to hear it. “What the hell good is time? It doesn’t matter. It’s all over. My work was never going to matter to them.”

Now, alone in his office, the weight of his failure pressed on him even more. The anger was still there, smoldering beneath the surface, but something else was creeping in: a gnawing emptiness. It felt like everything he had worked for, all of his sacrifice, had been pointless. And then came the knock on the door.

The feds. They were closing in on him. His heart skipped a beat. He’d been working on something dangerous, something that would change mankind, something he hadn’t even fully tested. The drug—the virus—that would make humanity more compassionate, more accepting. He was on the verge of something huge. He couldn’t let them take it.

Panicking, Colin quickly turned to his desk. Behind it was a secret panel, one he had installed in case things ever went sideways. He opened it and found the needle—the one filled with his "gay drug." It was untested, unapproved, but it was his last hope.

But as he held it in his hand, a small doubt crept in. What if it didn’t work? What if it made things worse? But the banging at the door grew louder. The feds were nearly here. His breath quickened. There was no time to second-guess himself.

He jammed the needle into his throat, feeling the cool rush of chemicals flooding his system. Almost immediately, the world around him seemed to fade. His limbs felt heavy, his mind sluggish. Then—nothing.

When he woke up, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. His eyes fluttered open slowly, his head still thick with fog. He felt strange, like he had just woken from a long sleep. The world seemed off-kilter, like the edges of it were soft, hazy.

“Sweetie… I’m glad you’re awake,” Ethan’s voice broke through the fog.

“I feel… fine,” he mumbled, but his voice sounded wrong, distant. It wasn’t just his body that felt off. His brain was a jumble of confusion. He couldn’t think clearly. Nothing seemed to make sense.

Ethan didn’t seem convinced. “You look pale. Are you sure you feel okay?”

The concern in Ethan’s voice irritated him. That whiny girly voice. Always hovering, always caring, always asking. It grated on Colin now, in a way it never had before.

“Will you fucking lay off me, bro?” Colin snapped, his tone sharp and angry, more aggressive than he’d ever been before. “Get me a fucking beer.”

Ethan recoiled, clearly startled by the sudden outburst. His eyes widened with hurt, but he said nothing, turning slowly to leave the room.

Colin rubbed his temples, trying to push past the fog in his mind. Why was he so angry? Why did Ethan’s voice bother him so much? Ethan had always been patient with him. Why now, of all times, did he find it irritating?

The silence settled in, thick and uncomfortable. His mind kept slipping. He tried to think about his research. The drug. The virus. What had gone wrong? He couldn’t hold onto anything. It was like his thoughts were dissolving, unraveling at the edges. His memories… his past… everything he had worked for felt like a fading dream.

When Ethan returned with the beer, Colin didn’t even look up. “Thanks,” he muttered, taking the beer with trembling hands. He cracked it open and took a long drink, but it didn’t feel right. The cold bitterness of the beer seemed to do nothing to ease his mind. He took another sip. Still nothing.

“Just leave me alone, okay?” Colin muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. He didn’t want Ethan hovering over him. Didn’t want him asking more questions. He just wanted quiet. Peace.

Ethan, though hurt, didn’t argue. He stepped back, retreating to the other side of the room. Colin sank into the chair, trying to focus. The more he tried to concentrate on anything—the work he’d done, his research—the more it slipped away. Why was this so hard? His head pounded, his thoughts growing more muddled by the second. Words that had once come so easily now felt alien. The technical terms, the intricate details of his work, the memories of endless hours in the lab—everything was just gone. He could barely remember what a “nanogene” was, or what he’d even hoped to accomplish. The world of science, once so clear to him, now felt distant, like a fog was enveloping it.

His mind was growing slower. Endocytosis. Ecosystem. What did those even mean anymore? He couldn’t connect the dots, couldn’t hold onto the information. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. He felt dumber. Slower.

His memories—his life—were burning away like a fire consuming a forest. Years of education, of hard work, all dissolving. It felt like he was forgetting himself, piece by piece. And still, in the background, Ethan’s voice—his nagging, soft, whiny voice—continued to pierce through the fog.

“Do you need anything, honey?”

The sound of it was grating now. The voice that once comforted him, that he had once loved, now filled him with disgust. Why had I ever married such a miserable man? The thought rose unbidden, sharp and cruel. Why had I let myself get trapped in this? He couldn’t remember why it had ever mattered. He couldn’t remember why it had ever been worth it.

He sat there, struggling to think, but the harder he tried, the harder it became. Memories, knowledge, even his sense of self were fading, slipping away like sand through his fingers. And the more it slipped away, the more he felt nothing.

He was becoming something else. Someone else. And he didn’t care.

Ethan’s voice cut through again, softer now, asking, pleading, “Is there anything I can do for you, honey?”

But Colin didn’t want to hear it anymore. He didn’t want to think. He just wanted the peace of forgetting.

His mind, wrapped in a dense fog of rage and confusion. As the thought crossed his mind—Why the hell did I marry a man in the first place?—it was as if the words themselves triggered something deep within him. His body started to react violently, each muscle twitching as his arms expanded, his skin stretching uncomfortably across his frame. The transformation wasn’t subtle; it was brutal, painful, like fire surging through his veins.

His arms, once thin and pale, began to bulk up rapidly. Each fiber of muscle swelled, pressing against his skin as if desperate to break free. The pain was excruciating, each spasm in his body like a cruel twist, a reminder that something was terribly wrong. The sensation was like testosterone coursing through his blood, boiling under his skin, igniting every cell with raw power. His arms grew longer, thicker, and stronger with every moment, muscles twitching and contracting as though they had a life of their own.

The chest followed. His pecs expanded with a deep, aching stretch, the skin around them growing tight as they bloomed like mountains, rising up from his ribcage. His breath came in ragged gasps, every inhale a testament to the intensity of his changing body. His chest swelled, the definition sharp and clear, as if every fiber had been meticulously carved. Each flex made the muscles surge and ripple, commanding attention, as if they were reaching for something greater, something beyond the pain.

The transformation spread downward. His abs tightened, rippling, each muscle turning to stone, the lines sharp and etched into his body like a roadmap of pure strength. The V-line tapered down toward a narrow waist, while his obliques twisted with the power of his newfound physique. It was a body forged from rage and ego—flawless, relentless, and undeniable. It was the very embodiment of what he had always wanted to be, to look like.

His arms were no longer just arms—they were weapons. His biceps swelled into twin cannonballs of muscle, veins pulsing across the forearms like rivers of raw strength. His triceps tightened into a perfect horseshoe, every movement deliberate and filled with power. With each flex, each motion, the arms screamed of the effort it took to build this body, of the sweat and pain that had forged this form.

The shoulders were next, swelling outwards with shocking speed. His deltoids spread like wings, massive and commanding, as though his body had been designed to carry the weight of the world. His traps rose from his neck like boulders, adding a brutal dimension of raw power to the frame. His body was a masterpiece—every muscle was perfectly sculpted, each one a testament to effort and purpose, strength and rage.

The legs followed suit, thickening with muscle that rippled beneath the skin. His quads bulged, adding layers upon layers of strength to his body, while his hamstrings stretched taut like steel cables. His calves rounded and tightened into defined, powerful pillars of muscle. His glutes were sculpted to perfection, firm and powerful, adding a final piece to the impressive physique. With each step, he felt the ground beneath him tremble with his newfound power.

As his body grew, so too did his features. His cheekbones became sharper, his jawline more defined, chiseled with the kind of rugged masculinity that turned heads and commanded attention. His eyes gleamed with a new, dangerous confidence, a cocky smile curling at the corners of his lips as he surveyed his new form in the mirror. The transformation wasn’t just physical—it was mental, a complete reshaping of his identity.

The anger that had fueled the change was still there, coursing through him, sharp and unrelenting. His thoughts were more clouded than ever, but beneath it all, the rage burned bright. He looked at his body now, marveling at the power he had gained. The aches and pains were almost forgotten as he reveled in the raw strength that surged through him. He was perfect. He was the epitome of everything he had ever wanted to be.

He glanced down at himself, running his hands over his new, powerful chest, feeling the tautness of his skin, the definition in every muscle. His breath quickened as he took in the sight of his now-immaculate form. The stench of his sweat hit him, overpowering, thick with musk and testosterone. Normally, he would have been disgusted by the smell, but now, it only seemed to fuel his rage. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent, letting it wash over him like a drug.

He had to get out of there. He couldn’t stay in this house—this place that reminded him of his pathetic past, of Ethan.

Grabbing a pair of sweats and a tank top from Ethan's closet, he threw them on, the fabric clinging tightly to his new, powerful form. The clothes were too small, but that only fueled his anger. He didn’t need to be here anymore.

“Leaving,” he shouted, his voice low, filled with a new, primal intensity. “Won’t be back.”

Before Ethan could even react, Colin was out the door and in the car, speeding away. His mind raced with thoughts of power and dominance. As he drove, he slammed the radio on, the sound of a conservative talk show host blaring into the car. At first, the blaring words made Colin wince, but then something in the host’s voice clicked. His words, full of bravado and strength, began to sink into Colin’s brain.

“Real men,” the host was saying, “are those who don’t bow to weakness. They take what they deserve, they fight for what’s theirs, and they never apologize. They make their own rules. They don’t let anyone tell them they aren’t enough.”

A dark smile spread across Colin’s face. The host’s words filled him, amplified his growing anger. This is what I’ve been missing, he thought, his grip tightening on the wheel. He wasn’t weak. He never had been. The more the host ranted about power, about dominance, the more Colin’s mind warped, aligning perfectly with every word.

His ego surged, filling the space in his head. He was powerful now. He was unstoppable. The years he’d spent with Ethan, the weakness, the compromises, all of it was gone. He was free. Free to live without apology, free to take what was his. The world was his playground, and everyone else was just there to watch him dominate.

The road stretched out ahead of him, endless and open, just like his future. And as he drove further from his past, the voice of the host continued to echo in his mind, louder and louder, drowning out everything else.

As Colin sped down the highway, leaving behind the life that had once anchored him, a storm of thoughts raged within him, as if the turmoil inside his mind was mirrored by the powerful engine of his car. The rumble of the tires against the asphalt was a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the rapid fire of his emotions. His hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his mind a whirlpool of resentment and newfound power.

The anger that had been simmering just beneath the surface seemed to bubble up with every passing second. Why had he put up with that f*ggot for so long? His thoughts kept circling back to Ethan, to that weak, pathetic version of himself that had let him stay in a relationship where he felt anything but powerful. Now, all he felt was strength.

“The modern man,” the voice from the podcast echoed, “is built for domination. You’re not here to ask for permission. You’re here to take. Men like us? We rise by force. Not by asking nicely, but by demanding what’s ours. We lead through strength, not compromise. Listen up, patriots! I've had it up to here with this feminist bullshit and the gay agenda taking over our country. Men were meant to be the breadwinners, the protectors, the leaders. But now, these liberal snowflakes want us to believe that women can do our jobs just as well? Please! Women were put on this earth to look pretty, cook dinner, and spread their legs for their husbands. Anything else is unnatural and goes against God's plan. And don't even get me started on the gays. They're ruining everything with their pride parades and "love is love"nonsense. Marriage is between a man and a woman, period. Having a gay president or a gay CEO? Absurd! They're too busy chasing tail to run a country or a company. It's high time we take back our nation from these degenerates and restore traditional family values.”

Something inside Colin sparked, a fire kindled deep in his chest. At first, the words didn’t make much sense. They rubbed him the wrong way, stirring his discomfort. But then, as the host’s voice rattled on, something twisted in his gut, and his lips curled into a slow, confident smile. Take what’s ours. That thought burrowed itself into his mind like a worm, wriggling and twisting, changing everything.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his jaw clenched, the smile never leaving his face. A wave of power surged through him, igniting every fiber of his being. The voice in his head, the one that had been angry and restless, now began to warp, evolving into something different—something more dangerous.

His mind shifted. Dominance. Power. Strength. Every muscle in his body seemed to swell with new meaning as the mantra took hold of him. The anger that had once been a burning ember now flared into an uncontrollable blaze. As the miles ticked by, he began to visualize himself as the embodiment of that quote. A man who didn’t just play the game, but redefined the rules. He was a walking contradiction—polished, muscular, and perfect on the outside, but his core was built on self-preservation and a relentless drive to project strength.

Each thought stoked his ego. The polished Instagram videos of flexing, the perfect workout shots—every moment of self-aggrandizement was a calculated step toward becoming a god in his own world. His physique wasn’t just muscle; it was a brand, a carefully curated image of perfection. His body, every muscle, every vein, every line carved into him, was proof of his superiority over the weak. And the world was taking notice. He could feel it in the air, in every glance he received as he passed by people. They all saw him now. He wasn’t just some man—he was the man.

He had been trained for this, molded by his past, his upbringing in the rough, unforgiving streets of Jersey Shore. Toughness wasn’t a choice—it was survival. Strength was the currency he spent, and it bought him everything he wanted. The polished swagger that flowed from him now, from every word he spoke to every movement, was the armor he’d built from years of sharpening his edge. The charm was calculated, designed to manipulate, to bend people to his will. The softer side of him? It didn’t exist anymore. The door to vulnerability had been locked away, thrown out. Only power mattered.

Politically, his thoughts mirrored that same forceful energy. He clung to the idea that strength was synonymous with dominance, with being the apex predator in a world that rewarded the bold and the brutal. He had no interest in nuance. The world wasn’t a place for compromise. It was a battlefield, and Colin was the one who would rise above it all. The weak were obstacles. The strong, like him, had to survive by crushing anyone who stood in their way.

His thoughts now spiraled further into the dark recesses of his own ego. I am the leader. I am the alpha. It wasn’t just about physicality anymore. It was about asserting himself in every facet of life, from his career to his relationships, and especially on social media. Every "like," every comment, was validation that he was untouchable, that he was constantly at the top of the game.

As the miles flew by, his heart began to race with the exhilaration of his growing ego. Every word from the podcast only made it stronger, more twisted. Colin could feel it: He was a king. And no one, not even Ethan, could ever take that away from him. Colin soon found himself parked in front of a bar. Adjusting his junk, he steps into the bar.

Colin walked into the bar, the flickering neon lights casting sharp shadows across his newly sculpted face. His muscles rippled beneath his tight shirt as he strode in with the confidence of a man who owned the entire place. The air inside was thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat, the hum of music vibrating through the floor. A country song played in the background, but it felt distant, like the sounds of a life that no longer had any claim on him.

The bartender—a middle-aged guy with a scruffy beard and a smirk—met Colin’s gaze and gave him a nod, clearly accustomed to customers who thought they were something special. "What’ll it be?" the bartender asked, ready to serve the man who obviously commanded attention.

Colin gave him a knowing look, as if expecting nothing less. "Whiskey. Neat," he grunted, his deep voice filling the air.

As the bartender got to work, Colin took in his surroundings. A few people sat at the bar, sipping their drinks and chatting. Most of them were men. As his eyes moved over them, the realization hit him like a punch in the gut: this was a gay bar. A place he used to frequent with Ethan. The memories began to bubble up, but as they did, they were twisted into something dark. Faggots. This place. This was where he wasted time. What the hell was I doing here with that man?

The thought boiled his blood. He gritted his teeth as his grip tightened on the bar, his new muscles flexing involuntarily. The sound of laughter and the sight of men dancing together only made his stomach churn, but the worst part was the small pang of disgust... and something else. Something darker. He hated them for it, for being here, for the memories that swirled in his mind like a toxic mix. But he hated himself too.

Fuck this, he thought. He was done with this place. He slammed back his drink, the fire of the whiskey burning his throat as he prepared to leave. But then, something caught his eye.

A woman. A stunning woman. She was dancing with a man—probably gay, by the way he was eyeing her—but Colin didn’t care. She had that look, the one that made men stop in their tracks. The kind of woman who made your blood run hot with desire, who made you forget everything around you.

He grinned, the cocky smile spreading across his face as he pushed himself off the bar and strode toward her. He was a man on a mission now, fueled by a strange blend of confidence and rage. His feet moved with purpose, each step bringing him closer to the object of his desire.

He approached her and, with a deep breath, tried to introduce himself. "Uhhhhhh, name’s uhhh Dominic D'Angelo. But you can call me Dom... or Big D, for short," he said, his voice thick with a bravado that only partially masked his own internal discomfort.

The woman raised an eyebrow and glanced him over, unimpressed. She gave him a cool smile, but it wasn’t the smile that made her interested—it was the smile of someone humoring a guy they weren’t going to waste their time on.

Colin’s smile faltered for a moment, but then something inside him clicked. A switch flipped in his mind, and in that moment, the person he once was—the shy, reserved scientist who had tried to find meaning in his relationship with Ethan—vanished.

What the hell am I doing? he thought. I don’t need her approval. I don’t need anyone’s approval.

In that instant, the personality of Dominic D’Angelo—a name that didn’t even feel like his own—took full form in his mind. He was no longer the man who had spent too many nights crying alone in a sterile lab. He wasn’t the confused man who had ever cared about the complexities of relationships. He was Dominic D'Angelo, a man who didn't care about the fragile, emotional mess that was the world around him. He was a man who took, who ruled, who commanded.

He didn’t even need to think about what he was going to say next—his mind had already molded him into the guy he thought he should be. The one who didn’t ask for permission. The one who demanded attention, and not just for his looks or strength, but for everything he was about to become. The guy who walked into a room and had every head turn toward him because he was the one who had earned it.

His hair, perfectly styled. His muscles, perfectly sculpted. The gold chain and cross hanging from his neck, glinting in the dim light like they were made for the sole purpose of making others see him as something greater.

He wasn’t just walking into this bar; he was taking it over.

The woman looked at him with a half-amused smirk, but Dom could see her taking him in, sizing him up. In that moment, he didn’t need her approval. He didn’t need anyone’s approval. He was Dominic D'Angelo, and the world had no choice but to follow his lead.

And so it began. The memories of who he was—who Colin was—drifted further and further away, replaced by the persona of a man who lived for himself, who was driven by one thing: power.

Power over his body. Power over others. Power over the world.

Born in the suburbs, raised on trashy media and a world that glorified excess, Colin—or rather, Dominic—had been shaped into a man who believed the world owed him everything. The flashy cars, the gold chains, the tight shirts, the arrogance that dripped from every word he said. It was all part of the act, part of the brand he had built. He was the guy who didn’t need to prove anything—he was just there, demanding attention, taking what was his by right. The world, he believed, revolved around him, and everyone else? They were just extras in the story of his life.

The woman, still turning away from him, seemed oblivious to the power he thought he exuded. Dominic’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t get it—none of them did. He wasn’t just some guy. He wasn’t some half-hearted attempt at masculinity—he was Dominic fucking D'Angelo, and everything about him screamed superiority. But she hadn’t fallen for the charm he threw out like bait. No, this woman wasn’t just rejecting him; she was rejecting what he represented—and that stung.

The rage bubbled under his skin, hot and raw, like lava ready to burst. He could feel his pulse thudding in his temples, but this wasn’t about her anymore. This was about proving something to himself—about reaffirming the man he had become. Dominic’s fingers flexed, white knuckled around the glass, his jaw tightening until it almost hurt. His new life—his new identity—was slipping through his fingers if she didn’t acknowledge him, if she didn’t recognize who he was. It wasn’t about winning her over; it was about making the world feel his presence.

He leaned in a little closer, his breath heavy, the scent of his cologne drowning the air between them. As he adjusted his posture, the thin chain around his neck shifted slightly, drawing his attention. The cross hanging there—an accessory more than anything—seemed almost to glow in the dim light. It was his marker, the stamp of his superiority. He wasn’t just Dominic D'Angelo, the powerful man. He was Dominic D'Angelo, a man of faith, a man who used the world's most sacred symbols to fortify his image.

He sneered, lifting a hand to adjust the cross, letting it swing briefly before his fingers curled back around the glass. The gesture wasn’t reverent. It wasn’t respectful. It was his ownership, a part of the costume he had constructed for himself. His gaze fixed on her with an intensity that bordered on disturbing. “You might wanna think twice about turning your back on me,” he muttered, his voice low but thick with threat. The words hung in the air between them like an invitation to test him, to challenge him, to see if she could survive in his orbit. He wasn’t just a man; he was the man, the one who controlled every room, every conversation, every encounter.

The memories of the man he used to be—Colin Fields, the soft, empathetic scientist—faded with each passing second. He remembered how that man had been a shadow of the person he was meant to become, a weak fool who had believed in kindness, who had believed in connection over power. He was now disgusted by the very thought of those ideals. The intellectual discussions, the endless empathy, the constant questioning of his own motives—all of it had been so pathetic.

Dominic wasn’t interested in emotional messes anymore. He wasn’t interested in heart-to-heart talks or understanding anyone else’s pain. He didn’t need compassion. Compassion was for the weak. Compassion was what had tied him to his old life—the life that had failed him. He had been content with his husband, Ethan—weak, too. Always so soft, always so emotional, always seeking to heal and care and understand the world. It made him sick to think about it now. Ethan had been a prisoner of the world’s ideals—an ideal Dominic had ruthlessly discarded.

He had shed those old beliefs, had torn them from his flesh like dead skin. He wasn’t about to go back to being Colin—the man who cared, the man who understood. The thought of it now filled him with disgust. It was beneath him. He was Dominic D'Angelo—he was above it all. The epitome of a smug, self-righteous prick. A towering, beefcake of a man, with a jawline sharper than his wit and a haircut that screams "I spend more time styling my locks than you do thinking." He's the kind of guy who'd wear a Make America Great Again hat to Mass, just to piss off the priest. Dominic's thoughts are a toxic brew of Fox News talking points, outdated gender stereotypes, and an unhealthy obsession with his own superiority. He thinks he's God's gift to women, despite his personality being about as attractive as a kick to the nuts "Liberals are ruining this country," he'd mutter, sipping his Coors Light, "and I'm gonna be the one to save it, with my rippling abs and unshakeable faith in the free market."

The woman still didn’t seem to register the intensity of his stare, so Dominic took another step closer, looming over her like an animal preparing to strike. The neon lights above them flickered again, casting sharp, unnatural glows over his face. His eyes glinted, almost feral. His muscles strained against the tight fabric of his shirt as he squared his shoulders. He was a king, surveying his kingdom, and no one was exempt from his dominance—not even this woman, whose disinterest only fueled the fire inside him. Dominic's eyes narrow into slits as he fixes his gaze on the mousy girl in front of him, her Black Lives Matter shirt a red flag waving in his face. He sneers internally, thinking, "Look at this little communist, thinking she's too good for me. Newsflash, sweetheart: no one's too good for a real man like me." His thoughts are a swirling vortex of contempt and superiority. "She probably spends her days virtue signaling online and her nights crying about her white privilege.Pathetic." He leans in closer, his breath hot on her neck as he whispers, "You know what else matters? My opinion. And I think you're a dumb bitch who needs to shut up and look pretty." His smirk widens, reveling in the power he holds over her, the power of his masculinity and his unshakeable belief in his own greatness.

He felt his chest tighten as anger roiled within him. She’s nothing, he thought, as his mind boiled over with resentment. They’re all nothing but distractions. Weak little toys I can break if I want to. The surge of power that came with his thoughts was intoxicating, and he couldn’t help but feel even more alive.

Suddenly, the cross around his neck felt heavier—like a burden he had to carry, but it didn’t matter. It only served to remind him that everything in his life was a means to an end. The way people saw him—whether they admired or feared him—didn’t matter. He was a man of strength, a man who demanded respect, a man who took whatever he wanted. Faith, in his twisted mind, was just another tool.

“I don’t need you to look at me,” he said, his voice like gravel. “But I will make sure you remember me.”His rage intensified, his breath now ragged. He had let go of the man who cared about love, about understanding. He wasn’t about to turn back. He was no longer just Dominic—he was the kind of man who bent the world to his will, who took what he wanted, and left nothing behind but the wreckage of those who couldn’t keep up. His blood pounded in his ears as he stared down at the woman, daring her to reject him again.

This was who he was now. He wasn’t just angry; he was entitled. He deserved everything, and he wouldn’t let anyone—no one—stand in his way. As he stepped back, his chest puffing out with a smug sense of triumph, he knew one thing for certain: the world didn’t owe him anything. It was his to take. Dominic's face contorts with rage, his eyes burning with fury as he grabs the girl by the shoulders, his grip tightening like a vice. "You fucking cunt," he snarls, spit flying from his mouth. Without hesitation, he crashes his lips against hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. The girl stiffens in shock, but as Dominic's dank saliva coats her tongue, she begins to change. Her once-brown hair lightens to a platinum blonde, cascading down her back in perfect waves. Her flat chest suddenly swells, straining against her shirt as her tits grow to an impossible size. Her makeup, previously subtle and natural, transforms into a caked-on mess of contour, highlight, and lip gloss. The girl's eyes flutter open, now a vacant blue, and she giggles in a high-pitched, valley girl accent. "Oh, Dommmy,"

The girl's former best friend, a lanky, effeminate twink with a rainbow pin on his backpack, watches in horror as his friend is transformed into a ditzy blonde bimbo. "S-Stop it!" he stammers, but Dominic ignores him, too focused on groping his new conquest. The fag's eyes widen as he notices the changes - the blonde hair, the fake tan, the exaggerated curves. Dominic turns to him, a cruel smirk on his face. "You should be a real man, like me," he sneers. "Take a whiff of this, homo." He leans in close and sneezes directly in the fag's face. The man recoils, wiping at his nose and cheeks. Suddenly, he feels an itching sensation spreading across his skin. He looks down to see his rainbow pin dissolving, leaving a red MAGA hat in its place. Dominic laughs, a deep, mocking sound. "Pathetic," Dominic grins wickedly. He turns back to the blonde bimbo, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. "Look at you, you stupid slut," he sneers, his hand groping her enlarged breasts. "You're just a pretty little plaything now." He spins her around and pushes her against the wall, hiking up her skirt. The girl giggles mindlessly, her vacant blue eyes staring straight ahead. Dominic unzips his pants, his hard cock springing out. "Open wide, bitch," he growls, forcing his dick into her mouth. She gags and chokes, but he just grabs her hair and holds her in place. "Fuck, your throat feels so good," he groans, pumping in and out. The fag watches in disgust, unable to look away as his former friend is used like a fuckdoll.

[the-masculine-alpha]

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[the-masculine-alpha]

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