The Flesh Lab

Gay transformation erotica

[thefleshlab]

Artistic Liberty 3

By the morning of their date, Logan barely recognized himself in the mirror.

His mustache had grown dark and full along his upper lip, unmistakable, shading his once sharp, features into something broader, warmer, and undeniably Latino. He ran a hand across it, feeling the coarse hairs tickle his fingers, and a flush rose to his cheeks—not from embarrassment, exactly, but from the undeniable realization that he was no longer the man he had been.

His hair on his head and chest had darkened further. Dark curls sprawled across his chest, knotting toward his shoulders, down his arms, and even tracing the lines of his back where he couldn’t easily see.

He flexed in the mirror, and the muscles he had already noticed thickening at the gym now seemed almost exaggerated, pressing under the dense, dark hair that covered them.

Logan’s eyes dropped instinctively, catching the soft folds of his foreskin where it rested naturally, the head of his cock hidden beneath. The skin had darkened further as well.

"¿Cómo me ha pasado esto?" he whispered under his breath, almost laughing at the strangeness of it He no longer thought in English first. Spanish was instinctive.

How had his body, his voice, even his thoughts reshaped themselves without warning?

He was darker, broader, hairier, and undeniably more masculine in a way he had never imagined for himself.

And despite the panic still pricking at the edges of his mind, Logan couldn’t deny a strange, reluctant anticipation. He was no longer the blond, smooth, controlled model he had once been.

He was something else entirely.

This was the body he was bringing to meet Diego.

A flicker of nerves ran through him.

He reached for the short-sleeve button-down, light fabric, pale color, something that used to flatter him. When he pulled it on, the shirt strained subtly across his shoulders and chest, the buttons sitting tighter than they ever had before.

Dark curls spilled out at the open collar, tracing the deep line between his pecs. His fingers hovering over the next button, then left it undone, trying to hide what he was becoming felt pointless now.

His arms were thick with muscle, forearms covered in dark hair. He rolled his shoulders once, watching the fabric pull and settle over his frame, feeling the weight of his body in a new, grounded way.

The shorts fit easily once. Now, when he stepped into them and tugged them up over his hips, the fabric hugged his thighs, outlining the thick muscle there. Dark hair spread across his legs in a way that felt both foreign and oddly right. He turned sideways, studying the shape he cut now: solid, powerful, unmistakably changed.

He grabbed his bag, hesitated once more at the mirror, then squared his shoulders and headed out to meet Diego.

***

They chose a little panadería-café tucked between a laundromat and a taquería, its windows fogged with the warmth of ovens and the sweet, yeasty smell of bread. Papel picado fluttered along the ceiling. Mexican Cumbia hummed softly from a speaker behind the counter.

Logan hesitated just inside the door, but he didn’t stand out. The cashier smiled at him.

Diego was already there, seated at a small table by the window, a cup of coffee in one hand and a concha in the other.

Logan saw him and the air shifted, like gravity changing direction. Diego looked smaller than Logan remembered. Narrower shoulders. Slim arms. Dark eyes that lifted when he noticed Logan, widening just a little.

Logan’s chest tightened.

Diego smiled when Logan reached the table. Not shy or surprised.

“You made it,” Diego said.

“Yeah,” Logan’s voice came out lower than he expected, rich and steady, and when he sat, the table felt small.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Steam curled up from Diego’s coffee. Outside, a bus rumbled past. Inside, Logan felt the weight of his own presence settle into the space like something newly claimed.

Diego watched him with quiet interest, eyes tracing Logan’s chest, and the dark hair visible at his collar.

The café filled and emptied around them, students ducked in for pastries, families stopped by for bread to take home, and the low murmur of Spanish drifted constantly through the warm air.

It almost felt normal.

Logan relaxed into his chair, one broad arm resting against the small round table, fingers circling his cup. Just another guy at a neighborhood café, killing time over coffee and pastries.

His forearm was thick, dark hair curling, too big for the cup he was holding. His skin was deeper in tone than he remembered and Logan found himself answering questions easily, his words slipping into Spanish without effort. Diego laughed along, shaking his head, eyes bright.

Diego was talking about one of his professors, but Logan barely heard him.

Logan took a sip of his latte. Without thinking, he swept his tongue across his upper lip to catch the foam, and felt the rough brush of his mustache.

His mustache.

He suddenly became aware of the weight of his jaw, the dark hair shadowing his face, the broad span of his shoulders in that small café chair.

He looked back at Diego, who had gone quiet, watching him with that same calm, attentive expression.

Logan forced a small smile in the awkward pause.

“You’ve got, hold on,” Diego said.

Before Logan could react, Diego leaned in and reached out, his warm fingers brushing Logan’s chest through the open V of his shirt. Carefully, Diego plucked a crumb from the thick curls there, pausing for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

The touch wasn’t dramatic. It was light, casual even.

Diego glanced up at him, eyes meeting Logan’s, and with a small, playful smile, Diego flicked the crumb into his mouth.

“Yummy,” Diego said lightly.

And Logan realized that something between them had opened, like a door inside him that he hadn’t known was even there.

Diego’s fingers retreated slowly back to his cup. But instead of resuming the conversation right away, he glanced at Logan’s chest again, at the dark curls spilling from the open collar.

“You know…” he said, voice lower now. “I’ve kind of wanted to do that for a while.”

Logan looked at him. “Do what?”

Diego made a small, almost shy gesture in the air between them. “Touch your hairy chest.”

Heat rose up Logan’s neck and into his face. He shifted slightly in his chair.

“It’s just like in your sketches.”

“I know.” Diego smiled softly. “I drew it.”

Logan swallowed. For a moment he couldn’t quite meet Diego’s eyes. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing unconsciously.

“I—” Logan stopped, then tried again. “I think… part of me really wants you to feel it.”

Diego’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. Logan’s heart thudded in his chest.

They sat there like that for a moment, the café humming gently around them.

Diego finished his coffee, brushed a few crumbs from his fingers, then looked up at Logan with that same steady, thoughtful calm.

“If you want, my place is just on the edge of campus,” he said. “It’s quieter.”

Logan nodded a little too quickly, then caught himself and smiled, trying to look composed. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

At the counter, they thanked the staff in Spanish. The words warm and natural in Logan’s mouth. The cashier smiled back, calling out a friendly farewell that made him feel, unexpectedly, at home.

Outside, the late afternoon sun washed the sidewalk in gold. They walked side by side, close enough that Logan could feel the faint brush of Diego’s sleeve now and then. Each light touch sent a quiet current through him, an awareness of his own size and solidity, the dark hair on his arms catching as he moved.

He caught his reflection in a storefront window: broader, darker. A big, hairy man walking with easy confidence through a neighborhood that seemed to recognize him without question.

They reached Diego’s apartment in no time, a compact building tucked behind a row of student housing, cozy and cluttered with personality.

The apartment door opened to reveal walls lined with sketches from the art class: studies of hands, torsos, faces, and, in the corner, a few unmistakable renderings of Logan himself. Each one showed a slightly different version, progressively darker, hairier, more muscular.

They barely made it inside before the first pieces of clothing started to go. Shoes and shirts first.

Logan’s fingers traced the planes of his own chest, across thick curls that now covered him from collarbone to stomach.

Diego was equally eager, eyes dark, fingers brushing over Logan’s biceps and forearms, lingering on the dense hair that now traced the contours of Logan’s shoulders. Every touch sparked a low, thrilling tension in Logan, making him acutely aware of how big he had become, how strong. His own weight pressed subtly into Diego when he leaned forward, his arms embraced the smaller man, and it felt intoxicating.

His shorts tented uncomfortably, his uncut cock demanding attention, painfully hard, and insistent. Every heartbeat made him aware of it, of the weight, the growth, the readiness that had no outlet yet.

He wanted release, yes, but more than that he wanted to be felt, his hair, his muscles, the darkened skin.

Diego mirrored Logan’s eagerness, tracing the ridges of Logan’s biceps, the curve of his shoulders, the thick hair along his chest. Logan groaned softly, a low, deep sound that vibrated against Diego’s frame.

Every brush of skin, every press of hands against his muscles, drove Logan further into the realization that he wasn’t himself anymore. He was something larger, heavier, darker, and with that, the pull to control, to dominate, became nearly irresistible.

Diego’s small, eager movements only stoked the fire further.

Logan’s dark eyes met Diego’s, and with a voice thick and low, he asked, “¿Dónde…?”—where?—his words rolling off his tongue.

Diego’s gaze flicked, dark and knowing, a small, teasing smile curving his lips. “Vamos,” he said, taking Logan’s hand gently but firmly. “This way.”

The walk to the bedroom was charged. Clothes fell away in an unspoken rhythm: Diego’s belt first, then his pants, Logan shedding the last barriers of fabric that still confined him—shorts, briefs, the last pieces that contained the swell of his body.

At the foot of the bed, Diego’s dark eyes widened for just a fraction of a second as he reached down, fingers brushing against the thick, dark hair that covered Logan’s abdomen. And then…

“¡Dios!”

Diego’s fingers brushed against Logan’s uncut cock, thick and dark, the skin still clinging tightly to the swollen head, the foreskin itself teasingly loose yet insistent on hiding the head, despite the hard length.

The sight of it, the power, the size, the sheer presence of it, made Logan’s chest rise and fall. His desire coiled tighter, a knot of heat and need.

Diego leaned closer, tracing the wide mat of hair down Logan’s abs, following the way it framed the thick muscles and darkened skin.

“Así…” Diego murmured softly, voice low, eyes locked on Logan’s cock with an intensity that made the air around them feel thick and heavy. “Así es perfecto.”

Logan’s mind reeled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being seen: the hair, the muscle, the dark, uncut cock, the body that was no longer the clean-cut blond man he had once been.

Logan’s own hands, large and heavy, drifted over Diego’s smooth body, tracing the curve of his shoulders, the flat planes of his chest.

Diego was uncut too. His cock was smaller, more modest, but familiar in its own way, and Logan couldn’t help the rush of pride and desire that swelled through him at the sight. It was a reminder he wasn’t alone in this. Other men, Latino men, were uncut too.

Diego’s chest was mostly smooth, with just a small patch of hair over the sternum, and the contrast against Logan’s thickly muscled, dark, and hairy torso made the difference between them all the more intense.

Logan realized he wasn’t just ready for release—he was ready to dominate, ready to claim Diego.

Logan’s thick erection, free from his briefs, jutted out in front of him. The weight of it, the dark sheen of the skin, the way the foreskin still clung to the swollen head, it all made him proud.

“Pull it back,” Logan said, his voice low but commanding.

Diego’s eyes met his, a tiny, eager smile curving his lips. “Sí,” he said simply. His fingers wrapped around the shaft, then eased the foreskin back, revealing more of the dark head, the skin smooth under his touch.

The sight, and the power of control, made Logan’s body hum with need. He stepped closer, letting the sheer size of his chest and arms press lightly against Diego’s lean frame, enjoying the sensation of dominance, of the subtle heat of their bodies so close together.

Diego’s hands moved along Logan’s thick, dark shaft. The smaller man’s touch quickly gained confidence, stroking in a rhythm that sent heat spiraling through Logan’s body.

Logan’s thick muscles tensed as his own hands roamed over his chest, arms, and shoulders, feeling the dense curls of hair between his fingers, savoring every ridge, every line.

Each stroke and slide of Diego’s hand drove Logan higher, igniting a fire he could barely contain.

He moaned softly at first, low, guttural, and then in Spanish, words slipping out without conscious thought: “Más… más fuerte…”

His voice, thick with desire and lust.

Logan’s size, pressing against Diego’s smaller frame, the weight of his chest over Diego’s lean torso. Logan’s cock, long, thick, and uncut, pulsed painfully with need. Every stroke, every glance, every slight shift of Diego’s body made it throb, aching with urgency and impossibility.

Logan tried to focus on the sensations of Diego’s hand. His breath came in harsh pants, chest rising and falling, hairy muscles flexing as he shifted slightly, trying to ground himself in all the overwhelming sensations.

With a sharp inhale, Logan grabbed Diego’s wrist gently but firmly, halting his motions.

“¡Para!” he breathed, voice strained, low, urgent. “Cama,” Logan said, his words clipped but commanding. He stepped aside, letting the smaller man understand exactly what he meant.

“Acostado. Ahora.” Get in bed.

Diego didn’t hesitate, responding to Logan’s command with a mixture of eagerness and curiosity.

The room felt electric, heavy with anticipation.

Logan’s thick, throbbing cock pulsed in front of him, straining with need. He could feel the weight of his own body, the sheer breadth of his shoulders and chest, pressing toward Diego even as he stood. Every fiber of him screamed to dominate, to claim, to assert the power his transformation had given him, and he realized with a jolt that it wasn’t just desire—this was an assertion of himself, a physical, undeniable statement of who he had become.

Diego reached the bed, lying down as instructed, eyes dark and watching, waiting.

Logan’s hands drifted over his own muscles one last time, feeling the hair, solidity of his frame, before he stepped closer, ready to take the moment, fully, with the smaller man who had dared to draw him.

Logan climbed on top of Diego, the moment he has long been waiting for, the smaller man pinned beneath him.

Diego seems to relish the moment too. The smaller man’s hands rose instinctively, brushing over Logan’s thick, hairy chest, and Logan saw a flicker of exhilaration, a reflection of the same hunger he felt.

Logan’s thick, uncut cock throbbed sharply, heavy and pulsing between them. The sensation of dominance—the control of space, the press of his body against Diego’s—was intoxicating.

For Logan, the feeling of being this large, this strong, with Diego’s body responding to every shift and press, was almost overwhelming.

And yet, it was exactly what he had been waiting for: to pin, to hold, to dominate.

“¿El lubricante…?” Logan murmured in Spanish, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “Ponlo tú… tú lo haces.”

Diego’s hands moved instinctively, reaching for the small bottle on the nightstand, sliding the cap off with a quiet click.

Logan groaned softly as Diego’s fingers spread the slick substance over his thick, dark shaft. His cock pulsed under the touch, the foreskin sliding slightly over the swollen head, teasing and sensitive.

“Sí… así,” Logan murmured, voice husky, hand brushing against Diego’s arm, his eyes dark and fixed on him. “No puedo esperar… quiero estar dentro… y sé que tú también lo quieres.”

Diego’s small, eager smile told him everything he needed to know. The way Diego’s hips shifted slightly, pressing up in anticipation, the quiver of his body beneath Logan, the glint of desire in his eyes.

Logan brought the smaller man’s legs over his shoulders, feeling the lean weight of Diego’s thighs braced against his own chest, the smooth skin warm beneath his hands. Logan’s thick, dark, uncut cock pulsed in anticipation as it hovered over Diego’s slick, ready ass.

With a slow, deliberate press, Logan slid himself inside, the tight heat enveloping him in a way that was both shocking and thrilling. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a low moan escaped his lips in Spanish as waves of sensation tore through him. It was his first time experiencing penetration with an uncut cock.

Diego gasped beneath him, the smooth rise and fall of his chest pressing against Logan’s, Diego’s hands gripping his broad, hairy shoulders tightly. His moans matched Logan’s in Spanish, raw and urgent, carrying a rhythm that sent shivers down Logan’s spine.

Logan’s hands roamed over Diego, fingers tracing the subtle patch of chest hair, pressing against taut abs, caressing the small ridges of muscle. He could feel his own pulse in the throbbing length of his cock, the foreskin sliding over the sensitive head, making every movement sharper, more consuming.

Diego responded in kind, moving his hips up, sending fresh sparks of pleasure shooting through both of them. His gasps, soft cries, and moans in Spanish filled the room, mixing with Logan’s own groans in a dizzying symphony of desire.

Logan’s body quivered as he pressed down, relishing the control, the domination. His first time with another man, his first time experiencing sex with an uncut cock, and the new, thick heat of Diego beneath him.

Diego’s hands roamed too, exploring Logan’s hairy muscles, fingers sinking into the dense curls across his chest and shoulders. He tugged at the thick hair on Logan’s muscular pecs, kneading then, gripping fistfuls and pulling gently, eliciting low, guttural groans that rumbled from deep in Logan’s chest.

Logan pressed his lips to Diego’s, kissing him with a fierce, insistent hunger, tongue tracing, teeth gently grazing. The smaller man gasped, shivering under the press of Logan’s chest and the weight of his body.

Logan’s thick mustache brushed against Diego’s neck as he moved his face along, sending small, electrifying chills through the sensitive skin. The contrast of coarse hair against the smooth warmth of Diego’s skin made every touch sharp, thrilling, and dangerously arousing.

Diego arched against him, moaning in Spanish, hands clenching and tugging, exploring every ridge of Logan’s muscular frame, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.

Logan’s rhythm didn’t falter—steady, powerful, intimate—each thrust pushing deeper, pressing harder, claiming the smaller man beneath him while simultaneously losing himself to the incredible sensations of heat, friction, and the electric intimacy of their bodies entwined.

Every movement, every gasp, every brush of mustache against skin intensified the tension, driving Logan further into a frenzy of desire, dominance, and ecstatic surrender.

The room seemed to shrink around them, every creak of the bed, every slick glide of skin, every moan and shiver a symphony of heat and raw, unfiltered pleasure that consumed them both.

Time seemed to stretch, each second magnified, every motion an explosion of sensation. Logan’s mind swirled with shock, awe, and overwhelming pleasure. He had been a stranger to this world, to these sensations, to the sheer intensity of sex with another man, and now he was immersed, consumed, completely alive in the press of Diego beneath him.

Logan’s body trembled as the pressure inside him built. Diego’s gasps and moans in Spanish filled his ears, mingling with the deep, guttural sounds that escaped from Logan’s own chest.

Diego shivered beneath him, his hips twitching, his moans sharper, and Logan could feel the smaller man’s body convulsing with the height of his own pleasure.

Logan wasn’t finished.

Using the full weight and strength of his hairy, muscular body, he rolled them over in one fluid motion.

Suddenly, Diego was perched on top, chest pressed against Logan’s, legs straddling him, while Logan’s thick shaft was still buried deep inside him.

The change in position sent a fresh thrill coursing through Logan, his cock pulsing insistently, while the view of Diego’s lean, eager body hovering above him sent another rush of desire through his veins.

Diego’s eyes shone with excitement.

“Ahora… sobre mi pecho,” Logan breathed in Spanish, voice thick and low, chest rising and falling under the weight of both of them, hair matted with sweat.

His dense, dark chest hair rippled under his own pulse, a thick, tactile reminder of how far his body had changed, of the raw masculinity he now embodied.

Diego didn’t hesitate. With a small, eager gasp, he let go, hot streams of cum spurting over Logan’s thick, dark chest hair.

Logan, feeling the shuddering tremor of Diego above him, relished every pulse. He could feel every shot, every line of Diego’s cum soaking into the curls of hair on his chest and abs, sending new pulses of erotic electricity through his still-throbbing cock.

Logan shivered at the sensation, the warm, wet release coating his chest hair, trickling down along his sculpted torso. He pressed back against Diego, letting the friction of his cock mix with the sticky, hot fluid covering his body, moaning in Spanish as he reveled in it.

Logan’s body seemed to ignite at once, and with a low, shuddering groan, he came, filling Diego up with his hot, thick seed. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure, dominance, and raw masculine power.

Gasping, Diego pressed close, his hands resting on Logan’s hairy shoulders for balance.

Logan let himself sink into the feeling of release, eyes closing for a moment as he absorbed the intimacy, the power, the raw connection between them.

Diego sagged against Logan’s wide, hairy chest, breath coming in uneven pants, sweat clinging to his skin. Logan’s strong arms wrapped around him instinctively, holding him close, the weight of the smaller man pressing into the curve of his biceps and across his chest.

The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the heat of their combined bodies, the rhythm of heartbeats and moans echoing off the walls.

Logan’s wet, hairy chest rose and fell as he held Diego, reveling in the warmth and weight, the sensation of his uncut cock still deep inside, and the wet, sticky evidence of Diego’s climax coating his thick, dark chest hair.

Logan’s cock gradually softened, slipping free from Diego’s warm, tight heat, the sudden release leaving a gentle ache in its wake. He shifted slightly so that he could cradle Diego more comfortably, their bodies molding together naturally.

Diego nuzzled into the dense curls of Logan’s chest hair, fingers brushing over the ridges of muscle and the thick, dark hair, as if memorizing the contours that had been built, grown, and transformed over the past weeks.

Logan pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Diego’s head, feeling the heat of his skin, and the lingering pulse of desire.

Diego made a small, satisfied noise in response, curling closer, molding against Logan’s frame.

Logan’s deep, low voice murmured in Spanish, soft, affectionate, almost reverent: “Estás bien… estás conmigo.”

Diego’s smaller hands tangled in the thick curls of Logan’s chest hair, still damp.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the window and the muted creak of the bed as they shifted slightly against each other.

Finally, Diego broke the silence, voice low and hesitant but carrying a mischievous lilt. “Nunca… nunca pensé que funcionara,” he admitted, curling his fingers lightly through Logan’s chest hair. “Compré… un papel y unos lápices… ‘mágicos’… de un sitio raro… The Flesh Lab… pero cuando vi… tu prepucio… crecer… supe que eran reales.”

Logan froze for a moment, forehead pressed against Diego’s, trying to process the words. His mind whirled with disbelief. Magic paper? Pencils? Some strange, online site? And yet, as he traced the outline of his own body, the thick hair, the darkened skin, the full uncut cock, he could feel the undeniable truth of it. Somehow, Diego’s drawings had changed him.

A shiver of arousal ran through Logan at the thought. Some strange, impossible force had transformed him into the dark, hairy, muscular man he had become.

The very idea that his body had been molded by Diego’s hands, his imagination, and the arcane tools he’d purchased made Logan’s cock pulse again, thick and hard, pressing insistently against Diego’s thigh, amplified by the knowledge that his very being had shifted in response to Diego’s desires.

Logan’s voice came out thick and low, still in Spanish, trembling with excitement and disbelief. “¿Tú… hiciste esto?”

Diego shrugged lightly, brushing his fingers against Logan 's shoulder. “Solo dibujé… solo imaginé… pero funcionó. Te cambió… te hizo… este hombre.”

Logan’s mind raced, a heady mixture of lust, wonder, and somehow pride. He let his hands roam over Diego’s body again, over lean arms, across Diego’s small patch of chest hair. “Y… me gusta,” he whispered, voice husky, the arousal from earlier still alive and building, “Me gusta lo que soy ahora… lo que… tú hiciste.”

Diego chuckled, pressing his forehead to Logan’s again. “Y yo… nunca pensé que vería algo así… que cambiarías tanto.”

Logan’s chest rose and fell, warmth spreading through him, cock pressing insistently against Diego. He’d become someone new, someone alive, someone wholly different, and he had Diego, the strange, brilliant, mischievous artist, to thank.

That thought sent another tremor of heat and need rippling through him, reminding him that the night wasn’t over, and neither was the play between artistic liberty, desire, and the body that now fully belonged to him.

[thefleshlab]

Artistic Liberty 2

Logan caught his reflection in the mirror of the science hall men’s room. He’d noticed the dark stubble along his jawline for days. But now his upper lip had filled in with a dense, dark mustache. Thick and even, it traced the curve of his mouth just like Diego had drawn in his latest sketch.

He leaned closer, studying. His fingers hovered, brushing lightly across the edge. The hairs were coarse, tactile, and undeniable, and sent a shiver through him.

Logan stepped back. The mirror reflected a man he barely recognized: broad-shouldered, muscular, and now with a full mustache, thick and dark.

He imagined how Diego would react if he saw him like this now.

Logan’s big, uncut cock, under the fabric of his shorts, began to press outward, swelling in response. 

The dark, velvety skin of his newly grown foreskin didn’t roll back but stretched to contain the head, even as the head expanded inside.

Logan exhaled sharply, leaning against the sink for support, trying to steady himself. His mind raced. 

He was in the campus men’s room, someone could walk in at any moment. 

He ran a hand down the front of his shorts, trying to calm the throbbing length. He forced his mind elsewhere: the lectures, the homework, anything that could distract him from the heat rising in his cock.

“Calma, calma, Logan.” 

But his cock continued to throb.

One hand slid under his shirt, lightly brushing over his matted chest hair, then Logan froze mid-breath, as the bathroom door creaked open. 

A Latino janitor stepped in, singling softly under his breath in Spanish, a mop in one hand, the rolling bucket squeaking over the tile floor.

Logan’s thick, uncut cock was still pressing against the front of his shorts.

He scrambled, adjusting himself and tugging up the waistband. 

His fingers fumbled over the hem of his shirt as if he could somehow erase the evidence if he pulled his shirt down far enough. 

The janitor didn’t even glance at him, lost in his own rhythm, pushing the mop across the tiles with precise, practiced strokes, humming.

Logan checked his reflection one last time: the dark mustache, the broad chest, the dense hair curling through the open collar of his guayabera shirt, his thick, uncut cock safely tamed for now.

He picked up his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, a sheepish grin tugging on his lips.

“Sí que me pillaste,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the janitor who hummed obliviously.

He turned and left the bathroom, the squeak of the bucket following him down the hall as he headed to his next class, heart still pounding, cheeks still warm, carrying with him a strange, new confidence.

The lecture hall always smelled faintly of old carpet and coffee. The same tight aisles, same rigid seats, same low ceiling that trapped sound and warmth, but Logan felt bigger in it than he ever had before.

He turned sideways, angling his body to avoid bumping anyone.

He settled into his chair, knees brushing the metal seat in front of him. His thighs filled the narrow space easily now. 

He adjusted his cock once. Then again.

The chair let out a faint creak when he settled back.

Logan was suddenly aware of how wide his shoulders spread when he relaxed. The student on his left shifted slightly, unconsciously making space.

Dark hair curled faintly along Logan’s forearms, catching the fluorescent light. His skin held a deeper tone than it once had, and even through the fabric of his shirt his chest felt heavier, broader.

He sat in the middle row, notebook open, pen poised, eyes fixed on the professor as she spoke about post-colonial economic modeling. The sentences came out quickly, layered with jargon, references, names of theorists he knew he had studied before.

But he caught himself thinking too long. Rewinding the professor’s words in his head. Replaying sentences that should have landed clearly but instead slid right past him.

In the seat to his right, a student named Mateo, someone Logan vaguely recognized from around the department, leaned back in his chair, listening with an ease Logan suddenly envied. 

Mateo was Latino, dark-haired, calm, grounded. When the professor paused and invited responses, Mateo spoke up, his English fluent but accented, his phrasing deliberate. He converted a dense theoretical point into something cleaner, more concrete, as if instinctively reshaping it.

Logan felt a flicker of jealousy just listening to him.

When the discussion moved on, Logan tried to re-engage, but the professor’s words seemed to skim over his brain instead of sinking in. He caught himself rereading the same sentence on the slide three times. The meanings were there, but they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

Mateo noticed.

Logan started a note, paused, crossed out a word he wasn’t even sure he’d heard correctly.

Mateo leaned in beside him.

“¿Todo bien?” Mateo gave him a small, understanding smile. “Te ves medio perdido,” he added gently.

Logan answered without thinking, Spanish slipping out, natural. “Un poco. Va muy rápido.”

Logan felt a strange mix of embarrassment and relief. The realization settled in slowly. English no longer felt like it once did. Spanish was more natural now, not a foreign language anymore.

Mateo nodded. He glanced at Logan’s half-empty page, then at his own neatly filled notebook.

“Si quieres, después te paso mis notas,” he said. “A veces ayuda tenerlo más… ordenado.”

Relief loosened something in Logan’s chest. “Sí. Gracias.”

As the lecture continued, Logan tried, but English still felt heavier than it used to. He understood words, but the meaning lagged behind. His body sat in the too-small chair, present, but his mind was just a beat late.

When class ended, Mateo pulled out his phone.

“Mira,” he said, tapping an app open. A waveform idled at the top of the screen. “Esto graba la clase, la pasa a texto, y la traduce si quieres. Yo la uso cuando mi cabeza ya no da para más.”

He scrolled, showing Logan clean blocks of bilingual text.

“Puedes tener inglés, español… los dos.”

Logan leaned in, surprised by how much easier the information looked on the screen.

“Nunca pensé que necesitaría algo así,” he admitted quietly. Why would he ever need a translation app?

Mateo shrugged. “No es por necesidad. Es por cuidarte.”

They set it up together on Logan’s phone, and Logan was more aware of his body than ever. The way the smaller man leaned into his space, how his hairy forearm brushed Mateo’s smoother one. Every glance from Mateo at Logan’s open shirt collar reminded Logan of just how hairy his chest was now.

When Logan finally selected both languages on the app, something inside him settled, a soft internal click, like a door finally aligning in its frame.

“Te va a ayudar,” Mateo said.

“Gracias,” Logan replied.

As Mateo walked off, Logan stood in the aisle, shoulders broad, chest heavy, phone in his hand.

The lecture hall hadn’t changed.

But the way Logan moved through it had.

The hallway outside the lecture hall buzzed with the familiar churn of campus life. Logan stood a little off to the side, subtly redirecting foot traffic without even trying, just due to his size now.

 Mateo lingered in the hallway, waiting for him, unhurried.

“Oye,” Mateo said, lowering his voice slightly. “También hay un grupo de estudio… para estudiantes latinos.”

Logan looked up. Study group for Latino students?

Mateo continued, casual but sincere. “Nos juntamos una o dos veces por semana. Repasamos lecturas, grabaciones, a veces solo platicamos de la clase. Ayuda.”

The word latinos landed heavier than Logan expected.

He imagined himself in a room surrounded by people who moved easily between languages, English and Spanish, people who would look at him and see someone who fit in.

And that scared him.

Logan shifted his weight, thick arms folding loosely across his chest. He glanced down the hallway, as if searching for an exit.

“Gracias,” he said. “De verdad.”

“Piénsalo,” Mateo said. “No es obligación. Solo… está ahí.”

Logan met his eyes. “Sí. Lo pensaré.”

Mateo smiled, warm, easy, and headed off down the hall.

Logan stood there a moment longer, the campus rising around him. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the solid heft of his body settle into place.

But he wasn’t ready to claim the word Latino yet.

Even so, his mind kept circling back to something else. Only days earlier. Something he had tried, unsuccessfully, to dismiss.

Diego’s drawing.

The objects Diego had drawn in his hands. The globe. Mexico front and center. And then the book: History of the Mexican People.

At the time, Logan had bristled. He’d told himself Diego was projecting. Playing games. Making commentary that had nothing to do with him.

But standing there now, phone in his pocket with a translation app he never imagined he’d need, the memory settled differently.

Diego hadn’t been playing. He had been saying: This is where you’re going.

Logan slowed his steps as he crossed the quad, the late afternoon sun warming his darker skin. Students passed him in clusters, some glanced at him, some didn’t, but none of them questioned his appearance. 

And that, somehow, was the most unsettling part.

He realized Diego’s implication with the drawing hadn’t been about heritage or ethnicity or aesthetics. It had been about context. About placing Logan inside a lineage, a narrative, a community.

He still wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Still wasn’t ready to walk into a study group and let others label him. 

And now, walking alone across campus, Logan understood that no matter how slowly he accepted it, the question wasn’t whether it was true.

It was how long he could keep pretending he didn’t know what he was becoming.

Logan stopped at the little Mexican grocery near his place, he was out of coffee. He’d just come from running errands, wearing a tank that showed off his hairy chest and a pair of cut off jeans that rode a little higher on his thighs than he used to be comfortable with.

The tank clung lightly to him with a faint sheen of sweat, outlining the heavy slope of his chest and the thick curve of his shoulders. Dark hair curled across his pecs and trailed down his stomach, more dusting his arms and forearms than he ever remembered.

 His skin looked deeper in tone than it used to, and when he lifted a hand to push his hair back, the thick mustache over his lip shifted with the motion, another new addition that still startled him when he caught his reflection.

Inside, the shop buzzed with soft Spanish chatter and the smell of warm bread and spices.

Logan moved through the narrow aisles with a natural ease. No one stared. No one hesitated. He belonged here in a way he still hadn’t fully wrapped his mind around.

He was comparing two bags of coffee when he heard someone.

“Excuse me. ¿Hablas inglés?””

He turned.

Marissa stood at the end of the aisle with a small basket on her arm, looking at him with polite uncertainty. Her eyes skimmed over him quickly, taking in the broad chest under the tank, the dark hair, the solid arms, the mustache that changed the whole look of his face.

They had last been together, what, two weeks ago? Right when his foreskin first grew back, so awkward. 

Now, she didn’t recognize him.

“Sí,” he said, then quickly added, “I mean, yes,”

“Sorry,” she said with a small, apologetic smile. “Do you work here?”

“No.” His gut twisted. She really thought he looked like he worked at the Mexican grocery store? He smiled back. “But I can help.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Thanks, I’m trying to find masa harina, and I keep missing it.”

“No problem,” Logan replied easily.

He helped her search, then pulled the correct bag down from the top shelf and handed it to her.

“Gracias,” she said with a smile.

“De nada,” Logan answered automatically.

Her smile lingered, as if the exchange had just turned into something more novel than she’d expected, like she’d accidentally wandered into a tiny international moment in the middle of a corner store.

“Oh,” she added lightly, eyes on his hairy muscles, then flicking back up to his face, “I get lost in here every time.”

Logan smiled again, his voice still warm, still calm. “Si, it’s a maze if you don’t know where to look.”

She laughed softly, thanked him again, and moved on down the aisle.

Logan stood there for a moment, heart thudding quietly, aware of the way his tank top clung to his chest, of the weight and warmth of his body, of the mustache shifting with his smile.

She hadn’t recognized him at all.

But she’d looked at him in a way she never used to.

And that realization followed him all the way to the register.

The gym had always been Logan’s refuge. A place of rules and repetition, where effort equaled results and nothing happened without intention. At least that was what he told himself as he stepped through the doors, duffel slung over his shoulder, airpods already in.

He started with his usual warm-up, light cardio, watching himself in the mirrors without quite meaning to. Even through his T-shirt, he could see it now, the way his chest pushed forward, fuller and heavier than it had been a week ago. The fabric clung to darkened skin, he could already see curls of hair creeping upward, stubborn and coarse, 

When he moved to the weights, the bar felt lighter in his hands once again. Not just manageable but easy. He added plates, then more. 

His muscles swelled under the effort, thickening visibly with each set, settling into a new, larger shape. His arms looked bigger between each rep, biceps rounding out, forearms roping with veins.

Sweat slicked his back, and when he reached behind to wipe it away with a towel, his fingers brushed against something that made his breath hitch.

More hair.

Whole patches of it. Dense. Dark. Spreading across his shoulder blades and down his spine. He twisted, lifting the back of his shirt, trying to catch a glimpse in the mirror behind him, and what he saw made his stomach drop. The hair there was denser than it had ever been, thick enough now that the patterns darkened his skin.

Shame flared hot and immediate. He tugged his shirt down, even though half the gym was practically shirtless.

He headed for the locker room, needing water. As he bent to fill his bottle, he felt it again, hair, this time lower. Across his ass, spreading along the crease he’d once kept smooth and controlled. 

In the mirror above the sinks, his face looked broader, rougher at the edges. He turned sideways, studying the way his torso tapered differently than before, thicker through the middle, more solid, less sculpted and more imposing. And behind him the curve of his ass like he’d never noticed before.

And then his eyes dropped to his crotch.

Even through his shorts, the change was obvious. Not the sharp, familiar outline he’d known his whole life, but a heavier shape. When he shifted his stance, he felt the weight of it move, the foreskin settling naturally, as if it had always belonged there.

He swallowed hard.

Back on the floor, he pushed himself harder than ever, chasing exhaustion. His muscles responded eagerly, swelling further, veins standing out, sweat tracing paths through the mat of chest hair he hadn’t ever wanted and could no longer deny.

Other guys glanced at him, longer looks, appraising ones, and Logan felt a strange mix of humiliation and heat under their attention.

By the time he finished, his body was buzzing, heavy and alive in a way that left him almost dizzy. 

In the locker room, he dressed quickly, still uncomfortable stripping naked or showering there, still not ready for anyone to see the full extent of his changes. More hair, more muscles, sure. But the foreskin on his cock? No, he still wasn’t ready for folks to see that.

As he left the gym, shoulders filling the doorway, back itching faintly with new hair, one thought echoed in his mind, unbidden and relentless:

This body wasn’t done growing yet.

The tension followed Logan home from the gym like a second skin.

It clung to him as he unlocked his door, dropped his bag, and stripped out of his sweat-soaked clothes.

He stepped into the shower and turned the water hot. He welcomed the sting. Steam filled the room quickly, fogging the mirror before he could catch another glimpse of himself. 

His muscles were still humming from exertion, and each flex of biceps and shoulders made him acutely aware of the weight and size of his new body.

The water cascaded over his broad shoulders, heavy chest, and the thick, dark hair that now covered him from collarbone to stomach. The steam curled around him, as his hand moved to his thick, uncut cock, already throbbing from the workout at the gym. 

His foreskin was dark now, deeply dark, far darker than the rest of him.

Logan’s balls had changed just as dramatically. Before, they had been tight and neat, relatively small and pale, matching the clean-cut, circumcised version of himself he had always known. 

Now, with the cascade of transformations taking hold, they had grown darker, fuller, and heavier, thicker and slightly more textured, a deep, rich brown that matched the tone across the rest of his body. 

They hung lower, and rested heavier against his thighs. Even when soft, they carried a palpable fullness that reminded him constantly of how his body had changed.

As he stroked under the hot, steamy water, Logan let his mind wander, picturing Diego again, lean, eager, smaller beneath him, and completely at his mercy. 

Logan imagined the press of his heavy, hairy chest over Diego’s, the way his thick arms would trap the smaller man, his body moving with control and power. Every imagined moan from Diego’s lips fueled his arousal.

His fingers gripped his dark shaft, slick with water, gliding up and down the sensitive head, teasing nerve endings he didn’t even know he had.

A groan slipped from his lips, echoing off the tiles, thick and guttural, as his hips shifted against his fist. 

He could feel his cock swelling further inside his foreskin, filling the overhang as it expanded with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. His veins grew prominently under the dark skin. 

He stroked faster, imagining the flush of Diego’s skin, Diego’s gasp of surrender, the thrill of domination.

The pleasure built, coiling in his abdomen, twisting in his groin, until he couldn’t hold back. 

With a sharp inhale, Logan let himself go as he imagined himself pinning Diego beneath him, groaning, moaning in Spanish, jerking harder, hips thrusting forward with a snap, cock pulsing thickly in his fist.

His release crashed like waves through his body. His thick cum coated his hand, warm and heavy.

Logan collapsed against the tile wall, hairy muscles shuddering under the intensity of the orgasm.

But the moment of release was immediately followed by a heavy wash of shame and confusion. 

What had he been thinking? Dominating Diego? 

When he finally turned off the water and stepped out, the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his mind was still reeling. He could feel the pulse of his cock beneath the fabric, the heat of his own body, and the echo of the imagined control over Diego that had left him trembling.

Logan’s reflection in the mirror finally caught him, hairy, dark, muscular, with a thick mustache, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize himself.

He ran his hands slowly over his chest and abs, feeling the weight and texture of his own flesh, the dense hair tickling his fingertips. He cupped his balls again, relishing the heft and warmth. The contrast between the softness of the hair and the firmness of the flesh beneath, the weight and swing of his cock, all of it made him aware of his new body.

That night, alone in bed, Logan tried not to think about Diego. Tried not to replay the calm certainty in Diego’s voice, the way he hadn’t flinched standing so close. 

But thoughts came uninvited: Diego’s narrow wrists, the way his eyes had dipped instinctively, the sense that Logan could fold him in half without effort.

The fantasies disturbed him not only because they were sexual, but because they were power laced. Logan wasn’t imagining romance or tenderness. He imagined control, his body asserting itself with dominance.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, flushed with shame.

“I’m not like this,” he told himself.

But everyday that felt less and less true.

The following afternoon, Logan was back at the gym after classes.

He’d already had a day. A barista asked where he was from. A classmate called him a wookiee, and another switched to Spanish without thinking. So now he was ready to work out and relieve some tension.

The gym was loud in its usual way, steel on steel, shoes squeaking, bass-heavy music pulsing through the walls. 

Logan finished a heavy set and was toweling off when he looked up.

Mateo was standing near the dumbbell rack, but his eyes were on Logan. Mateo’s mouth curved into a smile when Logan saw him.

“Hey,” Mateo said, drifting closer. “No sabía que venías a esta hora.”

“Casi siempre,” Logan replied, straightening a little without thinking. His shoulders rolled back, his stance widening.

Mateo let his gaze travel in an unhurried, appreciative way. “Te ves más grande,” he said lightly. “No sé. Como que llenas el lugar.”

Something in Logan’s chest shifted. A subtle spark of territory.

“Siempre he llenado el lugar,” Logan said calmly, meeting Mateo’s eyes without blinking.

Mateo laughed softly, but there was a flicker of surprise there too.

“Claro,” he said. “Entonces… ¿has pensado en lo del grupo de estudio?”

Logan stood and took a half step closer, to claim the space between them. He tilted his head slightly.

“Sí,” he said. “Pero no me gusta que me lo repitan tanto.”

Mateo’s smile shifted, smaller, warmer. “¿Ah, no?”

“No,” Logan replied, not sharp, not cold. Just steady. “Si voy, será porque yo decido ir.”

For a beat, Mateo didn’t answer. Then he nodded slowly.

“Está bien,” he said. “Me gusta que seas claro.”

Logan caught the way Mateo’s shoulders eased, his posture subtly adjusted to Logan’s presence rather than compete with it.

“Y lo del café,” Mateo added, trying for casual again. “Sigues debiéndomelo.”

Logan smiled faintly.

“Te aviso yo,” he said.

Mateo’s eyebrows lifted, and he smiled wider.

“Está bien,” he said. “Entonces espero.”

Mateo finally stepped away, but he glanced back once more before disappearing into the rows of machines.

Logan stayed where he was, a confidence settling into his body.

In the locker room, Logan leaned against the edge of the mirror, phone in hand, the overhead lights shone off the thin layer of sweat that coated his hairy skin. 

He had decided to take some updated progress pictures, snapping images from angles he had never considered before. 

First the arms, flexing slightly, tracing the lines of biceps and triceps he barely recognized as his own. 

Then the chest, the shoulders, the thickening slabs of muscle along his back and the taper down to his waist. 

Each pic showed more hair than he remembered from a week ago, dense and dark along his forearms, across his pecs, and creeping into the deep V of his abdomen. Even the light dusting along his shoulders had thickened into a dark, solid mat of growth.

He opened his photo app, scrolling through the older progress pics he’d taken weeks ago, before the changes had begun to cascade. Back then, his body had been impressive, sculpted, smooth, blond, almost like a living sculpture for the art classes he modeled for. His cock, fully circumcised, had always cast a visible line through his shorts, a subtle ridge that reminded him he was still him.

But now, as he compared the new images, the difference was impossible to ignore. His shoulders had widened even further, his muscles dense with dark hair that hadn’t been there before. His biceps and forearms were thicker, veins tracing paths over skin that glowed darker under the gym lights. Even his abs were deeper, sharper, the wide path of dark hair leading down toward his crotch more pronounced than ever.

And then he noticed his cock.

The outline through his shorts had vanished. The head, once sharply defined, had now entirely disappeared beneath the new foreskin. Despite the increase in length and girth, the ridge that had always marked him as circumcised had disappeared, smoothed away by the regrown skin. The change was subtle but impossible to ignore in the photos. 

Logan grabbed his cock through his shorts almost absentmindedly, feeling the thick, dark skin slide slightly under his fingers. The sensation was electrifying. 

His mind flickered briefly to Diego’s drawings: the foreskin, the mustache, the darker skin, the muscular, hairy version of himself Diego had imagined. Logan’s chest tightened with something he couldn’t name entirely: a little thrill that he had become exactly what Diego had drawn, whether he’d chosen it or not.

“¿Logan?”

Mateo stood at the entrance of the locker room, leaning casually against the doorframe, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Something flared inside Logan, that same dominant streak that had been quietly asserting itself over the past weeks. 

His body responded immediately: cock expanding uncomfortably against his shorts.

Mateo stepped closer, smiling, oblivious to how close he had crossed into Logan’s personal space. 

Logan’s gaze hardened, dark and intent. “¿Vienes a mirar o a ayudar?” Logan asked, voice low, and commanding.

Mateo’s eyes flickered, and Logan’s grin widened. 

He could punish Mateo for interrupting him a second time. Not cruelly, no, but firmly, teasingly, in ways that would remind Mateo who was in control here.

Logan stepped forward, closing the distance. His hand brushed Mateo’s arm lightly. 

“Creo que necesitas aprender tu lugar,” Logan murmured, letting the words hang between them.

 Mateo’s breath hitched slightly. He understood the tension, and he liked it.

Mateo’s boldness met Logan’s authority, sparking a dangerous, delicious current. 

And just like that, a power that surged through Logan. He leaned in just a little closer, letting the spark grow. Mateo’s eyes held his, wide, daring, and Logan knew exactly what he would do next.

Towels wrapped loosely around their waists, Logan and Mateo settled onto the wooden benches of the sauna, the warm, humid air making the skin on Logan’s body glisten beneath the dense, dark coat of hair he had grown. 

Mateo’s eyes drank it all in, lingering over the thick arms, the broad, hairy shoulders, the deep V of Logan’s torso.

Logan shifted slightly, letting the towel fall away to reveal his uncut cock handing over his hairy balls, thick and dark, relaxed and glistening from the heat. He looked at Mateo, voice low and commanding, “Hazme duro… con tu boca.”

Mateo didn’t hesitate. He knelt between Logan’s thick, hairy thighs, his eyes locked on Logan’s face. Then, Mateo moved to take the length of Logan’s thick, uncut cock into his mouth with practiced eagerness. 

Logan’s hand instinctively went to Mateo’s hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as he guided Mateo closer, deeper. 

The sensation was entirely new, having his foreskin envelop his cock head while Mateo’s lips and tongue worked him over. Every stroke and pull felt different, more sensitive, almost overwhelming. The friction of the soft foreskin against Mateo’s mouth sent shivers through Logan’s spine.

Each lick and press of Mateo’s tongue against Logan’s frenulum sent sparks of pleasure radiating up Logan’s abs, down his thighs, over his hairy pecs. 

Logan was lost to it, his mind reeling with the novelty and the power of it all.

Logan groaned in Spanish, hot and sharp, gripping Mateo’s head and controlling the movements with an authority that made the smaller man shiver with delight. 

He could feel the strength in his legs, the weight of his arms and chest, the subtle dominance of his size adding to the thrill. The heat of the sauna, the steam curling around them, the slick friction of a mouth on his uncut cock, all combined into a maze of sensation Logan had never experienced.

Logan had never realized that a simple act of submission could be so infused with tension, but here he felt every inch of his body, every dark, thickened, hairy, muscled inch, alive in a way that was dangerously intoxicating.

Every stroke drove Logan closer to the edge.

Then, a shadow passed across the small window in the sauna door. Through the glass Logan saw the tall, muscular, uncut black man he had noticed around the gym. 

Their eyes met, and for a moment Logan felt revealed, caught in the act. But the man smiled and gave an approving nod, almost a wink. Then, just as quickly, the man moved on, disappearing from the window, leaving Logan and Mateo in their thick, humid bubble of heat.

A rush of pride and power filled Logan. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

A sharp, guttural groan burst from Logan as his hairy balls pulsed, and his uncut cock exploded, hot and heavy, filling Mateo’s mouth and throat. 

The release was overwhelming, coursing through his thighs, into his abdomen, and up his chest, leaving Logan shuddering, nearly spasming above the smaller man. 

Mateo swallowed eagerly, moaning in Spanish around Logan’s thick, dark shaft, and Logan’s body tensed again, reveling in the raw intimacy of it.

When the climax finally subsided, Logan sagged, the hairy muscles on his back, matted and heavy, pressed against the cedar wall. Sweat glistened along the thick, dark hairs that plastered themselves to his pecs and shoulders.

Mateo crouched before him, catching his breath, the heat of exertion and pleasure still lingering in his eyes. 

Slowly, Logan’s uncut cock softened, and the overhang yet again returned to drooped beyond the head. Logan instinctively slid a finger inside. The puckered opening was still warm and oozing cum.

A slick patch of Mateo’s cum pooled on the wooden floor, warm, intimate. Logan didn’t even register it, not really. It was meaningless to him compared to what was happening inside his own mind.

I wish I had done this with Diego.

Logan shivered slightly. The desire wasn’t simply sexual, it carried the weight of something deep, and confusing. 

Diego’s smaller frame, the certainty in his voice, the calmness with which he had dared Logan to assert himself, it stirred something primal in Logan.

Why, Logan wondered, why wish to do this with Diego? The fingers of his other hand absently brushed against the sweat-slick hair on his chest, tracing the wide path down to his taut abdomen. 

Diego wasn’t here. Mateo had been the one kneeling before him, worshipping, eager, and obedient. 

And worse, why do I feel guilty for doing this with Mateo? 

Mateo’s eyes glimmered with hunger and anticipation, the smaller man clearly ready to keep going, to explore more of the dynamic they had just shared. 

“Te veo después,” Logan said softly, pulling his towel back around his waist, signaling the end. Mateo’s eager grin didn’t falter, he nodded, accepting Logan’s decision.

As Logan stepped toward the sauna door, Mateo’s voice followed him. “¿Todavía vas a venir al grupo de estudio latino? Podría ayudarte…”

Logan paused, letting the words hang in the steaming air. He forced a small smile. “Sí… tal vez. Lo pensaré,” he replied.

Back at home in his apartment, the shower was a hot, scalding contrast to the thick sauna steam. Logan let the water beat down over his hair, over the dense, dark curls on his muscles, over the heavy, uncut cock and balls that now hung dark and thick against his thighs. The broad shoulders, the swollen biceps, the powerful chest, and the wide expanse of hair leading down toward his cock and balls.

And yet, even as he scrubbed and rinsed, his thoughts clung to Diego.

Once he was clean, Logan toweled off, dressing in fitted gym shorts and a snug tank top that emphasized his newly muscular frame, his thick hair dark against his skin. 

He stepped out onto the campus streets, the evening air brushing against his hairy skin, he moved with the same assuredness he had always carried, yet he was aware of the shift inside him. 

The world seemed slightly altered, more vivid, more dangerous for its temptations, and Logan’s mind kept drifting to Diego, to their upcoming date at the café, and to what might come next.

[thefleshlab]

Artistic Liberty

Logan stood easily atop the short platform in the front of the art studio, weight shifted casually to one hip, arms relaxed at his sides. Nude. Confident. Comfortable with the soft scratch of charcoal, the whisper of pencils, and the quiet intensity of being studied.

He told himself it was about art, but the truth was simpler. He liked the way eyes lingered on him. He liked being looked at.

Smooth, pale skin, blond hair, broad shoulders tapering down into a narrow waist. He had the kind of body professors loved to use as an example of classical proportion, like a statue that had decided to breathe.

And he was circumcised. Clean-cut. Just like everything else about him.

That was part of why he volunteered to model nude for the university art classes. He liked being seen. Studied. Reduced to form and line and proportion. It made him feel correct, and admired for it.

At least, it used to.

Before Diego.

Diego always sat in the back corner of the studio. Quiet. Dark-haired. His eyes lingered longer than the other students, his pencils moved more deliberately.

The first time Logan happened to walk past Diego’s easel on a break from posing, he felt something cold slip down his spine.

Diego had drawn him wrong.

The body was unmistakably his, the same shoulders, the same chest, the same thighs, but Diego had added something that very definitely did not belong.

A foreskin.

A soft, natural sheath of skin where Logan’s body was smooth and cut.

Logan’s stomach tightened.

He told himself it was just artistic liberty. Or maybe a mistake

Except Diego kept doing it.

Every session.

No matter the angle. No matter the pose. Diego’s drawings always showed Logan’s cock intact.

Logan tried not to let it bother him, and he kept it to himself. There was obviously no real harm in it, some guy in the back of class having a little, private fantasy.

But a few weeks in, Logan began to notice his showers felt different. One day, the spray hit his cock in a way that made him flinch. His skin there felt more sensitive. He checked himself, nervously. God, he hoped it wasn’t an STI. What would he tell Marissa?

No signs of any diseases, but there was some tender, loose skin around his cock head where he was pretty sure there hadn’t been any before.

Logan’s pulse thundered in his ears.

He felt heat creep up his neck.

Was it just the water? The steam? Rough sex? Or had he jerked off too hard the night before?

Weirder, the skin on his shaft felt slightly mobile now in a way it hadn’t been before.

He was probably imagining things, freaking himself out after seeing Diego draw him uncut so many times. He stepped out and dried off. He tried not to think about it as he went to class. It was probably nothing.

The next morning Logan woke to a strange warmth around his cock head when he rolled over in bed.

He ignored it. He’d been noticing so many subtle shifts since that most recent art class, more color in his skin, a deeper tone in his voice, but he had convinced himself he was just overthinking.

Until he sat up and saw his cock.

Overnight, the soft, loose skin he’d felt the day before had crept forward, far enough to cover half the head now. The tip was still visible, but the familiar, clean mushroom head he’d been proud of for years was already partially gone.

“No fucking way,” he whispered.

He immediately pulled the skin down. It slid and bunched around the corona. Far more skin than he’d seen there yesterday. His pulse raced.

He had class, and assignments, and friends, and the gym. He tried to go about his day as normal, but even the simplest tasks now were no longer simple. He turned down coffee with Marissa.

At the urinal between classes, he found himself hesitating. Disappointed each time that the skin had slipped forward again. 

A small ridge, a thin band of flesh was developing on the underside of the head that he hadn’t noticed, but now pulsed with the slightest contact. He recoiled when it caught on the edge of his underwear. He flushed when it brushed his hand accidentally in the shower. A frenulum he learned. So much he was suddenly researching online.

Logan’s mind kept snapping back to Diego’s drawings, and a shiver ran through him. Was this really happening? Was his body obeying Diego's sketches? How was that even possible?

By the next morning, the entire head was hidden. Logan couldn’t comprehend it. His fingers explored the area, and the skin moved like it had a life of its own. How was this possible? 

Should he tell someone? See a doctor?

He tried to dress normally, but every movement reminded him: the body he’d always known, clean, sharp, his, was disappearing. 

He began obsessively checking, testing, tugging lightly at the skin whenever he had a chance, hoping it would retract away, hoping it was just a fluke. 

That night after the class, Logan barely slept, constantly waking to pull the skin down, only for it to slide back up on its own when he briefly drifted off. 

But, at least, he thought, now that it covered the head, and the frenulum was keeping the skin up, his foreskin was probably done regrowing.

When he finally got out of bed the next morning, he gasped.

The skin on his cock had grown beyond the head, hanging gently over the end.

He touched his shaft, fascinated despite the shame of looking uncut, feeling the skin shift and glide under his fingers. Every pull, every stretch was unfamiliar.

When soft, his foreskin now hung in a small overhang, delicate but unmistakable, and when hard, it stretched taut to still cover the head completely, puckering lightly at the tip.

Logan’s chest tightened, his stomach twisted with an odd mix of captivation and shame. He had always been so proud of being circumcised. And now it was gone.

The familiar confidence he had once carried felt thin and fragile. He realized, with a mixture of awe and dread, that he could never see himself the same way again.

“I’m uncut,” he whispered, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

He repeated them quietly, as if saying them aloud would make them sink in: I’m uncut. I have a foreskin. I have to live with this now.

 Logan stopped answering texts from the girls he was chatting with.

At first, no one noticed. He was always busy. Always training. Or modeling. Always “on the go.” It wasn’t strange for him to take hours, even a day, to reply.

But soon the messages stacked up.

Come over? I miss you.

Gym tonight?

You alive?

He stared at his phone from the edge of his bed, thumb hovering, heart pounding.

He didn’t know how to explain his cock anymore. Any dick pic he’d ever sent no longer matched.

The last girl he’d been seeing, Marissa, had tried to tug him closer on the couch a few nights ago, fingers brushing his crotch, her fingers slid over his cock through his jeans in a way that used to make his pulse spike instantly.

This time, his body went tense and he pulled away.

“Hey,” she said softly, surprised. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I just, I’m tired. Long day.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Had she felt it? Could she tell it was there?

“Work. Gym. You know,” he said.

He left early. He barely kissed her goodbye.

He didn’t text her later.

Because how could he?

How could he explain that the most private part of him no longer matched who he was just days ago? That something soft and hooded had somehow replaced the clean, familiar shape he’d always had?

The thought of someone else seeing his cock now, noticing it, asking questions he couldn’t answer, made his stomach twist.

So he canceled dates, delayed plans, and let conversations fade.

Some of the women stopped texting. Some didn’t. One sent him a long message asking what she’d done wrong.

He didn’t know what to say.

He’d lay awake at night, phone face-down beside him, staring at the ceiling, painfully aware that the life he’d lived so comfortably before was slipping through his fingers, one unanswered message at a time.

One morning while he brushed his teeth, an image came to him.

Diego, in class, standing too close.

Logan imagined stepping up, forcing Diego back a half-step, their chests nearly touching. Not yelling. Not arguing. Just looming, his broader shoulders, his heavier frame, his presence filling the narrow gap between them.

The idea of it sent a strange, electric jolt through Logan.

He lowered the toothbrush slowly, staring at his reflection.

His heart beat faster. His breathing changed.

And, most unsettling of all, his cock reacted with an unmistakable stir.

Logan swallowed. Diego was getting hard.

“No,” he muttered, gripping his cock and balls, as if his hand could restrain them.

He had never had thoughts about men. Not like that. 

But the image lingered, Diego’s calm face, the imagined weight of Logan’s presence pressing in, his unspoken power in the moment.

And it left him standing there, toothbrush forgotten, staring at himself in the mirror until his cock calmed down.

At the gym, in the locker room, standing in his briefs, Logan took an informal poll. 

Before he dropped his briefs, he looked around to see if there were any other uncut white guys. Casually, not any kind of official survey. But he was curious and not yet ready to be the only one.

A huge, uncut Black guy was headed to the showers, a couple of Latinos were chatting off to his right. A couple of uncut Asian guys, although one was either retracted or his foreskin was short enough to make it look that way.

But no other uncut white guys.

Logan was not surprised. Of course, he knew there were uncut white guys, he’d gone to high school with at least a couple. But here, today, at this time, he seemed to be the only one. 

Logan had decided, before he’d gone to the gym, that he wasn't going to shower there anymore. He’d change his clothes, but he wouldn’t strip down, not unless there were other uncut white guys around.

And there weren't.

He would have continued his research, kept checking guys cock heads, but he felt himself growing hard, his cock stretching out inside its foreskin, which unsettled him too. What was he doing in here checking out everyone’s cocks?

He quickly finished dressing for his workout, and then went out onto the gym floor and did legs. 

Back at home, Logan stood under his apartment shower longer than he needed to, water pounding steadily against his shoulders, running down the heavier, broader planes of his chest. Steam filled the bathroom, blurring the mirror.

But his attention kept drifting downward, to the unfamiliar weight between his legs, to the way the skin now when he was relaxed, how it responded subtly to heat, to water, to his awareness.

He exhaled slowly and let one hand trail to his uncut cock.

The sensation startled him immediately. The foreskin was responsive, alive in a way he wasn’t used to. It slid easily beneath his fingers, gliding forward and back with a softness that made his chest tighten.

He felt a spike of embarrassment, even though he was alone. It was the embarrassment of being uncut. Of not being like the other guys anymore.

But curiosity crept in alongside the shame.

Logan slipped a finger into the new pucker, exploring the space it created. Warm water followed, flowing in like it never had before. His finger slid between his foreskin and head. The inside felt different: smoother, more sensitive, reactive to the lightest touch. And there on the bottom was the frenulum.

He flinched, breath catching, as sensation sparked sharply and then spread.

It wasn’t pain. This was better.

Logan paused, hand still, heart racing as water poured over him, warm and insistent, running down his shoulders, tracing the lines of his chest, and spilling over the unfamiliar curves of his shaft.

Shame burned hot in his gut.

He shouldn’t be enjoying this, not when he never asked for this thing on his cock. He should have gone to a doctor days ago. Weird shit like this didn’t just happen.

And yet, there was something deeply unsettling about how good it felt to explore. As if his body had already accepted the change and was quietly urging his mind to catch up.

He had tried to avoid it at first, the new skin, but the heat, the wetness, the work of ignoring it wore him down. Slowly, almost involuntarily, his fingers drifted to his cock again. He tugged on the overhang, shocked by how loose it felt, and how good.

The water made the skin supple and pliant, it shifted beneath his touch in ways that made his chest tighten.

He pulled the foreskin back all the way and felt the delicate slide of skin down over the head, the way it gathered and moved. The sensation was electric, alien, yet intimate in a way that made him shiver.

His fingers adjusted, pushing and pulling, experimenting gently, almost scientifically.

It was impossible to deny how much his body reacted as he stroked, how alive every new nerve ending felt.

This is what it’s like? he wondered. This is what the uncut guys feel?

He struggled to maintain control, the skin gliding over the head, down and back. A tension coiled low in his stomach, growing, demanding release like he had never known.

Then: Diego. Logan looking down at Diego. 

His cock surged, hard within the slick foreskin. Down and back, his cock head completely sheathed in the warm, wet skin. 

Diego, chest to chest.

His cock responded before his mind could object, his muscles tightened, his heart pounded. He thrust into his fist.

And he let it happen.

He came against the shower door with a stifled grunt.

The release was startling. Not just physically, but emotionally. Shame and pleasure coiled together, tight and hot. Logan’s chest heaved, his mind swam with the reality that his own body had become an unknown landscape full of new pleasures.

For a long moment after, he stayed there, fingers still, water running over him, trying to steady his breathing.

And why the hell did he cum thinking about Diego?

The next week, Logan stepped into the art studio with a tight, controlled resolve.

He stripped and took his place on the platform, striking the familiar pose he had done countless times before. Foreskin retracted. Chest up, shoulders back, arms relaxed. His usual confident grin in place, though a tension hummed just beneath it.

At first, it seemed manageable. He had the foreskin pulled back, tight against the shaft, skin tucked neatly. He breathed slowly, telling himself that nothing had changed.

But the moment the pencils started moving, he felt it, a subtle movement of the skin. The frenulum tugged, the tip of the head pulsed with sudden awareness, and the skin slipped forward, gathering just enough to force its way over the head and finally beyond the tip.

He froze. He tried again, subtly tugging the skin back, adjusting his stance, shifting his hips. But no matter what he did, a few minutes later, the soft, new skin slid back over the head.

God damn.

A glance at Diego across the room made his heart stutter. Diego’s pencil moved with deliberate care, as if he had anticipated this.

Logan risked looking over at the nearby sketches mounted on the easels.

Every sheet, every students’ work, depicted him as uncut.

Not a half-measure. Not subtle. Fully, unmistakably uncut. The familiar ridge of the head was gone, softened, swallowed under the gentle swell of foreskin.

Logan’s face flushed. Every instinct screamed to retreat, to retract, to hide. But even as he tried to manage the skin, it had a mind of its own, shifting, bunching, reminding him with every pulse that he was no longer the man he had been.

He felt the collective gaze of the room and realized everything was out in the open now. His body had betrayed him publicly. And with the art, the sketches, the unspoken awareness of every student sketching his new foreskin, it was impossible to deny that he was uncut.

During a break, his eyes drifted to Diego’s drawing.

Diego’s focus was obvious at first: the foreskin. The way Diego had captured his cock fully uncut, every subtle fold and curve rendered with meticulous care. That alone had been enough to unsettle Logan.

But Diego hadn’t stopped at the foreskin. In the drawing, thick, dark hair spread over Logan's pecs and along the clavicles. Soft lines suggested a trail leading down, through a wider path of hair over his abs, subtle, natural, masculine.

And the shading on the skin, especially on his cock, Diego had rendered it darker too. Warmer. Richer in tone, the entire shaft glowed with a brown hue.

He looked Latino, like Diego. Which made sense in some ways, but also not, and spiked an anger in Logan's gut.

What was Diego’s deal? Why keep changing him? Was what Logan had not enough?

By the time class ended, Logan’s confidence had evaporated. He left the platform with a shaky, half-smile, clutching his towel.

His old pride in being a model, the easy, casual confidence in his nudity, was gone.

As he dressed, Logan swallowed hard, heart thudding, as he thought of Diego’s drawing. His body had already betrayed him once and regrown his foreskin. Could the next week bring more changes? Chest hair? Darker skin? A trail leading to his cock?

A small part of him recoiled at the thought.

But another part couldn’t look away.

The very next day, a few dark bristles appeared along the middle of his chest. Logan traced them with a finger, heart thudding. He’d never been hairy. He shaved them off immediately.

But each day, more strands emerged, curling softly and multiplying, spreading across his chest.

By Saturday, there was a trail leading down his abs, thick and dark against his skin. Even the fine blond hair on his arms and legs darkened.

His skin had taken on a warmer, more golden hue, subtle at first, deepening around the curves of his muscles and especially so with the ever-expanding spread of hair.

In the shower, when shampooing his head, he noticed the color had darkened slightly, his once-blond hair was taking on subtle, richer tones.

Even his pubes had thickened and darkened, creeping higher toward his abdomen and densely framing his newly uncut cock.

His foreskin too was now visibly darker than the rest of him. Not just slightly, not just a shift in tone but a deep, rich brown that stood out against the rest of his body, especially in his palm.

The color was unnerving on him. He had seen nearly every cock at the gym. He hadn’t seen a white guy with a cock this dark though, cut or uncut, and that embarrassed him.

When soft, the dark foreskin overhung in a way that made him hyper-conscious every time he dressed or sat. Even when hard, it still swallowed the head completely, the rich color emphasizing the difference between his new anatomy and the pink mushroom head below.

His hands couldn’t resist touching it anymore, adjusting, tugging, just to see how it responded, his mind caught between horror and fascination.

Logan sank naked onto the edge of his bed, hands lightly playing with his overhang, staring at the mirror across the room.

The next art class loomed in the back of his mind, a stage where every subtle change, his darkened foreskin, the spreading hair, his warmer, deeper skin tone, would be on display for the students, for the instructor, for Diego. And Logan realized, with a sinking certainty, that by then, he might barely recognize the body that belonged to him.

So, for the next class, Logan went all out. Shaved his chest clean. Bleached his hair back to his old sun-bleached blond, every strand that remained on his body.

He wanted to be himself again. The confident, clean-cut model the students had always studied.

But once he was standing in the studio before the class, he felt a tight knot in his stomach. He could hear students whispering, asking if he’d gotten a tan recently. Was he hitting the gym more? He tried to pay them no mind.

Then, the instructor, Mr. Jones, handed him a small sphere and a thick book, props he hadn’t used before. “We’ll try something new today,” Mr. Jones said. “Think of it as composition and context.”

Logan forced a casual shrug, adjusting the props in his hands. The sphere gleamed in the studio light, its surface smooth and opaque. He rotated it, the subtle weight grounding him. The book’s spine was embossed with intricate letters.

He hadn’t retracted his foreskin, he realized. He’d grown so used to the feeling of his cock head covered, he hadn’t even bothered. Plus, it was too difficult to keep it skinned back, and the students already considered him uncut. They’d all drawn him that way last week. Hopefully the new color this week wouldn't throw them off. 

He glanced toward Diego and froze.

Diego’s sketchpad was open on the table, pencils poised. Logan caught a glimpse of the new drawing and his stomach dropped.

Diego had rendered him even more muscular. And his chest and stomach were thick with hair, more than anything Logan had seen yet on himself, hair that followed the curves of his muscles like it had always been there, like Diego was saying, here, try to shave this much off.

And the face. Once again, Diego had given him distinctly Latino features. His nose had a broader curve, his cheekbones and jaw were slightly fuller. 

Then he noticed the props.

In Diego’s drawing, the sphere was a globe, perfectly turned to Mexico. The book’s title read Historia del Pueblo Mexicano. 

Logan’s hands tightened on the sphere and book. His carefully bleached hair, his freshly shaved chest, his effort to reclaim his old self, all felt futile.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath.

And yet, he couldn’t stop looking at Diego’s drawing, tracing every dark stroke, every shadow that hinted at the transformation he might soon be in store for.

At the end of class, Logan set the props on the platform and squared his shoulders, but a small, involuntary shiver ran through him.

He wasn’t sure if it was fear, fascination, or a mixture of both.

All he knew was that the Logan he had once been, pale, smooth, in control, may soon no longer exist.

And Diego’s pencil had already shown him what would come next, whether he wanted it to or not.

Logan dressed and saw the stubble was already returning to his chest and abs, and no doubt other places. God, he could not escape this hair. His uncut cock twitched at the thought, oddly.

He glanced at Diego across the room. The younger student was quietly packing his pencils, oblivious, or pretending to be.

Logan lingered after all the students left and tried to steady his racing heart.

“Mr. Jones,” he said, keeping his voice calm but tight. “Can I talk to you about Diego’s drawings?”

Mr. Jones looked up from reviewing sketches. “Sure, Logan. What’s on your mind?”

Logan’s fingers flexed around the strap of his gym bag.

“It’s, well, it’s just that Diego keeps drawing me differently,” Logan said, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like, exaggerating things. Making me look, I don’t know, Latino.”

“What’s wrong with looking Latino?” Mr. Jones asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing, if I looked Latino!” This was all going wrong.

Mr. Jones tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, Diego’s got a very bold style. He tends to take artistic liberties. That’s part of learning as an artist, Logan. Sometimes it can be jarring when it’s you as the subject.”

Logan nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

He left it at that, forced a smile, and walked toward the door. Inside, a storm of shame and worry churned. Every glance at his reflection reminded him that Diego’s drawings weren’t just exaggerations. They were manifesting.

By the second day after the latest art class, hair felt like it was everywhere, not just the hair he’d tried to shave away, but new, thickening strands along his chest, across his stomach, down his arms. Darker. Coarser. Growing back faster than he could manage.

He tried to keep up. Razors. Clippers.

A foreskin was one thing, but now all this hair? It was exhausting. He’d shave in the morning and see stubble by evening, and that was on his chest, never mind about his jaw.

His skin, already warmer in tone, seemed to darken further, a rich bronze settling in. 

On the third day, standing in front of the mirror, razor in hand, he just stopped.

He let the hair grow. He hated it, but he’d gotten used to his foreskin, mostly, he could get used to a hairy chest too. He hoped.

But it wasn’t just hair, if he was being honest.

His muscles felt heavier, denser. Shirts that had once fit comfortably now clung too tightly across his chest and arms. His shoulders looked broader.

When he caught his reflection unexpectedly, in a window, or on his darkened phone screen, he sometimes didn’t recognize the man looking back.

Because his face was changing too. Darker brows. A stronger jaw. Features settling into something more distinctly Latino than the pale blond guy he’d been only weeks before.

On the fourth day, he stopped at a small shop near campus, grabbed a jug of milk and some bananas, barely thinking beyond the protein shakes he planned to make. The clerk asked him a question, casual, routine, and without hesitation, Logan answered:

“Sí.”

The word left his mouth naturally. Effortlessly.

He froze.

The clerk didn’t react, just nodded and rang him up, only then did Logan realize the clerk had been speaking to him in Spanish too.

He’d naturally understood and the response had simply come out.

“What the hell is happening to me,” he whispered, outside, grocery bag clenched in his hand.

The following day, Logan was cutting across the plaza with his hood half up, backpack slung low, trying not to think about the way his reflection in the glass doors looked darker, broader, and rougher than it had any right to be.

He almost didn’t hear his name.

“Logan?”

He turned.

It was Matt, an old gym buddy and lab partner, who he hadn’t seen for years.

“Sorry, man,” Matt squinted, like he was trying to bring a blurry image into focus. “You looked like a friend of mine.”

Logan’s stomach dropped through the pavement.

“Uh, yeah, man. It’s me.” But even to his own ears, his voice didn’t sound right.

There was a softness in the vowels. A subtle roll in the cadence. Just enough to bend the words away from the crisp, flat American tone he’d had his whole life.

Matt blinked. “You got a cold or something?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically. “No, estoy bien—”

He froze.

Mark froze.

“What?” Mark said.

Logan’s pulse roared in his ears. He forced a laugh that felt brittle. “Sorry. Been brushing up my Spanish. You know how that goes.”

Mark studied him again. Longer this time.

Up close, Logan could see it: the confusion. The subtle recalibration.

“You do something new?” Matt asked. “You look, I don’t know, different.”

Logan swallowed. “Just working out more. Got some sun. New haircut.”

Matt nodded but his eyes didn’t stop searching Logan’s face. His jaw. His darker brows. The hair heavier on his arms and curling from the collar of his hoodie. Matt probably thought he was on roids or some shit.

Matt laughed awkwardly. “Well, for a second I thought you were some other guy.”

Logan managed a tight smile.

They parted ways a minute later.

Logan didn’t look back until he was halfway down the quad and when he did, Mark was still standing there, watching him go, brow faintly furrowed.

By the time Logan stepped into the studio for the next class, the changes were undeniable.

His chest rose and fell as he stripped down to pose, then took the platform.

Gone was the smooth, pale body he had once owned. In its place was a darker, warmer skin tone, bronzed and rich in the afternoon light.

Thick, dark hair covered his chest and forearms, down his abs. His shoulders and legs carried new bulk, the kind of power that came from hard won muscles. And foreskin, thick, dark, and natural. All as Diego had envisioned.

The class seemed stunned. Who knew what Mr. Jones and the students thought.

But some whispered it aloud, the workouts he must be doing, the sun he must be getting. Had he always just shaved or bleached his hair?

He tried to maintain his composure, but inside, his stomach twisted. Every glance at the students’ sketchpads, every pencil stroke on paper, reminded him of the truth: he wasn’t choosing to look like this. He had been changed.

Logan met Diego’s eyes from across the room.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Diego’s lips. A private secret shared without a word.

Logan’s gaze flicked away, a flush rising to his cheeks.

Mr. Jones clapped his hands lightly. “Looking great, Logan. Very natural this week. No shame. Everyone take note of the form, the posture, all the different textures.”

Shame? Is that what Mr. Jones thought this was all about? Shame in what, looking Latino? Like he’d been hiding it the whole time, just passing as white? Was that what people thought of him?

Logan set his jaw, trying to hold the pose and keep his confident façade. But inside, he couldn’t escape the reality: his body, his identity, and his very self, was being replaced and only Diego seemed to know what he was truly in for.

During the break, Logan drifted around the room. Sketchpads were scattered on tables, some leaning against chairs, pencils still resting on top.

And then he saw it: Diego’s latest drawing.

Diego had drawn him even larger, heavier, and darker than ever before. His muscles were exaggerated, biceps, chest, and thighs. Hair covered his whole body: chest, abs, arms, everywhere, dense and natural. A thick mustache crowned his face, changing his familiar features even more.

And his uncut cock hung long, thick, and dark. The shading made it impossible to ignore.

Logan blinked, heart hammering. The line between fantasy and reality was already dissolving. Pieces of Diego’s vision had already come true. Chest hair, darker skin, denser muscles, all of it.

Now, looking at the latest iteration, Logan realized with a jolt that the next stage had already been drafted, outlined, and rendered. Would his body soon be following? His cock twitched in response.

He forced himself to look away, to grab a water bottle, to distract himself with the casual chatter of classmates.

But his eyes kept flicking back to the drawing.

And the thought that he couldn’t stop it, that the transformation was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not, made him both terrified and uncomfortably aroused.

Logan waited until most of the class had drifted toward the water fountain or their phones.

Diego was erasing lightly, methodically, as if nothing in the world were wrong.

“¿Qué onda?” Logan said, keeping his voice low. It sounded different now, deeper, warmer, threaded with something rougher than before.

Diego looked up. His eyes flicked over Logan: the width of his shoulders, the dark hair creeping over his chest, the way his towel sat differently on his hips. Diego didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked pleased.

“Man, why do you draw me like that,” Logan asked.

Diego tilted his head, studying him the way he studied his sketches. “It’s a version of you,” he said.

“Yeah.” A spike of anger flared in Logan’s chest. “But why do you get to decide what I look like?”

Logan stepped to Diego, closing the distance between them, enough that he felt it, the heat, presence, gravity. Diego was shorter, slighter, but there was no fear in him. Just curiosity. Interest.

“No, no decido,” Diego said with a shy smile. “I just draw.”

Up close, Diego smelled like graphite and soap. His hands were smudged with charcoal. Logan was acutely aware of how effortlessly he could back Diego against the wall, how easily Diego’s hands might be pinned above him as Logan pressed his nose and lips against Diego’s neck, and how natural that image felt right now.

The thought shocked him, even as his cock began snaking down under his towel.

He wasn’t gay. He’d never been gay. He liked women. He knew that. Even if it had been awhile. He hadn’t seen Marissa in weeks. And yet, standing there, looking down at Diego, something in his body surged ahead of his mind. A sharp, possessive desire that made his fists curl at his sides and his cock expand.

Diego’s eyes lifted for just a second to Logan’s hairy chest, his arms, the thick line of hair disappearing beneath his towel, and then back up again. He smiled.

“Maybe you’re angry about it,” Diego said. “But you’re not pulling away.”

Logan opened his mouth and stopped. True, he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he was leaning closer without realizing it.

The room felt too bright, too loud, the hum of conversation suddenly distant.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing with these sketches,” Logan said, but the words lacked conviction.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt charged, heavy with things neither of them were saying out loud.

“I think I’m trying to get with you,” Diego said simply.

“¿Cómo?” Logan asked, taken aback.

“Coffee. Dinner. A Movie. Whatever you want,” Diego said. “We don’t have to decide what it means yet.”

Logan’s mind scrambled for footing, for old rules and labels, for the version of himself that had once felt so fixed and certain. But his cock grew harder under the towel, the uncut head pressing against the towel. 

“Changing me to get with me?” he asked, adjusting himself. 

God, he hoped no one saw he was getting hard.

The image rose, vividly: Diego beneath him, smiling, surprised but not resisting, looking up at Logan with those wide, brown eyes. Logan felt both ashamed and intoxicated by the thought. It scared him how easily the image came, and how inevitable it felt.

Before Logan could speak, Mr. Jones clapped his hands.

“Alright, everyone, back to work. Five-minute poses next, please.”

The spell broke. Diego stepped back, giving Logan space, but his eyes lingered.

“Piénsalo,” Diego said as he returned to his table. “Before class next week?”

Logan stood there, pulse racing, skin buzzing, every instinct screaming in directions he didn’t recognize. He had to calm himself down, calm his cock down.

When he finally returned to the platform and resumed his pose, he felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him, but Diego’s the most.

And for the first time, Logan wasn’t sure whether he feared what he was becoming or the part of him that was starting to want it.

[thefleshlab]

Alejandro

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the city and the rooftop party, Alex couldn’t shake off the smug satisfaction he felt. As an ardent advocate for circumcision, he had spent years debating its benefits, dismissing any arguments to the contrary. His certainty was unshakeable—until he encountered Diego.

Diego was charming, confident, and completely at ease with his uncut status. And he was a fiercely proud advocate of keeping things natural. Their paths had crossed at the party, where a heated debate over circumcision erupted between them. Diego’s arguments were passionate and eloquent, and Alex found himself uncharacteristically rattled by the man’s conviction and charisma.

“If I had a foreskin, I’d get the thing cut off,” Alex said.

“You’re so sure,” Diego said, a playful smirk on his lips. “Maybe one day you’ll see things differently.”

Alex had scoffed at the idea, but as the party continued, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

"Careful what you wish for," Diego said softly to himself, opening his hand to reveal a small vial filled with a shimmering, golden liquid. "This will help you see things my way."

Before Alex could notice , Diego slipped the vial's contents into Alex's drink. Alex, unaware of what had just happened, continued to sip his cocktail, the golden liquid mixing seamlessly. Diego watched him with a knowing smile.

"To new perspectives," Diego said, raising his glass in a toast.

Alex clinked his glass with Diego's and took another sip, feeling a strange warmth spread through his body. The world around Alex began to blur and spin. He felt a strange, tingling sensation spreading from his head down to his toes. Colors seemed to intensify, and the garden around him glowed with an ethereal light. Just as suddenly as it began, the sensation faded, leaving Alex standing there, dazed and confused.

The next morning, Alex awoke with a sense of unease. As he went about his routine, he noticed something strange. At first, it was just a faint, tingling sensation around the head of his penis, a feeling he had never experienced before.

Curious and slightly alarmed, Alex inspected himself closely in the bathroom mirror. He skin around his glans was wrinkly and tender, almost raw. The sensation was odd—both sensitive and slightly itchy, as if his skin were healing from a minor abrasion.

Over the next few days, the sensation intensified, especially around his circumcision scar, which had always been dull and lifeless, but now felt tender and alive, with new skin growing, as if this wound he’d had his whole life was healing, and he could feel the new skin growing, stretching further each day.

Within a week, the skin had partially covered the head of his cock, forming a short foreskin. The new tissue was soft and sensitive, a stark contrast to the old skin. Alex could hardly believe what he was seeing and feeling. He ran his fingers over the newly forming foreskin, marveling at the smoothness and the heightened sensitivity.

That night, as he lay in bed, Alex’s thoughts raced. His identity as a proudly circumcised man was beginning to break down. He had always been certain that circumcision was the superior choice, a mark of hygiene and modernity. Now, with his foreskin regrowing, he felt like he was losing a part of himself.

He got up and went to the bathroom again, turning on the harsh fluorescent lights. Staring at his reflection, he felt a wave of panic. The growing skin was undeniably there, starting to cover the ridge of his cock head, and it was changing everything he had believed about himself. He tried to pull it back, and the sensation was intense, almost painful in its sensitivity. His breath quickened, and he felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest.

“What’s happening to me?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “This can’t be real.”

He tried to rationalize it, to tell himself it was just a temporary anomaly, but the evidence was clear. He was changing in ways he couldn’t control, and it terrified him. He sank to the floor, clutching his head in his hands, feeling his identity slip away.

As the days passed, Alex noticed other changes in his body. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth, when he caught sight of dark hair sprouting on his chest. His eyes widened in surprise as he ran his fingers through his emerging chest hair.

"This is odd," he muttered to himself. "The men in my family aren't hairy."

He was reminded of Diego, the way his chest hair had peeked out from the open collar of his shirt at the party. The image of Diego's confidence and ease with his natural state flashed through Alex's mind, making him feel a mix of confusion and curiosity, and to some degree envy.

A few days later, Alex found himself in a crowded restroom at work. He chose a urinal at the far end, hoping to avoid any attention. As he unzipped, he glanced nervously around, trying to hide his changing anatomy from the other men. He fumbled awkwardly, the new skin on his cock still foreign to him. His heart raced as he finished quickly, zipping up before anyone could notice.

In the gym locker room, Alex faced another challenge. He had always been comfortable changing in front of others, but now he felt self-conscious. The other guys in the locker room were mostly circumcised, and he felt like the odd one out. He noticed their glances, some curious, others indifferent. He wondered what they thought, if they noticed the difference.

As the days passed, his skin darkened to a rich, warm tan. His hair, once light brown, grew darker and curlier. His blue eyes turned a deep, dark brown, and his facial features became more pronounced and defined. Alex’s reflection in the mirror was slowly transforming into that of a Latino man.

Alex stood before the bathroom mirror, inspecting the changes that had progressed beyond his foreskin. What caught his attention most was his chest. Where there had once been smooth, bare skin, dark, curly hair had grown, spreading across his pecs and down to his abdomen.

He ran his fingers through the new hair, feeling its texture and thickness. The sight was jarring. Alex had always prided himself on his smooth, hairless chest, a hallmark of his identity as a modern, well-groomed man. The sudden appearance of so much hair made him feel self-conscious and uneasy.

Alex took stock of his new face. He traced his fingers along his stubbled jawline, now more defined and angular. His eyes, now a deep, soulful brown, stared back at him with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.

A few days later, Alex was in the gym shower, trying to come to terms with the ongoing changes. As he soaped up, his eyes drifted downward, and he was shocked by what he saw. His once pale and smooth penis was now dark and hairy, the transformation more pronounced than ever. The foreskin had grown thicker, and the dark hair around his cock and balls was denser, adding to his increasingly unrecognizable appearance.

He stood there, water cascading over his body, unable to look away. The sight of his new self was overwhelming, and he felt a rush of emotions—fear, frustration, and an unexpected hint of excitement. He was becoming someone entirely new, and it scared but excited him.

At work, Alex's anxiety grew. He wore his usual dress shirt, but now the dark curls of chest hair peeked out. He kept adjusting the collar, hoping to hide the hair, but it was persistent. During a meeting, his coworker Sarah leaned in to whisper something.

"Alex, are you sure about that shirt?" she asked, her eyes glancing down at his chest.

Alex felt his face flush with embarrassment. "Uh, yeah," he mumbled, quickly buttoning his shirt all the way up to hide the hair. He felt stifled and uncomfortable, but it was better than facing more questions or curious glances.

Later that evening, in the locker room at the gym, Alex tried to change discreetly, turning his back to the others. He wrapped a towel around his waist, to hide is growing foreskin, but his self-consciousness was palpable. He noticed some curious glances but managed to avoid direct confrontation. The growing hair on his chest, thickening and spreading everyday, added to his unease. His once smooth pecs were now adorned with dark, curly hair, enhancing his changing appearance.

His friend Kevin, who was also a regular at the gym, approached him. Kevin had always been confident and outspoken, and Alex braced himself for a comment.

“Hey, Alex,” Kevin said, his tone casual. “I noticed you’re looking a little different.”

Alex felt a blush rise to his cheeks and opened his mouth to respond, but the words that came out were unfamiliar. “Sí, es una historia larga,” he said, then paused, confused.

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “What? Dude, did you just speak Spanish?”

Alex’s heart raced. He tried to speak again, but only Spanish words came out. “Lo siento, no sé qué está pasando.”

Kevin looked bewildered. “Are you okay, man?”

Alex struggled to understand his own response, realizing for the first time that he only spoke Spanish now. “No sé cómo pasó esto,” he said, his voice trembling. “Solo puedo hablar español.”

Kevin shook his head, giving him a concerned pat on the shoulder. “This is weird, man. You should get checked out.”

Alex nodded, feeling a mix of frustration and fear. He finished changing quickly and left the gym, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him.

As Alex’s transformation progressed, he found himself grappling with his new identity. The changes in his appearance and language were undeniable, and he struggled to come to terms with becoming a Latino man, the language barrier isolated him further, making it difficult to communicate with his former friends and colleagues.

The next morning, Alex attempted to go to work, but he quickly realized he couldn’t. His identification and legal documents no longer matched his appearance. The image of a white man with light brown hair and blue eyes bore no resemblance to the dark-skinned, curly-haired man he had become. He was effectively undocumented now, unable to prove his identity or maintain his previous life.

Desperate and out of options, Alex decided to seek out Diego again. He found him at a local latin bar, surrounded by a circle of friends. Diego introduced him to the group, and they welcomed Alex warmly, unaware of who he used to be only a few weeks ago. Alex felt a sense of acceptance and camaraderie he hadn’t expected.

Diego pulled Alex aside, a sly expression on his face. “I see you’ve undergone some changes.”

Alex nodded, feeling a mix of desperation and vulnerability. “Es difícil, pero empiezo a entender. Nunca me di cuenta de cuánto me faltaba ver desde otra perspectiva. Pero ahora, no puedo regresar a mi vida anterior. No tengo documentos, soy un trabajador indocumentado.

Diego’s smile softened. “No te preocupes, Alex. Aquí tienes amigos. Puedo ayudarte a encontrar trabajo. ¿Qué te parece ser jardinero? Trabajarás conmigo y mi equipo.”

Alex felt a wave of relief and gratitude. “Gracias, Diego. Aprecio tu ayuda.”

Diego smiled warmly. “Todo se trata de experimentar diferentes perspectivas. Ahora eres parte de nuestra comunidad, y estamos aquí para ti.”

Alex felt a sense of belonging and acceptance he had never experienced before. The support from Diego and his friends would help him come to terms with his new identity and embrace his transformed self.

He started working as a gardener for Diego, who was patient and supportive, helping Alex adapt to his new life.

One evening, tired after working on the lawn, Alex decided to explore his transformed body, his hairy chest, and his dark, hooded cock. He lay on his bed, his heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and curiosity. He began to touch himself gently, running his fingers over the smooth, sensitive foreskin. The sensations were incredible, far beyond anything he had ever experienced.

As he continued, he found himself losing track of time, completely absorbed in the pleasure. The new foreskin allowed for a depth of sensation he had never imagined. Waves of ecstasy washed over him, and for the first time, he understood what Diego had been trying to convey.

A few days later, Alex ran into Diego again. This time felt a strange mix of gratitude and servitude.

“Diego, necesito hablar contigo,” Alex said, his voice softer than before.

Diego smiled knowingly. “Me imagino que has tenido tiempo para adaptarte.”

“Sí,” Alex admitted, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. “No esperaba esto, pero… es increíble. Nunca pensé que diría esto, pero creo que ahora lo entiendo.”

Diego’s smile widened. “Me alegra escuchar eso, Alex. Todo se trata de experimentar diferentes perspectivas.”

Alex hesitated, then asked, “¿Podrías… ayudarme a explorar esto más?”

Diego’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Me encantaría.”

As they moved closer, their lips met in a slow, passionate kiss. The world seemed to fade away as their bodies pressed together, the heat between them intensifying. Diego’s hands were skilled and confident, exploring Alex’s new foreskin with expert precision.

Together, they discovered the incredible potential of Alex’s transformed body, their passion igniting in a celebration of intimacy and newfound pleasure. Like the foreskin on his new, hooded cock, the dark, curly hair on his head and chest felt strange and yet familiar, as if he had always been meant to look this way.

What began as a curse became a journey of self-discovery, leading Alex to the beauty of his natural state and the possibilities it held.

Weeks later, Alex—now going by Alejandro, reflected on his journey. The transformation had completed; his skin was now a rich, warm tan, his hair dark and curly, and his body muscular and hairy.

He ran his fingers over his foreskin, long, dark and fully grown, marveling at its smoothness and the incredible sensitivity it provided. A smile spread across his face as he realized how much he had come to love this part of himself.

His foreskin had become an integral part of his new identity as a hairy, uncut Latino. The foreskin was no longer something to be feared or ashamed of; it was a cherished part of who he had become.

Alejandro looked down, admiring his hairy chest and abs. The dark curls contrasted against his tan skin, giving him a rugged, masculine appearance. He flexed his muscles, feeling the strength and vitality in his body. The hair on his chest no longer felt foreign or uncomfortable; it was a source of pride.

Alejandro also had come to see his hairy chest as part of his identity too. He loved the way the hair felt against his skin, the way it made him look and feel.

Continuing to stroke himself, Alejandro walked to the full length mirror, admiring his reflection. He flexed for himself, seeing the strength in his body and the confidence in his stance. He no longer saw the panicked, confused man he had been. Instead, he saw a proud, confident man who had embraced his true self.

He ran his hands over his hairy chest, feeling the roughness of the dark curls and the strength in his muscular frame. He flexed his biceps, marveling at the definition and power he saw reflected back at him.

His gaze traveled downward, to his now fully restored foreskin. The sensitivity was incredible, and he felt a wave of arousal wash over him. His dark foreskin slid smoothly over the head of his cock, sending shivers of pleasure through his body.

As his arousal grew, Alejandro's movements became more deliberate. He stroked himself with increasing intensity, turned on by the sight of his transformed, hairy, muscular Latino body. The pleasure built steadily, each stroke more electrifying than the last.

He watched himself in the mirror, seeing not the man he used to be, but the man he had become. His skin glistened with sweat, the muscles in his arms and chest tensing with each movement. The dark curls on his chest only added to his rugged, masculine appearance, enhancing his arousal. His foreskin slid up and over the head with every stroke. He had a foreskin!

Alejandro gasped. His pleasure reached its peak, his body trembling as he climaxed, shooting his load onto the mirror, his reflection showing a man fully embracing his new Latino identity. As the waves of pleasure subsided, he stood there, breathing heavily, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

"Me encanta quién soy ahora," he whispered to his reflection, feeling a profound sense of acceptance and pride.

A few weeks later, Alejandro clipped flowers in Diego’s garden. The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the vibrant blossoms around him. Alejandro was shirtless, his muscular, hairy chest glistening with sweat as he worked. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin and the cool breeze that occasionally swept through the garden, bringing with it the sweet scent of blooming flowers.

Alejandro smiled to himself, feeling a deep sense of contentment and belonging. He had embraced his new life and identity, finding joy in the simple pleasures of hard work and the beauty of the world around him. As he clipped a particularly vibrant flower, he heard Diego’s voice behind him.

“Estás disfrutando el trabajo, ¿verdad?” Diego asked, his tone teasing.

Alejandro turned, smiling widely. “Sí, mucho. Gracias por todo, Diego.”

Diego walked over, placing a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. “No hay de qué. Estoy feliz de tenerte aquí.”

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 11

As Teng and Yan left the Japanese baths, Teng felt a sense of belonging and community that he hadn't felt since his time living amongst the monks. The older men had welcomed him, and his body, with open arms, and they had joked and laughed with him like family.

As they walked through the streets of the city towards the restaurant where they had reservations, Teng reveled in Yan's company and in this wonderful new life that he was living.

At the restaurant, they were shown to a private table, and began to peruse the menu. Teng was glad for the chance to try some new dishes and Yan was happy to be able to share his favorite cuisine with Teng. As they ate, they talked and laughed, enjoying each other's company.

Teng realized that he was starting to appreciate his new body and feel comfortable in his new life. He still missed his days as a monk, but he was grateful for the opportunities that he now had. He was glad that he had taken the chance to leave the village behind and to embrace this new chapter as an Asian man.

Teng and Yan left the restaurant and walked back to Yan's apartment hand in hand, enjoying the cool evening breeze. Teng enjoyed the feel of his beard and chest hair rustling in the wind. The sensation always took him back to his time in the mountains.

However, Teng couldn’t help feeling a little nervous when they entered Yan’s apartment building and took the elevator to the twelfth floor, but he was excited to be with Yan again. He felt more confident in his body now, proud of his hairy chest and his uncut cock.

As they entered Yan's well-appointed apartment, Yan poured them each a glass of wine and they enjoyed the view of the city before they settled onto the couch. The conversation was easy, and they laughed and joked as they caught up on their day.

Teng couldn't help but notice how handsome Yan looked in the dim light, his well-trimmed beard, and his piercing eyes. Yan’s rolled up sleeves revealed his dragon tattoos. Teng felt a stir in his pants and knew that it wouldn't be long before they were in bed together.

Yan must have been feeling the same. He leaned over and kissed Teng softly on the lips, and Teng responded eagerly, deepening the kiss as he ran his hands through Yan's hair.

Without a word, they stood up together and made their way to the bedroom, hands still intertwined.

As Yan undressed Teng, he couldn't help but admire the hairy chest and dark, uncut cock that he revealed. Teng felt a flush of pleasure and pride as Yan explored his body with his hands and his mouth.

Yan's lips found their way to Teng's foreskin, and Teng was overcome with pleasure, his body arching and his fingers tangling in Yan's hair. For years now, Teng had felt somewhat self-conscious about his uncircumcised cock, never fully able to accept that it had regrown, but now, as Yan brought him to new heights of pleasure, Teng realized that his foreskin was truly a part of him, a part he loved, and something to be celebrated.

As Yan explored Teng's body with his fingers, tongue, and lips, Teng found himself in a state of pure bliss. The touch of Yan's hands on his hairy chest and the feeling of Yan’s mouth around his uncut cock sent shivers down Teng's spine, and his moans of pleasure filled the room. He felt connected to his body in a way that he never had before. The sensations he experienced were beyond anything he had ever felt as a monk.

Yan, with his own uncut body, explored Teng's hairy chest with his fingers as he kissed him deeply. Then, once Teng was flat on his back on the bed, Yan moved down to Teng's hips and spread his legs wide, admiring Teng's dark uncut manhood, now rock hard, yet still fully covered by its veiny, brown hood. Yan gave it a kiss, before sliding back the hood and causing Teng to squirm with pleasure.

Yan moved in, between Teng’s thighs, and positioned himself at the entrance of Teng's hairy ass. He lubed up Teng’s crack, and slowly entered him. Teng threw back his head and felt Yan’s thick foreskin slide back as Yan pushed in, inch by inch.

Teng let out a gasp of pleasure, mixed with a hint of pain, and Yan stopped for a moment, checking to make sure Teng was okay. Teng, biting his bottom lip, reassured Yan with a nod, and Yan resumed his movements, slowly at first, but gradually building up the pace. Teng's body responded eagerly, and he matched Yan's movements with his own, the two men writhing together in a rhythm of passion and desire.

Teng's legs were wrapped around Yan's waist, and Yan held onto Teng's hips to steady himself as he moved in and out, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace as their chests pressed together, Yan’s smooth pecks, against Tang’s hairy ones.

Teng’s hips rolled in rhythm with Yan's, urging Yan on, to push him further towards the edge. With a rhythm going, Yan’s hands explored every inch of Teng's hairy body, as he thrust in and out.

Teng moaned low and deep, feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations. As Yan fucked him for the first time, Teng buzzed with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. The experience was intense, and he could feel every inch of Yan's uncut cock inside of him, filling him up, completing him in a way.

As he focused on the sensation of Yen’s hard cock in his ass, Teng felt a rush of pleasure, and he couldn’t help but whimper and groan. At the same time, he felt a sense of vulnerability, allowing someone else to enter his body in such an intimate way. But he trusted Yan completely and felt beneath him.

Yan's body pressed tightly down against Teng's, their skin slick with sweat, Teng’s hairy chest was soaked and matted, and his fingers dug into Yan's back, his grip leaving faint red marks as he clung to Yan’s muscles.

Yan's hands were on Teng's hips, and thighs, and hairy pecs, guiding his movements, urging him on. The room was filled with the sounds of their breathing and the rustling of sheets as they moved together.

As Teng's pleasure neared its peak, he let out a low growl, his back arching.

Yan held him close, his movements slowing and becoming more gentle as he guided Teng to ride out the waves of pleasure that washed over him.

“Not yet,” Yan whispered.

Teng whimpered. He felt a deep sense of connection with Yan in that moment, thankful for the guidance, and for the pleasure Yan brought him. Teng's heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt more alive than he had in a long time.

"This is incredible," Teng whispered back between gasps. There was something so intense and raw in the moment, in their rolling, writhing, connection, something that Teng had never felt before.

Sweat dripping off his body, Ten’s hands gripped the sheets tightly, and his body arched towards Yan's, as he let out moans of pleasure. Yan's movements became faster and more urgent, and Teng felt wave after wave of pleasure wash over him.

As Yan's movements became more intense and urgent, Teng let out an eager moan as he felt himself reaching the pinnacle of pleasure.

Teng's breaths became shorter and shallower as Yan's pace quickened still, and he could feel the heat building inside him. He dug his fingers into Yan's shoulders, trying to grind himself against Yan as the pleasure surged through his body, but with each thrust, Yan hit just the right spot, and Teng could feel himself losing control.

Teng felt himself getting closer to climax, and his breathing became heavier, almost gulps. Yan's skilled hands and mouth were working wonders on Teng’s body, his pecs, his nipples, his chest hair, sending bolts of pleasure through him.

Beads of moisture hung in Teng’s chest hair; his muscles were taut as he approached his peak.

The pleasure built and built until it was almost unbearable, and then suddenly, it was too much!

With a below of surprise, Teng finally lost control, his body convulsed as he experienced the most intense orgasm of his life, and came, hot and sticky, all over Tan’s taught abs.

Yan, calling out Teng’s name, followed soon after, releasing, thick and pulsing, into Teng’s ass, before collapsing on top of Teng’s hairy body. And they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, both spent and satisfied.

For a few moments, Teng was completely wiped and breathless, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. Yan gently pulled out and lay down next to him, wrapping his arm around Teng's waist and holding him close. Teng turned his head to face Yan, and the two men gazed at each other for a long moment.

Afterwards, Yan lay in Teng's hairy arms, Teng’s chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He felt completely exhausted, but at the same time, satisfied and fulfilled.

Teng looked at Yan, and the intensity of his feelings for the handsome Asian man overwhelmed him.

"Yan," Teng said, his voice trembling slightly. "I need to tell you something. I think... I think I'm in love with you."

Yan turned to look at Teng, his expression soft and open.

"I love you too, Teng. I think I have for a long time, but I didn't know how to tell you."

Teng felt a wave of relief wash over him, followed by a deep sense of joy. He reached out and took Yan's hand upon his hairy chest, intertwining their fingers.

"I'm so glad you feel the same way. I've never felt this way about anyone."

Yan smiled and leaned in to kiss Teng gently. "Me neither," he said. "I think we're meant to be together."

“Karma,” Teng said.

Teng felt a warmth spread through his body as the words sank in. He knew that they had a lot of challenges ahead of them, but for the first time in a long time, he felt truly happy and content. He snuggled closer to Yan, feeling his heart overflow with love and passion for this beautiful, kind man beside him.

The next day, Teng stood before his class, his eyes were closed as he took a deep breath and centered himself. When he opened his eyes, he looked out at the sea of faces before him, his heart filled with a newfound sense of love and contentment.

"Today," he began, "I want us all to meditate on love. Love is a powerful force that can heal the soul and transform us in ways we never thought possible."

He asked the students to sit comfortably and focus on their breathing, to let their thoughts come and go without judgment, and to envision a bright, warm light surrounding their hearts.

As they meditated, Teng thought about Yan and the love they had confessed to each other the night before. He thought about how his own journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance led him to this moment, to a place where he was able to fully embrace the love he feels for another person.

Teng looked around the room, observing his students as they sat in stillness, their faces calm and serene. He knew that for some of them, the concept of love might be difficult or even foreign, but he believed that through meditation and self-reflection, they too could come to understand its power and beauty.

After the meditation, Teng asked his students to share their thoughts or experiences. Some were hesitant at first, but as the discussion continued, they opened up about their own struggles with love and relationships.

Teng listened patiently, offering words of encouragement and wisdom. He knew that he couldn’t solve all their problems, but he hoped that by sharing his own journey, he could inspire them to continue on their own paths of self-discovery and growth.

As the class came to a close, Teng felt a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. He knew that he still had much to learn and many challenges to face, but for the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful about the future and thankful that he’d been rescued.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 10

On Saturday, Teng and Yan met up for a local street fair, having seen the signs for it all over Chinatown. Teng wore a fitted, white tank, showcasing his hairy chest with confidence. He walked hand in hand with Yan, who was wearing a bright red shirt that complemented Teng's white tank. As they strolled through the stalls, Teng could feel the eyes of other men and women on him, but he didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. In fact, he felt empowered by his body and his connection with Yan.

As they approached a booth selling traditional Asian clothing, Yan suggested they try on some outfits. Teng agreed and they both picked out embroidered silk jackets and loose-fitting pants. Teng was amazed at how handsome he looked in the traditional outfits, and Yan couldn’t stop staring at him.

"I've never seen anyone wear traditional clothing like you do and still look so sexy," Yan said, smiling at Teng.

Teng chuckled and took Yan's hand. "I'm just a simple monk," he said, "but with you, I feel like an emperor."

One afternoon, a few days later, Teng had just left the meditation studio and was browsing through the street vendors in Chinatown for some kitchen tools. He was dressed in his new street clothes, which he had grown fond of over the past few weeks. He wore a pink tank top that complimented his skin tone, and showed off his hairy chest, along with black jeans, and a pair of simple sneakers. Nothing fancy at all.

While he was looking through the supplies at one of the stalls, bamboo spoons and spatulas, the old vendor noticed Teng's attire and spoke up in Mandarin, "What happened to your monk robes, young man? Why have you westernized yourself like this?"

Teng was taken aback by the vendor's words and felt a sudden sense of shame wash over him. He had never intended to disrespect his monk lifestyle or his culture, but he was Western, wasn’t he? Or was that Nick, his old self?

"I haven't forgotten my roots, or my beliefs," Teng replied, feeling slightly defensive.

The vendor eyed Teng up and down, taking in his new style, "You may not have forgotten, but you're certainly not embracing them either."

Teng felt a mix of frustration and guilt, unsure of how to respond. He realized it was true. He was becoming Westernized! He had been struggling to find a balance between his personal desires and his responsibilities as a monk. Now he wondered if he was disappointing his community and those who looked up to him. He felt some pressure to conform now, but to what ideal?

After a moment of silence, Teng took a deep breath and said, "I'm trying to find a way to be both a monk and a modern Asian man. I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

The vendor nodded, "As long as you stay true to your beliefs, that's all that matters. Just remember where you came from."

Teng nodded, feeling grateful for the vendor's understanding. But remember where he came from? Where was that exactly? London, or the mountains of China?

To make things even more confusing, on some days, as Teng walked through the streets of Chinatown, he ran into his students. They saw him in his street clothes, as a regular Asian man, and not as a monk., and they weren’t always sure how greet him, or approach him. Some didn’t immediately recognize him and did a double take.

After a few weeks of dressing more casually while he is out, he starts to notice the curious looks and whispers from his students before he begins class one day. Some seem to admire him for his fashion sense, and his life outside of the meditation studio, while others seem to be questioning his authenticity as a monk, despite the robes he still wears in class. Teng feels a pang of guilt and shame, wondering yet again if he is betraying his vows.

He tries to push those thoughts aside and focus on his teachings, but the doubts keep creeping in. During a meditation session, one of his students approaches him after class.

"Excuse me, Teng. I couldn't help but notice you at the market the other day. You’re quite fashionable," the student says.

Teng smiles, feeling a little relieved. "Thank you. I try to dress in a way that is comfortable and reflects my style."

The student hesitates for a moment before asking, "But as a monk, shouldn't you be renouncing material possessions and focusing on spiritual growth?"

Teng feels his heart sink. He knows that this is a legitimate concern, and he struggles to find the right words.

"Of course, as a monk, I strive to live a simple life and let go of attachment to material things," Teng says. "But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate beauty and self-expression. I believe that everyone has their own unique path to spiritual growth, and for me, that includes expressing myself through my clothing."

The student nods thoughtfully, seeming to accept Teng's explanation. But Teng can't shake the feeling that he is walking a fine line between being true to himself and being true to his monkhood.

Teng decided one day to hang up some of the framed photographs he had from his time in the mountains. He thought they would give his students a better sense of who he was and show them where he came from. He was Teng now after all, a bald, hairy, bearded Asian monk.

Teng carefully hung up the framed photographs on the walls of his meditation studio. The first one showed a group of monks, including Teng, sitting in a circle around a fire pit, with the mountains looming in the background. The second one was a close-up of Teng's face, with a serene expression as he meditated underneath a waterfall, the freezing cold waters cascading on his bald head, his black beard wet and glistening. And the last one was a picture of Teng with the head shaman, who had a kind smile on his face as he placed a hand on Teng's shoulder.

Teng would never forget those early days as the shaman nursed him back to life and stimulated the changes that led to him becoming who he was, here and now.

As Teng stepped back to admire the photos, he felt a sense of nostalgia wash over him. He had spent years living in the mountains, devoted to his monk lifestyle and the teachings of the shaman. But now, he had found himself drawn to a new way of life, one that asked him to explore his sexuality and express himself in different ways, while still practicing mindfulness.

Teng couldn't help but wonder what the head shaman would think of him now, dressed in stylish street clothes and exploring a different path. Would he be disappointed or understanding?

He turned away from the photos and walked over to the meditation cushions, sitting down to begin his own practice. As he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, he made a silent vow to honor both his monk teachings and his newfound sense of self-expression. It wouldn't be easy, but Teng was determined to find a balance that worked for him.

Later that day, after work, Yan came over to Teng’s apartment above the meditation studio and brough his laptop. He had something he eagerly wanted to show Teng.

Teng leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his tea as he watched Yan, sitting at the small kitchen table scrolling through search results.

Yan explained that he had been curious about Teng's past and wanted to know more about the man he had fallen for, so he’d searched for any info online he might find about monks and the mountains of China. As he read through the various articles about plane crashes in the Chinese mountains, he came across an article with a photo of a young pilot, who was presumed to be dead, his plane lost in the mountains.

"Here it is," Yan said, clicking on the article. "Is this the plane crash you were in? Look, there's the photo of the pilot. Is that him?” Yan asked, looking at Teng with a mix of curiosity and concern."

Teng leaned over to look at the screen, and his heart sank as he saw the familiar face. The photo was indeed of his old self, but Teng didn't, couldn’t, reveal that to Yan. Instead, he simply nodded.

"I can't believe it," Teng said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The news got around, even here.”

Yan reached out and put a comforting hand on Teng's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's okay," Teng said, taking a deep breath. "I just didn't expect to see that face again."

Yan could sense that there was more to the story, but he didn't push Teng for details.

Teng looked more closely at the news article, and the photo of the man he used to be. It had been so long since he had seen his old face. But as he stared at the picture, he realized that he felt no connection to the person he once was.

Teng appreciated Yan's concern, but he couldn't bring himself to reveal his past to Yan just yet. He suspected that someday he would have to tell Yan the truth, that he was once Nick, a white man, but for now, he was content to enjoy their time together and keep his past buried deep inside.

Teng looked down at the floor. He had come so far from the person he used to be. He had transformed his body and his mind, and he was proud of who he had become bald, hairy, Asian, and a monk. But he knew that if he revealed his true identity, it would change everything.

"Thank you for showing me this," Teng said, turning to look at Yan. "It's good to revisit what happened and reflect on my ability to change with life’s hardships."

Yan nodded, and the two men stood in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

A few weeks later, to celebrate their three-month anniversary, Teng and Yan decided to spend an evening where they first met, at the Japanese baths, before they went out for dinner.

Teng and Yan arrived at baths, a serene oasis in the heart of the city, eager to relax and unwind. As they entered the bathing room, Teng noticed the other Asian men staring at him curiously as always.

One man, a middle-aged Japanese man with a bald head and a thick mustache, approached Teng with a smile. "Excuse me, sir, but I couldn't help but notice you’re so hairy. Do you mind if I ask where you're from?"

Teng grinned, "I'm from China, but I grew up in the mountains with the monks."

The man nodded, "Ah, I see. I've never seen such a hairy Chinese man before. It's quite remarkable."

Teng chuckled, "I get that a lot. But I take pride in it."

The man laughed and patted Teng on the back, "Well, you should. It's a rare and beautiful thing."

The other men in the bathhouse began to join in the conversation, asking Teng questions about his hairy body and his life with the monks. Teng felt a sense of instant camaraderie with the other men, despite their initial curiosity about his appearance. It was a welcome change from the scrutiny he often faced.

As Teng and Yan settled into the warm waters of the bath, they were joined by the group of jovial, older Asian men, all of whom seemed to know each other well. They greeted everyone warmly, and then turned their attention to Teng, asking him more about his beard, and hairy chest, and teasing him in a friendly way.

Teng laughed and took it all in stride, feeling grateful for the camaraderie and feeling more at home in his new body than ever before. As he soaked in the soothing waters, he felt his muscles relax and his mind become clear, allowing him to fully appreciate the moment and the company of his new friends.

He couldn’t help but think back to the natural hot springs in the snowy mountains that he shared with the monks.

Yan, too, enjoyed the lively banter, and he watched Teng with admiration as Teng interacted with the older men. It was clear that Teng had come a long way since his days as a monk, and Yan felt privileged to witness his journey.

“I hope that’s us some day,” Yan said of the older Asian men. “Hanging out at the baths all day because we’re old, and retired, and have nothing else going on.”

Teng hadn’t yet considered what growing older in this Asian body might be like, and he certainly hadn’t imagined it with someone like Yan by his side. He could only guess how much ribbing he would get once his beard, and all the other hair on his body, turned gray, or white even. Still, the thought of growing old with Yan made him smile and filled him with a warmth that he hoped would never fade.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 9

Teng and Yan strolled arm in arm through Chinatown, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling neighborhood. The aroma of street food filled the air, and colorful red lanterns adorned every storefront.

As they walked, Yan pointed out his favorite spots, and Teng listened intently, feeling a sense of familiarity and connection growing between them.

As they reached the end of the block, Yan suggested they sit on a bench in a nearby park. They sat together, Yan's arm around Teng's shoulder, feeling the warmth of each other's presence.

Teng turned to Yan and said, "I never thought I could feel this way again. I never thought I could meet someone."

Teng thought of the women he’d been with, back when he was Nick. It all felt so distant and long ago, another lifetime, truly.

Yan smiled and replied, "Life is a funny thing, Teng. It can surprise us when we least expect it."

Teng laughed in agreement at that. Yan had no idea.

They leaned in for a tender kiss, feeling the spark of their connection ignite into a flame of passion. As their lips parted, Yan whispered, "Let's enjoy this and see where it takes us."

Teng smiled, feeling grateful for this moment in time, and for the unexpected twists and turns that had led him to this point in his life.

As Teng and Yan walked through the bustling streets of Chinatown, Teng couldn't help but feel the eyes of the passersby on him. But this time, it was for a different reason. It wasn't because he was dressed like a monk or because he looked different, it was because of the way he carried himself, the confidence he exuded, and the way his well-toned muscles showed through his fitted clothes, and the occasional peeks of his hairy body.

Teng had never felt this kind of attention before. In his previous life, despite being blonde and blue-eyed, he was just an average, unassuming man, albeit with a passion for excitement and adventure. But now, as a bald, bearded, and hairy Asian man, he had a presence that commanded attention, even out of his monk clothes, and perhaps more so. He felt a sense of pride in his body and how far he had come, but also a sense of vulnerability as he realized that he was opening himself up to a whole new level of scrutiny.

Yan noticed the attention that Teng was receiving and leaned in close to him. "You're turning a lot of heads tonight," he whispered, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Teng chuckled nervously. "It's not something I'm used to," he admitted. "I guess being a monk for so long made me forget what it's like to be seen as just a regular guy."

Yan smiled, taking Teng's hand in his. "You're definitely more than just a regular guy to me," he said, looking deeply into Teng's eyes.

Teng felt his heart skip a beat. He knew that he was falling deeper and deeper for this man, the handsome Yan, with his trimmed beard and tattooed arms, and he couldn't deny the intense attraction he felt towards him.

As they walked, they laughed and talked, enjoying each other's company. They stopped to look at glazed chickens, turning in a restaurant window, and Yan leaned over and asked: “Do you want to come over and see my apartment?”

Yan's invitation caught Teng off guard, and for a moment he was unsure what to say. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he considered the offer. On the one hand, he'd never felt so alive and connected to his body as he did when he was with Yan. But on the other hand, he'd made a solemn commitment to his monk lifestyle.

Teng took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"Yan," he said his voice soft and tentative. "I'm drawn to you in ways I've never experienced before. But as a monk, I've taken vows of celibacy, and I worry that indulging this desire would be a violation of those vows."

Yan nods, his expression understanding. "I get it, Teng. And I respect your commitment to your path. But I want you to know that I don't see this as a violation. I see this as two men who are attracted to each other, enjoying each other's company. And who knows, maybe this experience will deepen your knowledge and understanding."

Teng considered Yan's words, feeling a sense of comfort and safety in Yan’s presence. He knows that Yan is right, and that exploring this desire could potentially deepen his understanding of himself and his commitment to his path.

"Okay," Teng says finally, a sense of calm settling over him. "Let's go to your place."

Yan’s apartment, on the twelfth floor of a modern high rise, was well appointed and had a great view of the city. Yan poured Teng a drink and they sat down on the sofa together, but it wasn’t long before Yan, with a mischievous grin, asked:

“Could feel your hairy chest?”

Teng smiled and held up his black t-shirt, revealing his tight hairy torso for Yan to touch.

Yan's fingers grazed his chest hair, Teng felt a rush of excitement. He had never felt this way before, and he couldn't deny that it was a thrilling sensation. Yan's touch was gentle but firm, and Teng couldn't help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure, and his cock began to stir in his tight jeans.

As Yan explored Teng's chest with his hands and now his mouth, Teng's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. He knew that he was breaking his vows as a monk, but he also couldn't ignore the intense feelings of desire that he had for Yan. He felt torn between his duty and his heart, and he wasn't sure which one would win out in the end.

After a few moments, Yan pulled away from Teng's chest and looked up at him with a playful grin. "You're quite hairy, aren't you?" he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Teng chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose I am," he said, feeling a bit more at ease now that the tension had been broken.

Yan leaned in closer to Teng, his eyes sparkling. "I have an idea," he said, his voice low and husky. "Why don't we take this to the bedroom?"

Teng hesitated, his heart racing with anticipation. He knew that this was a moment that he would never forget, and he couldn't deny the feelings of desire that were coursing through his body. Finally, he nodded, and Yan took his hand, leading him into the bedroom.

As Teng and Yan lay together in bed, their naked bodies intertwined, Teng's mind was consumed with the pleasure he was experiencing. For years, he had abstained from any sexual contact, but now he was reveling in every sensation, feeling Yan's touch on every inch of his hairy skin.

As Yan reached down to touch Teng's hard, uncut cock, Teng shuddered with pleasure. He could feel every sensation, every touch, every movement, in a way that he never had before. And as Yan took Teng's hooded cock into his mouth, Teng moaned with pleasure, overwhelmed by the intense sensation.

Teng was no virgin, technically. As Nick he’d had sex with women, but this was all something new, and not only because he was with a man. He couldn't believe how different everything felt now that he had his foreskin again. Yan’s mouth on his cock was more intense than anything Teng had ever felt before, as if he was discovering his body for the first time, and in a way, he was. As Yan's tongue slid under the skin and caressed Teng’s cock head, Teng felt a wave wash over him, and he let out a deep moan.

As Teng surrendered to the pleasure, he couldn't help but think about his years as a monk. He had spent so long denying himself this kind of pleasure, thinking that it was wrong. But now, as the new sensations flooded his body, Teng knew that it was natural and beautiful, a celebration of the human body and the karmic love between two people.

As the pleasure continued to build, Teng felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge. He gripped the sheets tightly, his body trembling with desire. As he finally reached the peak of his pleasure, Teng cried out Yan's name, his body convulsing as he came. Yan, gripping a handful of Teng’s black chest hair, came quickly after.

For Teng, it was a revelation, a reminder that life was about more than just rules and discipline. It was about joy and karmic connection and love, and he was grateful to be experiencing it with Yan.

Afterwards, Teng held Yan in his arms, his heart racing as he tried to catch his breath. He couldn't believe how different everything felt, now that he was experiencing pleasure in this new way, and with his new body, finally. As Yan stroked Teng’s chest hair, Teng knew that he had made the right decision in exploring this side of himself, and he couldn't wait to see what other surprises his body had in store for him.

The next morning, Teng woke up next to Yan, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment that he had not experienced in a long time. But as he got ready to return to his mediation studio and face his students, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt and regret.

He knew that as a monk, he should not be engaging in such acts of pleasure. Teng quietly dressed and walked to the kitchen, where Yan was making breakfast in a t-shirt and shorts, his tattooed arms and hairy legs on display. As Teng watched Yan, such beautiful man, move about the kitchen with grace and ease, Teng couldn’t help but feel conflicted.

"Yan, I... I need to talk to you," Teng said, his voice low and uncertain.

Yan turned to him, sensing his unease. "What is it?"

"I don't know if I can continue like this," Teng said, looking down at his feet. "I don’t know how to face my student. As a monk, I have taken vows, and I fear that I am breaking them by being with you."

Yan put a gentle hand on Teng's shoulder.

"Teng, you are also a man, with desires and needs. You don't have to give up everything just because you are a monk, do you? Maybe we can find a way to make this work."

Teng looked up at Yan, searching for some kind of answer. He knew that Yan was right, but he also knew that this was a difficult path to navigate, even with Yan's understanding and support.

“I’ll try to find a balance,” Teng said after a few moments. “I just need to figure out this new path I'm on," Teng says, with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He had already changed so much from the person he once was.

Yan puts a reassuring hand on Teng's shoulder before leaning in for a kiss.

Teng decided after that morning, to continue wearing his monk robes at the mediation studio while he was teaching, but he wanted to continue to dress in ways that were appropriate for a stylish Asian man while he was out and about.

A few days later, Teng walked through Chinatown, dressed in a black leather jacket over a fitted white t-shirt and a pair of slim-fit jeans that hugged his ass perfectly. Black chest hair rose around his loose collar. Teng’s monk sandals completed the look. As he walked, he noticed people looking at him and smiling, and he felt a sense of newfound confidence.

Teng stopped at a street vendor and bought a box of steaming hot baozi. He bit into one, relishing the flavor, and felt a sense of contentment wash over him. He took a deep breath through his wide nose and looked around at the bustling streets, filled with people and energy.

As he continued walking, he spotted Yan across the street, and his heart skipped a beat. Yan was dressed in a sharp business suit, and his eyes lit right up when he saw Teng. They smiled at each other and Teng crossed the street to meet him.

"Oh, my god," Yan said, savoring the peeks at Teng’s hairy body, and taking Teng's hand in his. "Are you a monk or a thirst trap?”

"What?" Teng replied, unfamiliar with the term and blushing slightly. "I'm just trying to find a balance, remember."

Yan grinned. "The balance is working for me!”

Teng smiled, feeling grateful for Yan's support. They continued walking, their hands still clasped, enjoying the sights and sounds of Chinatown together.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 8

Soaking at the Japanese bath house, Teng felt the stress of the week melt away from his body. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his wide nose, feeling the humid air fill his broad face, enjoying the quiet ambiance of the steamy room. Suddenly, a voice broke the silence.

"Excuse me, are you a monk?" The voice asked in Mandarin.

Teng opened his eyes and saw the handsome Asian man sitting beside him in the water with a friendly smile on his face.

"Yes," Teng replied, returning the smile, and giving a nod of his head. "My name is Teng."

"I'm Yan," the man said, returning the gesture.

They smiled and both settled back into the water.

"It's rare to see a monk around here," Yan commented.

"I'm not originally from here," Teng explained. "I've only been in London for a few months now."

"Ah, that makes sense," Yan nodded. "I thought I recognized you from the neighborhood. You shop in Chinatown, right?"

Teng chuckled. "Yes, it’s nice to meet someone who recognizes me."

They chatted for a while, discussing the benefits of meditation and the importance of mindfulness in everyday life. Teng was grateful for the conversation, feeling a sense of camaraderie with Yan as they talked about their shared cultural heritage, but Teng couldn’t help noticing his cock stirring within its heavy skin.

Teng covered himself with a hand, and tried to calm himself, but he could feel the sweat rolling down his bald head, into his eyes, and bushy, black eyebrows.

Teng and Yan spoke together in Mandarin, but Yan admitted that he couldn’t place Teng's accent. Teng told him that he was from a remote village, high in the mountains where not many outsiders go.

Yan said, “Ah, that must be why you're so hairy.”

Teng chuckled because it was true, in ways Yan couldn’t even realize, and for some reason the mention of his hairiness only made Teng’s cock harder.

Teng tried to remain calm as his cock grew beneath his hand, he said, "Living in the snowy mountains, there is no need for razors. It is a simple life."

Yan nodded, understandingly. "I envy that kind of simplicity. Life in the city can be so chaotic and overwhelming sometimes."

Teng nodded in agreement. "That is why I became a monk, to find peace and tranquility." Even if it was by accident, Teng admitted to himself, and even if he was currently failing at it.

Yan looked at Teng curiously. "You know, I have never met a monk before. What is it like?"

All this attention from the handsome, tattooed Yan, had gotten Teng’s cock so hard, the slightest movement would peel back the skin and expose his pink head to the warm water. Teng closed his eyes and tried to collect himself before replying.

"Being a monk is a daily practice of mindfulness and meditation. We strive to cultivate inner peace and wisdom, and to live a life of compassion and service to others." Teng could barely get the words out. The thick skin was slipping back on its own now, he could feel the warm water on his cock head, and he began to sweat even more.

Yan nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds like a noble pursuit. Maybe I should try it sometime."

Teng chuckled, thankful that Yan hadn’t noticed his situation, and that his hand kept himself covered.

"There is no need to become a monk to practice mindfulness and meditation. It can be incorporated into daily life, even in the midst of the city's chaos."

Even while hard in the baths.

The two men sat back in silence, and Teng focused on his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, until he felt his cock recede, the head slipping back into its thick hood, and then he was able to remove his hand, and wipe the sweat off his face.

As the time in the bath drew to a close, Yan thanked Teng for the conversation, both men feeling a little more at peace.

Teng and Yan exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up again for tea and further discussion on meditation. Teng left the bath feeling rejuvenated and grateful for the unexpected connection.

Later, Teng sat at his desk in his meditation studio, gazing out the window at the passing crowds below. He couldn't shake Yan from his mind, the handsome bearded man he had met at the baths a few days ago. He had been thinking about him ever since, the smooth skin, the tattoos. Teng unable to focus on much else.

Taking a deep breath, Teng decided to send Yan a message. He had fallen out of familiarity with modern technology, so much had changed in the years that he was gone, but pulled out his phone and composed a short message, inviting Yan to meet him for tea at a nearby tea house.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if Yan would even be interested in seeing him again, not only because he was a monk, and out of touch with society, but he was also bald and hairy now, not the attractive blonde he once was. Regardless, he decided to take the chance. He hit send and set his phone down on the desk, waiting anxiously for a response.

Several minutes passed, and Teng's nerves began to get the best of him. He wondered if he had made a mistake in reaching out to Yan, but then his phone buzzed with a new message.

It was Yan, accepting Teng's invitation and suggesting a time to meet. Teng's heart raced as he quickly replied, agreeing to meet up.

As he put away his phone, Teng couldn't help but feel excited and nervous at the prospect of seeing Yan again. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and went about the rest of his day with a renewed sense of energy.

Teng at Yan met at a tranquil Chinese tea house with an outdoor courtyard.

Teng had arrived at the tea house a little early and found a quiet spot in the courtyard to sit and meditate before Yan arrived. He felt a sense of calm and contentment as he centered himself, his thoughts focused on the present moment. After a few minutes, Yan arrived, looking sharp and put together in his business clothes. Teng stood up to greet him with a slight bow and a smile.

Teng was dressed in his monk robes, his black chest hair visible though the collar. Yan was on his lunch break and dressed sharply in his business attire, his tattoos hidden under his crisp white shirt.

"Hello, Yan. Thank you for meeting me here," Teng said.

"My pleasure,” Yan returned the bow respectfully. “I've never been to this tea house before. It's beautiful," Yan replied, taking a seat across from Teng.

They ordered their tea and sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, enjoying the serene ambiance of the courtyard. Teng couldn’t help but feel drawn to Yan's warm smile and kind eyes.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did you become a monk?" Yan asked, breaking the silence.

Teng took a deep breath through his broad nose before answering. "Several years ago, I was in a plane crash in the mountains of China, and I was the only survivor. I was rescued by monks in a remote village. They taught me about meditation and how to live a simple life. I found peace and purpose there, so I decided to stay and become a monk myself."

Yan listened intently, fascinated by Teng's story. "Wow, that's quite a journey. It's amazing that you found your calling in such a unique way."

Teng nodded. "Yes, it was a difficult and... transformative experience. But I'm grateful for it every day."

They chatted for a while longer, sipping their tea and discussing topics ranging from meditation to the best places to get dim sum in Chinatown. Teng could feel a connection growing between them, and he liked the way it made him feel. He could feel his cock beneath his robes beginning to stir again.

After their tea and conversation, Yan had to hurry back to the office. Teng lingered in the courtyard, trying to understand why the handsome Yan got him so excited.

The next day, Teng walked through the bustling streets of Chinatown, his shopping basket in hand. The sun was shining, and the air was thick with the smell of Chinese food. As he passed the familiar shops and vendors, his thoughts turned to Yan.

He couldn't stop thinking about their meeting at the tea house. Teng had enjoyed Yan's company, and the conversation had flowed easily between them. But Teng was conflicted. As a monk, he had taken a vow of celibacy and had devoted his life to meditation and spiritual practice. He wasn't sure how a relationship would fit into his monk lifestyle.

Teng sighed and looked down at his basket. He needed to focus on his shopping and not let his thoughts wander. He walked into the vegetable market and began to browse the fresh produce.

As he picked out some bok choy and broccoli, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see Yan again. The thought made his heart ache, but he pushed it aside and focused on the task at hand. He paid for his groceries and walked back to his studio, hoping that his meditation practice would help him find clarity on his feelings for Yan.

Later that afternoon, after teaching at his studio, Teng checked his phone and found he had received messages from Yan inviting him out for dim sum. Teng knew then that Yan must have feelings for him too, and Teng's heart swelled.

Teng felt his heart flutter with excitement as he re-read Yan's messages. Teng was thrilled at the prospect of spending more time with Yan, however, he was also conflicted as to how to approach this new relationship, as it went against the traditional ways of his monk lifestyle.

Teng took a deep breath and reminded himself that life was meant to be lived, and that he deserved to experience the joys of love and companionship. With renewed confidence, he quickly responded to Yan's message, accepting his invitation.

As he made his way to the restaurant, Teng felt a mix of nervousness and excitement. He wondered what the future held for him and Yan, and whether their relationship could survive the expectations of his monk lifestyle. But for now, he was content to enjoy the moment and see where their connection took them.

Teng arrived at the stylish dim sum restaurant right on time. But this time, Teng left the robes at home, and wore something less formal: a tight gray t-shirt that showed off his broad upper body and hard muscles. His thick black chest hair was visible around his collar, and his hairy arms were on display. He wore fitted black jeans that showed off his thick thighs and backside, but he wore his monk sandals, because they are the most comfortable.

Yan was waiting out front, dressed in his crisp business clothes, as usual. He seemed surprised and delighted by Teng's look.

Teng explained with a broad smile, “Sometimes I’m not a monk, I’m just a regular, Asian man out enjoying his life.”

"I hear that," Yan said, looking at Teng with newfound admiration.

They both sat down at the table, and Yan ordered their dim sum dishes, chatting with Teng about his life as a businessman. Teng listened intently, fascinated by Yan's stories of corporate life and the challenges he faced as an Asian man in corporate society.

Teng said, “I’d rather be a monk in the mountains than work for a corporation.”

Yan laughed and nodded, admiring Teng's confidence and ease with his monk identity.

As they enjoyed their dim sum, they talked about their lives and passions. And Teng learned that, yes, Yan was a successful businessman, but he dreamed of opening his own bakery someday, and getting out of the corporate world. Teng was intrigued and listened intently as Yan described his vision for a modern twist on traditional Chinese desserts.

Teng couldn’t help but feel the connection growing between them, as they enjoyed their meal. He knew that he wanted to be with Yan, but he was unsure of how to navigate this new territory while still maintaining his identity as a monk.

"Yan, what do you think about my being a monk?" Teng asked, looking into Yan's dark eyes.

"I think it's admirable. You have a dedication to your spiritual practice that is rare these days. But I also see the other side of you now, the man who enjoys life and all it has to offer. I don't think the two are mutually exclusive." Yan looked at Teng thoughtfully.

Teng smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over him, he’d been unsure about dressing this way, and shoing off his body, but for some reason, he’d wanted to attract Yan’s attention.

"Thank you," Teng said, his heart racing with excitement.

As they finished their meal, Yan suggested they take a walk around the colorful streets of Chinatown. Teng agreed, feeling the excitement of the city pulsating around him.

When they stepped out of the restaurant, Yan took Teng's wide, calloused hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I really enjoy spending time with you, Teng," he said softly.

Teng felt his heart skip a beat, and he couldn’t help but smile back at Yan. "I feel the same way.”

And with that, they continued their evening in Chinatown, hand in hand, both feeling a sense of joy and contentment that they hadn't felt in a long time.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 7

As Teng goes about his new life as a bald, bearded monk in the remote Chinese mountain village, he comes to realize his true calling: to take what he has learned of meditation and spread it to the outside world through teaching. He finally decides to return to England and establish a meditation studio.

Teng gathers the other monks in the meditation hall to share his decision with them. He stands before them, feeling both nervous and excited, and begins to speak.

"My brothers," he begins, "I have come to a realization. I have been blessed with the opportunity to live amongst you, to learn your ways, and to grow as a person. But now, I feel that it is time for me to return to the outside world and share the knowledge I have gained."

The other monks look at him with surprise and curiosity, but Teng continues.

"I have decided to establish a meditation studio in England. It will be a place where people can come to learn the techniques and practices that have changed my life. I believe that the world needs this now more than ever."

The other monks nod, impressed by Teng's conviction and dedication.

"But I do not leave without reluctance," Teng admits. "I will miss this place, and all of you. You have become my family, and I will always cherish the time we spent together."

The shaman steps forward and smiles warmly at Teng.

"You are always welcome here, Teng," he says. "Your journey has only just begun, and we will continue to support you in any way we can."

Teng nods, feeling a sense of gratitude and appreciation for his newfound family. As he prepares to leave, he knows that he will carry a piece of this place with him wherever he goes.

Teng's first obstacle appears rather quickly, as he makes his arrangements to leave, he realizes his old documents and identification will no longer work, they have either expired or no longer match his physical description, plus, everyone assumes he is dead!

So, instead, as he can no longer travel as his old self, the monks help him apply for refugee status, as an oppressed, religious minority. Teng is not sure how he feels about becoming a refugee in the country where he grew up, but if that's what it takes to return, he will do it.

First, he must establish an entirely new identity. He takes the name Teng Zhao, and prepares his paperwork, somewhat conflicted about presenting in his new identity as a monk. If he were still his old self, returning to England would not be a problem, but he has become a bald, hairy Asian man in order to survive in the mountains with the monks.

As Teng sat cross-legged in his small hut, surrounded by stacks of paperwork and documents, he felt overwhelmed by the task. The monks had helped him apply as much as they could, but he still had to provide personal details and fill out numerous forms.

He took a deep breath, carefully writing in his new name for the perhaps hundredth time, Teng Zhao.

As he worked on the forms, memories of his old life flooded back to him, and he couldn't help but feel conflicted about his decision to leave his life as a monk in China, as much as he missed his old life, his family and friends, the familiarity of the culture and language.

But he knew that his time with the monks had given him a new calling. He had learned so much about meditation and inner peace, and he wanted to share that knowledge with others through teaching.

Finally, after hours of filling out forms, Teng completed his application. Despite his initial doubts, Teng found that the process of gathering evidence and preparing his case was a deeply rewarding experience. He felt proud of the person he had become, and he realized that his journey truly had given him a unique perspective on life.

He felt a sense of relief, but also a sense of loss. He knew that his old identity was gone forever, and that he was embarking on a new journey, as Teng Zhao, a bald, hairy monk from China.

Eventually, after months of waiting, Teng was granted refugee status and allowed to return to England!

On his final morning, he looked around his small hut, feeling grateful for the time he had spent in the mountains with the monks. But he also knew that it was time for him to move on, to share his newfound knowledge with the world.

He took a deep breath, gathered his things, and left the hut, ready to say his goodbyes and begin his journey back to England.

Teng stood nervously on the wide snowy field, waiting for the plane to arrive, and clutching his documents tightly in his hands. It had been a long and arduous process, but he could finally fly to London and start his new life.

Teng couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension. At long last, he was going home, even though he had become another person in order to be able to do so. Would he be able to adapt to life in England after living as a monk in the remote mountains of China for so long? Would his new identity as Teng Zhao, a refugee from China, be enough to start a new life?

As he boarded the small plane, Teng took a deep breath and reminded himself of the shaman's words. He had a unique perspective on the world that could help him in his new life. And with that, Teng settled into his seat, ready to embark on his next adventure.

Hours and hours later, after swapping flights, and shuffling through foreign airports, Teng stepped off the plane and breathed in the mild London air. He had returned, but everything was different now.

He looked down at his robes, his black beard, and his hairy arms, a stark contrast to the other travelers around him. He knew that people may judge him or look upon him strangely, but he was at peace with himself and the life he had chosen.

As he walked through the airport, he noticed the stares and the whispers from the other travelers, many seeing a bald, bearded monk for the first time. Some were curious, others were amused. But Teng simply smiled and continued walking with confidence.

He knew that in his heart, he was a monk, a teacher, and a master of meditation. He had spent years perfecting his craft, learning from the wise elders in the remote mountain village of China. He knew that his physical appearance was not what defined him, but rather his inner peace and wisdom.

As he settled into his new life, finding an apartment and a place to work, in the bustling city of London, Teng's calm, and grace drew people towards him. He attracted curious minds and troubled souls, all seeking the peace and serenity that he embodied.

And so, one day, Teng opened up his meditation studio, and began to share his knowledge and teachings with anyone who was willing to listen.

Despite the challenges he faced in a foreign land, Teng remained steadfast in his belief that inner peace could be achieved by anyone, no matter their background or physical appearance. He continued to spread his message of mindfulness and meditation, bringing tranquility to the busy city of London, one person at a time.

One day, I n his usual manner, Teng sat cross-legged at the front of the meditation studio, surrounded by his students. Soft instrumental music played in the background, filling the room with a calming atmosphere. Teng closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

"Focus on your breath," Teng said in a soft, steady voice. "Inhale deeply, and exhale slowly."

The students followed his instructions, their eyes closed as they breathed deeply. Teng continued to guide them through their meditation practice, his voice soothing and reassuring.

"Allow your thoughts to come and go," Teng said. "Do not hold onto them or judge them. Simply observe them, and then let them pass."

The students nodded and continued their practice, their breathing slow and steady. Teng sat in silence for a few moments, allowing them to fully immerse themselves in their meditation.

"As we finish our practice today, take a moment to thank yourself for showing up and giving yourself this time to breathe and be present," Teng said.

The students slowly opened their eyes and sat quietly for a few moments before standing up and thanking Teng for the practice. Teng smiled and bowed, grateful for the opportunity to share his knowledge of meditation with others.

In this space, Teng felt a sense of belonging, even though he was still navigating his new identity as a monk and a refugee. He appreciated the opportunity to be amongst other Asian men, who did not see him as an outsider.

The following day, Teng walked through the bustling streets of Chinatown, weaving his way through the crowds of people, dressed in his robes, with his bald head and black beard. As he approached his usual vegetable stand, the vendor bowed respectfully to him, a sign of the reverence he commanded as a monk.

Teng smiled and returned the bow, feeling a sense of belonging in this new community. He picked out his vegetables and continued down the street, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling neighborhood.

As he walked, he noticed a group of young Chinese immigrants watching him with curiosity. They whispered to each other and giggled, but Teng paid them no mind. He had grown accustomed to being a source of fascination to outsiders, even to other Chinese, but he had learned to embrace his identity as a monk and the sense of peace and calm it brought him.

Teng made his way back to his studio, where his students were waiting for him. They greeted him warmly, bowing respectfully as he entered the room. Teng smiled and returned the gesture, feeling a sense of gratitude for the opportunity to share his knowledge of meditation with others.

When Teng finished his afternoon meditation class, he packed his bag with a change of clothes and headed to the Japanese style baths a few blocks away. He knew he needed to relax and unwind after a long day of teaching.

Upon arriving, Teng removed his shoes and exchanged them for a pair of wooden sandals provided by the establishment. He paid his entry fee and received a small towel to cover himself.

Teng took a deep breath as he stepped into the hot, steamy Japanese-style bathhouse. The sound of running water and soft chatter filled the air. He felt a sense of comfort as he saw other Asian men, some of whom were also bald and bearded like him.

As he entered the bathing area, Teng noticed the steam rising from the hot pools and the quiet murmur of other men chatting. He walked to a corner of the room where the showers were, and removed his clothes, folding them neatly on the shelf provided.

As he sat down on a wooden stool to begin his ritual of washing, he couldn't help but take stock of his physical changes. Looking down at his hairy chest and legs, he noted how much he had changed since his days as Nick, the Asian contours of his face, and of course, there was his smokey brown foreskin too. He had grown accustomed to his new body and identity as Teng Zhao, but there were moments when he felt a sense of detachment from it all.

He gave the brown snout on his cock a pull as he washed. He couldn’t even remember his old, circumcised cock, the sensations he used to feel from being cut were long gone. Even the thought that he had once been circumcised seem odd and somewhat incredible to him now.

Teng stepped into the hot pool and sighed with pleasure. The heat relaxed his muscles, and he closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. He felt a sense of peace wash over him as he listened to the soothing sounds of the water.

When he opened his eyes, Teng noted the other Asian men around him, all ages, shapes, and sizes. There was something about being surrounded by others who looked like him that made him feel at ease. They all seemed to be enjoying the peace and quiet of the baths.

He closed his eyes and let the warm water rinse away his thoughts, focusing on the sensation of the water on his hairy skin. He took slow, deep breaths, the familiar rhythm of meditation calming his mind.

Teng heard a soft splash as another man entered the bath near him, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a handsome, uncut Asian man with a thick beard and tattoos covering his arms. The man smiled at Teng and nodded in greeting, and Teng returned the gesture.

As Teng soaked in the hot water, he felt a sense of peace wash over him. He knew he had come a long way since his days as Nick, and although he had left behind much of his past life, he was content with the man he had become.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 6

Teng's old life weighs heavily on his mind, but he decides that he is not quite ready to leave the mountain village just yet. He wants to continue his spiritual journey with the monks and see where it takes him. Why else would he go through all these changes otherwise?

But he decides that he will write a letter to his family, letting them know that he is safe and well, and telling them about the incredible experiences he has had in China.

And who knows? Maybe one day he will return to England, a new, different person, and share his newfound wisdom and inner peace with his loved ones.

Teng sat down at the small wooden desk in his room, a piece of parchment and a pencil in front of him. He had been thinking about writing a letter home for a while now, but every time he tried, he found himself struggling to remember the words in English. It had been so long since he had spoken or thought in his native language.

He took a deep breath and tried to recall the basic structure of a letter. "To family," he started, but immediately felt a sense of unease. Was that the right way to begin a letter? He couldn't remember. He stared at the parchment for a few moments before putting the pencil down and leaning back in his chair.

Teng rubbed his temples, trying to think back to his life before he became a monk in this remote Chinese village. It all felt so distant, like a dream he had once had. He wondered if his family still remembered him or if they had assumed he was dead.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, focusing on his breathing as he had been taught by the other monks. After a few minutes, he felt more centered and tried again to write the letter. This time, he started with "My dear family," and felt a small sense of accomplishment.

But as he continued to write, he realized that his English was clumsy and stilted. He struggled to find the right words and phrases to express himself, and he knew that even if he did manage to write a letter, it would never capture the depth of his experiences over the past year.

Teng put down the pencil again and sighed. He feared that he had changed too much to ever fully go back to his old life and he knew his family would never recognize him even if he did return home. Yes, he had found a new place here among the monks, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness and longing for the life he had left behind.

Teng sought out the shaman one evening after finishing his chores in the monastery, and he found the old man sitting outside his hut, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.

"Teng, my boy," the shaman greeted him warmly. "What brings you here tonight?"

Teng hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to voice his feelings. "I feel...homesick, shaman," he finally managed to say. "I miss my family and friends in England. I wonder if they even know I'm alive."

The shaman puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, considering Teng's words. "It is natural to miss one's home and loved ones," he said eventually. "But dwelling on it too much can lead to a sadness that poisons the soul. You must find a way to make peace with your past and focus on the present."

"I don't know how to do that," Teng admitted, feeling frustrated.

The shaman smiled. "There is a meditation that I can teach you, one that I have used myself when I have felt lost or disconnected. It may help you find the answers you seek."

Teng leaned forward, eager to learn. The shaman began to explain the meditation technique, which involved sitting quietly and focusing on one's breath while visualizing a connection to the earth and all living things. Teng listened carefully, eager to try it out.

Teng sat down across from the shaman, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. The shaman closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Teng followed suit.

Together, they focused on their breath, letting their thoughts drift away. Teng could feel the weight of his homesickness lifting as he entered a state of deep relaxation.

As they meditated, Teng could hear the sounds of the village around them - the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the distant chatter of the other monks. But as he continued to focus on his breath, those sounds faded into the background.

After what felt like an eternity, the shaman opened his eyes and sensing a change, Teng followed suit. They sat there in silence for a moment, still feeling the effects of the meditation.

Finally, the shaman spoke. "Do not be afraid of your homesickness, Teng. It is a natural feeling when one is far from home. But remember, home is not just a physical place. It is a feeling, a state of mind. And you can carry that feeling with you, no matter where you go."

Teng nodded, feeling grateful for the shaman's words. He realized that he didn't need to go back to England to find his sense of home. He could find it right here, among the other monks and the beautiful nature of the Chinese mountains.

"Thank you, shaman," Teng said, feeling a sense of peace wash over him.

The shaman smiled. "You are welcome, Teng. Remember to keep meditating, and you will find the answers you seek."

As he left the shaman's hut and made his way back to the monastery, Teng felt a small glimmer of hope. Perhaps the meditation would help him find the peace he was looking for and help him continue to embrace his new identity as Teng, the hairy, bearded, Asian monk.

Teng had been living in the village for over a year now, and he had grown to love the simple life of the monks. The daily routines of meditation, herb gathering, and communal living had become second nature to him and he appreciated the sense of peace and purpose it had given him.

But one day, a stranger arrived at the village, accompanied by a Chinese guide. The man introduced himself as an investigator and explained that he was searching for information about a plane crash that had occurred in the area over a year ago. Teng felt a knot form in his stomach as he realized that the investigator was looking for him. So, he hadn’t been forgotten about! Or rather, Nick, his old self, hadn’t been.

But what was Teng supposed to say? No one would believe he was Nick now, and the changes were too impossible to explain to outsiders.

"It was a small twin-engine plane, with a single pilot," the investigator said, searching the monks’ faces for a clue.

Despite the other monks’ reservations, Teng spoke out and in his awkward, broken English, told the investigator that the pilot was dead, that the monks tried to save him, but his wounds were too great.

The investigator was taken aback by Teng's sudden revelation. He eyed Teng curiously, taking in the full extent of his appearance, the beard, the bald head, the black hair through the collar of his robes. There was no possible way he would suspect Teng was Nick. Plus the monks stood resolutely by Teng's side and refused to disclose any further information about the crash.

The investigator looked at Teng with some suspicion, however, and asked, "How do you know the pilot is dead? Did you see the crash?"

Teng took a deep breath and explained, to the best of his abilities now, that he had been on the plane too. He alone survived the crash.

Furthermore, he had proof of the pilot's death. Teng went to his hut and collected a few of his old clothes, clothes he had been keeping, although he didn't understand why.

Teng felt a strange mix of relief and fear as he handed over his old clothes to the investigator, they were from another time, back when he was Nick, and he hadn't worn them in a year. He could sense the man's suspicion, and he wondered what would happen if he were to be discovered as an imposter, as impossible as it seemed.

The foreign investigator looked at Teng skeptically. "This is all that's left of him? And who are you?"

Teng took another breath, trying to steady himself. "I am Teng," he said, his accent thick. He said no more.

Teng looked down at the tattered clothes he had given the investigator. They were all that remained of his old life as Nick, a bittersweet reminder of who he used to be, and of the life he had left behind.

The investigator continued to scrutinize Teng, perhaps sensing that there was more to the story. But the other monks stood resolutely behind Teng, their bearded faces calm and unrevealing.

Finally, the investigator sighed and nodded. "Very well. I suppose we'll have to take your word for it. Thank you for your cooperation."

As the investigator and his guide departed, Teng breathed a sigh of relief. He had been so nervous, but he knew that he couldn't risk revealing his true identity. The monks had become his family, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing them.

Later, during their meditation, Teng sat cross-legged in the temple with the other monks, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. The shaman had lit incense, and the fragrant smoke wafted around the room, creating a calming atmosphere.

As he meditated, Teng couldn't help but think about the foreign investigator's visit. His heart had raced when the man had asked about the plane crash, and he had felt a strong fear that some mistake would his true identity. But the other monks had protected him, and he knew it was for the best to keep his transformation hidden.

But now, as he sat in the temple, he realized that his old life was truly dead. He was no longer Nick, the clean-shaven, thrill-seeking pilot from England. He was Teng, a hairy, bearded, Asian monk living in a remote Chinese mountain village.

The realization hit him hard, and he felt a pang of homesickness. He still missed his old life, his friends, his family. He wondered if they would move on with their lives, now that he was officially dead. A part of him hoped so.

As he continued to meditate, the shaman's words echoed in his mind: "The past is gone. The future is uncertain. All we have is the present moment." Teng focused on those words, tried to let go of his worries and fears, and allow himself to be fully present in the moment. His past was gone. His old self, Nick, was gone.

When the meditation was over, Teng stood up and bowed to the shaman and the other monks. As he left the temple and stepped out into the fresh air, he felt a lightness in his step that he hadn't felt in a while.

A few days later, Teng was called to the temple to meet the shaman.

Teng sat cross-legged, listening intently. The shaman had a way of speaking that always seemed to calm Teng's mind and bring him back to the present moment.

"You are special, Teng," the shaman said, his eyes gazing off into the distance. "You are the only one of us who has seen the outside world. You have experienced things that we can only imagine."

Teng frowned, unsure of what the shaman meant. "But I am just like everyone else here now," he said. "I have become a monk, like you and the others."

The shaman smiled gently. "Yes, you have embraced our way of life, and that is admirable, and the mountain has given you our physical traits, but you are still different. Your experiences have shaped you in a unique way. You bring a perspective that we do not have."

Teng sat in silence, considering the shaman's words. He had never thought of himself as particularly special before. He had always felt like just another lost soul, trying to find his way in the world.

"I don't know what to do with this knowledge," Teng said finally, breaking the silence.

The shaman smiled knowingly.  "You don't have to do anything with it," he said. "Just know that your experiences have given you a gift, a way of seeing the world that is different from anyone else's. Embrace that gift and use it to help others."

Teng nodded slowly, his mind still trying to process the shaman's words. But somehow, he felt a sense of peace settle over him, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a purpose, something that he could use to make a difference in the outside world.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 5

Nick woke the next morning feeling groggy and disoriented from the patches he had put over his eyes. He slowly removed them and blinked a few times to adjust to the light. As he opened his eyes fully, he was stunned by what he saw.

Looking back at him in the small mirror by his bed was a face he hardly recognized. He looked Asian, just like one of the bearded monks! His brown eyes were now hooded and almond-shaped, with a slight upward tilt, and his nose had a flatter bridge than before. His cheekbones seemed higher, his lips were fuller, and his jawline was more defined, even with his thick beard. Nick's first reaction was one of shock and disbelief.

He touched his face, feeling the new angles and contours, the high cheekbones, and the wide, flat nose. He ran his fingers through his hair, now jet black and straight, and marveled at the way it fell across his eyes and forehead.

At first, Nick felt a sense of loss for the face and features he had grown up with, but as he looked at himself more closely, he began to see the masculine beauty in his new appearance. He realized that this change was a reflection of the larger transformation he had undergone since arriving in the village - a physical manifestation of the inner growth and enlightenment he had experienced through his time with the monks.

He quickly jumped out of bed, pulling on a robe over his broad hairy chest and body, and running outside to find the other monks. They greeted him warmly, but they too were taken aback by his new appearance. They remarked on how handsome he looked with his new eyes, but Nick couldn’t help but feel a little unsettled by it all.

As he went about his day, anxious for the Chinese officials to arrive, he caught glimpses of himself in the reflective surfaces around the village. He found it difficult to look away, studying his new face and trying to come to terms with his new almond eyes, but also his wide nose, his cheekbones, his thick black beard, all of them together. At times, he felt as though he was looking at a stranger, not himself. He still missed his old life, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny that there was something alluring about this new way of living, and the new person he was becoming.

As the day wore on, Nick slowly began to accept his new appearance, understanding that it's just another step in his transformation. He realized that he had come too far to turn back now anyway, and he was not sure he would want to. With a deep breath, he let go of his doubts and allowed himself to embrace this new life, including his new Asian eyes and face.

That evening, the Chinese officials arrived in the village, and was greeted by the shaman and a group of bearded monks, including Nick. As they approached, the officials looked at each monk carefully, taking note of their features, dress, and behavior. Nick stood confidently amongst the other monks as the Chinese officials looked them over.

One of the officials stepped forward, his questioning gaze falling on Nick. "And who are you?" he asked in Mandarin.

Nick felt a wave of nervousness wash over him, but he kept his cool. "I am Teng, sir," he replied, also in Mandarin, exactly as practiced, his accent perfect, thanks to the monks' rigorous language training.

"You have been here a long time," the official says, "since you were a child?"

Teng nods. "Yes, since I was very young. I have grown up here among these wise and holy men."

Teng notices the look of disdain on their faces as they observe the hairy faces and bodies of the monks. He realizes that to these Chinese officials, the monks' hairiness sets them apart as different, almost like outsiders themselves.

But instead of feeling ashamed, Teng's pride in his new beard and hairiness swells within him. He thinks of the transformation he underwent, how he changed from a smooth and relatively hairless blonde man to one covered in straight black hair, and how he had initially felt out of place amongst the bearded and hairy monks when he arrived. But now, he feels such a sense of belonging and acceptance amongst them.

Teng stands tall and proud, fully embracing his new identity as one of the bearded, hairy monks. He knows that he has found a new family in the monastery, and he will do whatever it takes to protect and defend them, even if it means standing up to the judgment of others.

The officials ask Teng and the other monks a few more questions, but they seem satisfied with the answers they receive. They inspect the monastery and the surrounding areas before collecting their taxes and leaving, never suspecting that Teng is not who he claims to be.

Teng felt thankful to have been rescued by these men, and for all the changes he had undergone since arriving in the village, from growing a beard and black hair on his body to regrowing his foreskin, and even, finally, changing the shape of his eyes.

After the officials depart, Teng takes a deep breath and turns to the other monks. They all smile at him warmly. He had done it. He had convinced the officials that he was just another bearded, hairy monk in the village. No one suspected that he was an outsider.

Soaring with pride, Teng slipped a hand into his robes, and rubbed his chest, feeling the thick, straight black hair that covered him. It was so different from his old body, but he loved it.

The villagers gathered around the monks, congratulating them on their successful deception. Teng felt pride swell within him as he looked at their smiling faces. He had proven himself, not just to the officials but also to the people of the village.

As the night went on, the villagers and monks feasted on a large meal, celebrating their victory. Teng ate with them, enjoying the food and the company. He looked around at the people around him, and he felt like he had found a home. Teng knew that he would never forget where he came from, but for now, he was content with his new life.

As the night wore on, Teng retired to his small room in the monastery, feeling tired but happy. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, feeling content and at peace.

But the next morning, as Teng slowly opens his eyes, he feels a weight on his chest, a heavy feeling that seems to drag him down. He looks around the room and takes in his surroundings. He is still in the same hut where he has been living with the monks, surrounded by their possessions, but everything seems different now.

The weight on his chest is not physical, but emotional. Teng fears that he has gone too far in his quest for transformation. He has allowed himself to be transformed into something he never thought would be possible. He has turned into a hairy, uncut Asian man, all to fit in with the monks and their way of life. But for what?

Teng sits up, rubbing his eyes and looking around the room. He can see himself in the mirror on the wall, and he can't help but stare at the reflection looking back at him. He runs his fingers through his straight, black hair and touches his face, now distinctly Asian.

He also opens his pants and looks down at his new brown foreskin and feels mixed emotions. He remembers feeling embarrassed when the other monks first noticed it growing, and now it's a part of him, something he can’t easily get rid of, a symbol of his transformation, despite the pleasure it can bring.

Teng takes a deep breath and tries to calm his racing thoughts. He reminds himself that this was his choice, and that he wanted to become a part of this community. He wanted to learn from the monks and become a part of their culture. He was thankful for the knowledge he had gained and the relationships he had formed. He would be dead if the monks had not rescued him.

But Teng also can't help but wonder if he has gone too far, if he has lost himself in this transformation. Will ever be able to go back to his old life should he want to?

He gets up and starts his daily routine, hoping that the peace and serenity he has found with the monks will help him find his way forward. Teng knows he needs time to process his thoughts and feelings.

As the days passed, Teng continued to live and work amongst the monks, taking part in their daily routines and spiritual practices. Meditation became a crucial part of his day, and he found that it helped him come to terms with his new identity.

Although he still longed for home, and the life he left behind, the weight of his transformation no longer sat quite as heavily on him, and he began to embrace his new identity as a hairy, uncut Asian man. He took pride in the changes that had taken place in his body, feeling strong and powerful with each passing day. His transformation was not something to be feared but something to be celebrated. A gift from the mountains!

Teng also found solace in the close-knit community of the monks. He had formed strong bonds with many of them and had come to see them as his family. They accepted him as well, and he felt like he truly belonged among them.

Teng became an important member of the community. He helped the villagers with their daily tasks, shared what he learned about the herbs and plants of the mountains, and even assisted the shaman with his healing practices.

As time went on, Teng rarely though about the changes to his body any more, the hair, the foreskin, the eyes, they had become second nature, as normal as his daily routine, but Teng had noticed, with some disappointment, that his hairline was slowly receding, and he knew what that meant. He was balding. He had seen other hairy men go bald, as seemed to be the natural way of things. And while he wasn’t thrilled about this new, however predictable, change, he didn't want to hold onto his hair and have it look thin and patchy either, so he decided to shave it all off.

He sat in the sun outside the temple and with everything he needed ready, he began to shave his head, feeling the warm sun on his newly exposed scalp.

As he shaved, he noted how much he had changed physically since he arrived at the monastery. His beard was thick and bushy, his body was covered in a coat of straight black hair, his almond shaped eyes were dark and hooded, and beneath his robes, he now had a smokey brown foreskin.

Teng thought back to when he first arrived and how unsure he was about all the changes happening to him. It had all seemed so impossible to Nick, the blonde English pilot. But now, he had become one with the monks and the mountain village, a hairy, bearded Asian man. He was Teng.

As he finished shaving his head, Teng felt a sense of liberation. He was shedding his old self and embracing his new identity. He smiled at himself in the small hand mirror, his eyes like crescents, his beard black and full, his head now smooth and shining in the sun, with just the shadow of black hair around the sides.

Teng found that his new appearance and way of life amongst the monks brought him a sense of peace and purpose that he had never experienced before. He no longer felt the need to constantly strive for success or compare himself to others. He was content with simply being in the present moment and living a simple, humble life.

But, as he went about his daily routine, Teng could not shake the feeling of longing he continued to have for his old life. He missed the familiar sights and sounds of London, the taste of his favorite foods, and the comfort of his old bed. He longed to see his family and friends again and tell them all about his incredible journey.

Teng spends many long hours meditating and contemplating his desire to return home to England. He thinks about his old life there and wonders what has become of everyone he knew. He wonders if they are still searching for him or if they have given up hope.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 4

While Nick was helping the monks with their chores, shoveling snow at the temple, and chopping firewood, enjoying the chillly air against his thick beard, he couldn't resist the urge to take a quick look at the changes growing in his pants. To his chagrin, he saw that his foreskin had indeed grown even more, covering a significant portion of the head now, and looking rather dark. Nick couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort and apprehension.

He tried to ignore his anxiety and continue with his daily routine, but every time Nick thought of poultice on his penis, he was reminded of the changes that were taking place and he couldn't help but feel like he was becoming a stranger in his own body.

Nick decided to confront the shaman about his concerns, afterall, it was the shaman who put the poultice on his cock to begin with. The shaman listened patiently, and calmly explained to Nick the benefits of having a foreskin. The shaman said it pained him, and the other monks, to see Nick's body so damaged, and they simply wanted him to experience the rich range of sensations a healthy, intact body could offer.

"But what if I don't like it?" Nick ask, a look of concern on his braod, bearded face.

The shaman gave Nick a wise and knowing smile, but said no more.

Despite the shaman's reassurances, Nick was still unsure about the changes. He wondered how he would adapt to having a foreskin and how it may impact him in the future. Was he really going to live with it on his cock for the rest of his life?

At the same time, he knew that he was in good hands with the monks and he trusted that they were helping him to become the best version of himself.

Nick woke up one day and immediately sensed a change in his body. He could feel the weight of the newly grown foreskin on his penis. Pulling back the blankets, he looked down and saw the smokey brown color of the skin that now covered the head of his cock. He took a deep breath and tried to process the changes that had taken place over the past few weeks.

As he took stock of his body, he noted that his skin was darker, his hair was black and thick, his eyes an unfamiliar brown, and his muscles had grown more defined. His shoulders were broader, and his chest was covered in a thick layer of straight black hair. His legs had grown thicker and shorter, giving him a stouter appearance. His face had also changed, with a wider and flatter nose and sharper jawline beneath his rich black beard.

Nick stood up, feeling slightly dizzy from the changes, and looked around the room. Everything was the same, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was no longer the same person he was when he first arrived in the village. He felt strong, powerful, and alive. But he also felt like he was losing himself in the process.

He looked down at his penis with its newly regrown foreskin, the smokey brown hood covering the head. He reached down to touch it and felt the soft, sensitive skin beneath his fingers. He slipped a finger into the puckered opening, and felt a jolt of pleasure as he touched the sensative head underneath.

He lifted his cock with its newly grown foreskin, and while he had been apprehensive before, he couldn't help but feel curious now. He tentatively ran a thumb over the veins on the smokey brown hood and felt a new sensation as the skin moved over the head of his penis. He was surprised at how soft and alive it felt, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement.

He tried to pull the foreskin back all the way, but it was attached underneath to the head by a frenulum now, just like a natural foreskin, and it didn't want to retract all the way. And he was too apprehensive to force it. What if he damaged it somehow. Was that possible?

Nick took a deep breath and tried to shake off his nevousness. He got dressed and stepped out to meet the other monks for their morning meditation. As he walked, he could feel the soft snout of his foreskin rubbing against his underwear, and he couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable. He wondered how he would ever adjust to having a foreskin after being circumcised for so long.

During the meditation, Nick tried to focus on his breathing, but his mind kept wandering. He thought about who he used to be, and who he was becoming. He wondered if he would ever be able to go back to his old life, or if he would be stuck in this new body forever, with its black hair and foreskin.

After the meditation, the monks gathered for breakfast, bread made of barley, yak butter, and tea. Nick tried to push his thoughts aside and enjoy the meal, but he couldn't help but feel like a changed man. The monks, once so physically different from him, with their hair and thick beards, now seemed familiar as he had developed those same traits too.

As the day went on, Nick tried to keep busy with his work and with learning the ways of the monks. He tried not to focus on the changes to his body, but they were always there, the breeze in his beard, the hair rustling under his robes, the snout of his new foreskin against his underwear, constant reminders of who he was becoming. He felt like he was losing himself in the process, and he was not sure if he liked the quiet, medatative person he was becoming.

Nick knew that he had a lot to think about, and he was not sure where to go from here, if anywhere. He knew that he couldnt go back to his old life, but he was not sure if he wanted to stay here in the village forever either. He needed time to process everything and figure out who he was becoming.

As the group of men took a break from their herb gathering, Nick slipped away to relieve himself in a nearby bush. Nick tried to position behind a tree, hoping to hide the newly grown foreskin from the others. But it was no use, the men noticed the change and stared in amazement.

One of the monks, a particularly jovial man, pointed at Nick's penis and exclaimed, "Ha! Look, his skin grew back!"

Nick blushed deeply and tried to cover himself. He still couldn't believe that the poultice had actually worked and he had grown a foreskin, something he never even wanted in the first place.

"Is it weird?" Nick asked, feeling self-conscious.

The monks all chuckled, and one of them, an older man with a wise expression, stepped forward. "It is not weird, my friend. It is natural. It is a part of our bodies for a reason."

Nick wasn't convinced, but he didn't want to offend the men who had taken care of him and taught him so much. He simply nodded and pulled up his pants, still feeling a sense of unease about who he was becoming.

Later, Nick sat amongst the monks in meditation, contemplating the changes he had undergone since arriving in the village. He thought about his newly regrown, brown foreskin and sighed, still feeling a bit embarrassed about it. But as he meditated over it some more, he realized that it is just one more step in his journey to becoming one of them.

He looked up at the monks around him, feeling grateful for their guidance and teachings. He had grown so much physically, mentally, and spiritually since arriving in the village. He had learned their language, their customs, their ways of living off the land. And he had come to respect and appreciate their deep spiritual connection to nature.

Nick took a deep breath through his wine nose and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his broad, tanned face and the cool breeze rustling through the trees tickling his thick, black beard and mustache, the chest hair in his open collar. He was grateful for this moment of peace and clarity, and he knew that he is exactly where he needs to be. As he opened his eyes, he saw the monks smiling at him, and he smiled back.

He may have never wanted a foreskin, but he knew now that it was just a physical manifestation of the deeper changes that are happening within him. He was becoming more connected to his body, to nature, and to the people around him. And he was grateful for every step of this journey, no matter how unexpected or uncomfortable it may be.

As Nick continued to adjust to his new life as a monk, he found that he was becoming more comfortable with his physical changes, including his new foreskin. He had always prided himself on being a man who was in control of his body, daring, and a thrill-seeker, but now he was having to learn to let go of that control, relax, and allow his body to change and grow as it needed to.

At first, he had been hesitant to explore his new dark foreskin, finding it gross and dirty, something he never wanted, but as time went on, he found that he was becoming more curious about it. He would spend long periods of time in meditation, focusing on the sensations that he was experiencing as he touched and explored his new body.

As he grew more comfortable with his foreskin, Nick found that he was also becoming more comfortable with his new identity as a monk. He had always been a bit of a loner, and had struggled to connect with others, but now he was surrounded by a community of like-minded individuals who accepted him for who he was.

With each passing day, Nick felt more and more at home amongst the hairy Asian monks. He had found a place where he belonged. And although he still missed his old life at times, he knew that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

One evening before bed, Nick stood in front of the mirror in his small room within the temple, admiring his transformed appearance. He flexed his biceps, feeling the hard muscles underneath the black hair that covers his arms. He rans his fingers through the straight black hair on his chest, marveling at how it feels thicker and coarser than before. Turning to the side, he noticed how his shoulders have broadened, making his torso appear more compact and powerful. His legs, now covered in the same black hair as his arms, looked sturdier and more muscular than ever before, and his hairy ass curved out nicely from behind.

Nick couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in his new physique. As he examined himself further, his eyes were drawn to his newly regrown foreskin. It was still a bit sensitive, but Nick loved to feel the sensation of the skin partially sliding back and forth over the head of his penis.

Nick explored his new foreskin with curiosity, gently pulling it back to reveal the head of his penis. He felt a surge of sensation as the delicate skin slid over the sensitive tip, sending shivers through his body. He had never felt so much pleasure before.

As he continued to play with his new foreskin, every touch, every movement, seemed to send electric shocks of pleasure through his body. He closed his eyes and let out a soft moan, lost in the sensations that were coursing through him.

He ran his fingers along the hood of skin, feeling the delicate nerve endings that had been hidden away before. Every touch sent shivers down his spine, and he couldn't resist the urge to stroke himself slowly, enjoying the newfound sensitivity.

Nick moaned, and ran a hand though his chest hair as he savored the sensation of the dark, new skin moving up and down his shaft. The sensations were different from what he was used to, but in the best way possible. He experimented with different strokes, sometimes using his new foreskin to glide over his sensitive head, and other times pulling it back to expose his glans and feeling the direct touch of his hand on the head.

His foreskin moved in a way that he had never experienced before with his old cock, as it slid back and forth, teasing and tantalizing, unfamiliar and exhilarating.

For a moment, he forgot about his old life, about the blonde, curcumcised man he used to be. He was fully immersed in his new existence as a monk, a different person altogether. He smiled to himself, realizing that he had come a long way since arriving in this village.

Nick continued to stroke himself slowly, savoring every sensation that coursed through his body. He marveled at how differently his body felt now, the black hair, the muscles, how much more intense and pleasurable every touch was. He pulled his foreskin back, entirely exposing the sensitive head of his penis, and then slowly eased it over the head, reveling in the sensation.

He was surprised at how quickly he adapted to the changes and how much he was enjoying them. Despite his initial apprehension, Nick was beginning to realize that he's becoming someone new, someone stronger, more confident, and more comfortable in his own skin.

As he continued to stroke himself, lost in the pleasure of the moment, he realized that he was becoming aroused simply by the mere thought of his new foreskin, as if it had opened up a whole new world of pleasure for him, and he couldn't wait to explore it further.

Nick's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He quickly composed himself and answered it, only to find one of the senior monks standing in front of him.

"Brother, it's time for meditation," the monk said, his voice soft and gentle. Nick nodded and followed the monk to the meditation room.

As he sat down to meditate, he couldn't help but feel grateful for the changes that had taken place in his body, both physical and otherwise.

The following morning, while Nick was chopping wood, a villager came running with news that Chinese officials are on their way and should arrive by the afternoon tomorrow.

Nick hurriedly finished his chores so he could join the other monks.

As the news spread through the village that Chinese officials are on their way, the atmosphere grew tense. The villagers knew all too well what the officials are after: taxes, and plenty of them.

But this time, Nick, now fully immersed in his new life as a monk, didn't want to hide. He felt a sense of duty to stand up to the officials and protect his new community.

He shared his thoughts with the other monks, who looked at him with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

The monks had gathered in their common area, discussing their options. The news of the Chinese officials arriving was concerning, and they needed to decide what to do.

"Nick, we need to hide you again," said one of the monks.

But Nick shook his head. "No. I've been here for months, and I'm a part of this community now. I'm not going to run and hide like a scared animal."

The monks looked at each other, unsure of what to do. "Nick, you don't understand," said another monk. "If they find you, they will take you away. They won't care that you've been living here peacefully. They will see you as a threat and take action."

Nick sighed. "I understand the risks, but I can't keep hiding. I want to face this like a man, and if I have to leave, then so be it. But I won't hide anymore."

The monks looked at Nick, seeing the determination in his eyes. They knew they couldn't change his mind. "Alright, Nick," said one of the monks. "We will stand by you, and we will protect you. But we need to be careful. We don't want to cause any trouble."

The group nodded in agreement, and they spent the rest of the evening planning their next move. They would need to be vigilant and prepared for the arrival of the Chinese officials. They discussed a cover story for Nick, and a new name, should he be questioned.

But even so, there was a good chance that Nick would not pass as one of them, despite his hair and beard, and the changes to his skin and facial features, or even his new stature.

The shaman silenced everyone and asked for calm. He reached into his robe and pulled out something he had been working on, something to trigger a final change, one that would at last make Nick into one of them, and complete his new body.

The shaman opened his hand offered Nick a pair of coarse, woven patches, soaked in a powerful salve to put over his eyes tonight while he slept. They would trigger the final change, and change the shape of Nick's eyes so that he can blend in fully.

Nick listened to the shaman's offer with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. He had come a long way in his physical transformation, but the idea of changing his eyes to look like the monks seemed like too much. He didn't want to be discovered by the Chinese officials, but he also didn't want to lose his sense of identity.

"I don't know if I'm ready for that," Nick said to the shaman, looking at the patches in his hand.

"It's your choice, Nick," the shaman replied, "but you must consider the consequences of not blending in with everone. It could put us all in danger."

Nick nodded, understanding the seriousness of the situation. He looked around at the other monks who had all become like a family to him. He felt a twinge of frustration with himself, wondering why he couldn't just accept this transformation like he had the others.

After a moment of silence, Nick took a deep breath and said, "Okay, I'll do it. I'll wear the patches."

The shaman nodded, satisfied with Nick's decision, and that night, when Nick was in bed, the shaman helped him apply the patches over his closed eyes. Nick felt a strange tingling sensation as the patches adhered to his eyelids, and he wondered what he would look like in the morning.

As he drifted off to sleep, Nick couldn't help but feel a certain sense of sadness and loss, despite all he had gained, he still missed his old life, his old body, and he wondered if he would ever feel like himself again.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 3

After his time in the mountains, Nick's appearance has changed quite significantly. His hair, once a sandy blonde color, is now black, matching the straight black hair that covers his chest and arms. His beard has also grown in full and black, like the beards of the Asian monks who rescued him.

In addition, Nick's skin has taken on a slightly darker, more weathered appearance from his time in the elements, and he feels stronger and more rugged than before, having adapted to the harsh mountain terrain.

As he looks himself over, he remembers the shaman’s words with fear and excitement: "You are becoming more like us every day."

But despite the changes, Nick was still recognizable as himself. His blue eyes still sparkled with intelligence and warmth, and his smile was just as infectious as ever. How could I possibly become like them; he wondered. Was that really even possible? Nick wasn’t sure how he felt about that, if so.

As Nick becomes more integrated into the community of bearded monks, he is invited to join them in one of their regular rituals: a dip in a natural hot spring a few miles away from the village. Nick is excited to take part, and he follows the group of men as they make their way through the rugged, snowy terrain.

When they arrive at the hot spring, a steaming pool of water amidst the rocky snow, the men strip off their clothes and jump in. Nick hesitates for a moment, feeling self-conscious about undressing in front of the others. But he sees that the hairy men are completely comfortable with their nudity, and he doesn't want to stand out as the only one who's shy.

As Nick undresses, he sees that the other men are all uncircumcised, with foreskins that cover the head of their penises. This is a surprise to him, as he has always assumed that circumcision was a universal practice. He feels a moment of awkwardness, wondering if the other men will judge him for being different.

But as he steps into the hot spring and joins the others, he realizes that his circumcision doesn't matter. The men are friendly and welcoming, and they make no issue of his physical difference. They chat and laugh together, enjoying the warmth of the water and the camaraderie of their shared experience.

For Nick, the moment is a reminder of the beauty of diversity and the power of acceptance. Despite their differences, he feels a deep sense of connection to these bearded Asian men.

As Nick continues to soak in the hot spring with the hairy monks, he feels the warmth of the water penetrating deep into his muscles, soothing away the aches and pains of his long long recovery from the plane crash. He feels himself growing more relaxed and at ease with each passing moment.

But as he relaxes, he also feels his muscles growing thicker and stronger, his shoulders broadening and his chest expanding. He notices that his face and nose are also changing, flattening slightly. His nose widens as he breathes in the steam from the hot water, and his cheekbones become more prominent too.

At first, Nick is alarmed by these sensations as he touches his new face. He wonders if something is wrong, if the hot spring is having a strange effect on his body or mind. But as he looks around at the other men in the hot spring, he remembers that they too have broad shoulders and thick muscles. He hears the shaman's words about how the environment can change a person's body, and he realizes that this is what is happening to him.

As he embraces this transformation, Nick feels a sense of liberation. For the first time in his life, he feels confident in his own strength and power. He feels a sense of belonging among these bearded Asian monks, knowing that he is also changed by the same environment that has helped to shaped them.

As the sun begins to set, the men reluctantly climb out of the hot spring and make their way back to the village, feeling renewed and rejuvenated.

As Nick towels off and dresses in the robes the men have provided him, he can't help but marvel at the changes he has undergone since his arrival in the village, and not just to his face and body.

As he looks at himself in a small mirror, he notices that his face has become more rugged and weathered, thanks to his thick beard and wide, masculine face. Most surprising, he as piercing brown eyes now, they are no longer blue!

His heart skips.

His body, once slim and unremarkable, is now covered in a thick layer of black hair, and his chest and arms are broad and muscular. His legs, covered in black hair too, have grown shorter, giving him a somewhat stouter appearance, and a thick, hairy ass. And his circumcised penis, always very average, is thicker and longer too.

The bearded monks seem to notice Nick's transformation as well, and they smile at him approvingly, as he puts on his heavy robes. One of the older men nods at him and says something in their language that Nick doesn't understand, but he can tell it's a compliment.

Nick can't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder, overwhelmed at the transformation he has undergone. He feels stronger, more confident, and more attuned to his surroundings.

As Nick enters the dining hall that evening, dressed in his robes, he is greeted with a chorus of cheers and compliments from the other men. They gather around him, examining his new physique and marveling at his transformation. Nick feels a surge of pride and satisfaction, knowing that he has been accepted by these men who were once strangers to him.

The meal is a simple one, consisting of hearty stews and breads baked in the village's clay ovens. The monks share stories and laughter, and Nick finds himself feeling more at ease with each passing moment. He is struck by the warmth and kindness of these people, despite the harsh conditions in which they live.

As the night wears on, the men bring out bowls of fermented yak's milk and offer them to Nick. He hesitates at first, but then takes a sip and finds it surprisingly delicious. The men toast to their new brother, and Nick feels a sense of belonging that he has never experienced before.

As he settles into his bedroll that night, more than a little drunk, Nick reflects on the events of the day. He knows that he has found a new home here in the mountains, among these rugged and resilient men.

The next morning, Nick wakes up groggy and disoriented, feeling hungover, the events of the previous night are hazy in his mind. As he begins to stir, he feels a strange sensation at the end of his penis. He looks down and sees that the shaman has applied some kind of poultice to the tip of his cock.

"What the hell is this?" Nick mutters to himself, looking around the dimly lit hut.

The shaman stirs in his sleep, and Nick sees that he is lying on a mat nearby. Suddenly, the events of the previous night flood back into Nick's mind. The hot springs, the food, the drink, and the curious looks he had been receiving from the men in the village.

And then he remembers the shaman made a strange request - to restore Nick’s penis to its natural state, and grow a foreskin on Nick’s cock!

Nick thought it was a joke, and he'd laughed at the time.

But now, as Nick looked at the poultice, he felt a twinge of discomfort. He reached down tentatively and felt the end of his cock. It felt different already somehow - softer, more sensitive.

Nick feels a sudden surge of panic. What if this poultice causes some kind of irreversible damage? What if he is permanently disfigured?

But then he takes a deep breath through his wide nose and tries to calm himself. He had trusted these men enough to let them tend to his wounds and nurse him back to health. Surely, they would not do anything to harm him now.

Nick gets up slowly and quietly, so as not to wake the shaman. He puts on his robes and boots and heads outside, into the crisp mountain air.

As he walks around the village, he notices that the men are all staring at him again. But this time, their expressions are different. They seem pleased, even proud. He has already embraced the other the changes to his body, his black beard and chest hair, his broad face, and he feels a sense of kinship with the monks because of them.

Nick doesn't understand what is happening to him, but he can't deny that he feels different - stronger, more virile. And he can't help but wonder what other changes might be in store for him.

The monks prepare to head out, and Nick is excited to accompany them on the thier herb collecting trip. As they climb higher into the mountains, Nick feels more connected to the natural world around him. He feels more in tune with the plants, the rocks, and the animals.

The monks lead Nick to a secluded spot where they start to gather herbs. They teach him how to identify each one, how to pluck them from the ground without damaging them, and how to prepare them for medicinal use. Nick is fascinated by their knowledge and their way of life.

As Nick walks with the monks through the mountainous terrain, he can't help but think about the strange poultice on his penis. He tries to ignore it and focus on the beauty of the surroundings, but his mind keeps returning to the discomfort he feels about the shaman's attempt to restore his foreskin.

As they gather herbs, Nick tries to distract himself by asking the monks questions about their way of life. They talk about their daily routines, their meditation practices, and their beliefs. Nick finds himself drawn to their simple, peaceful way of living.

After collecting enough, the group settles down for a meditation session. They sit in silence, their eyes closed, their minds empty. Nick tries to clear his mind and focus on his breath, in and out of his broad nose, the rise and fall of his hairy chest, but his thoughts keep returning to his penis. He can feel the poultice working its way into his skin, and he can't help but worry about what might happen if the shaman's treatment is successful. Could he really grow a foreskin? It didn't seem possible.

As the session comes to a close, Nick feels a sense of calm and relaxation wash over him. He realizes that he has been so focused on his physical appearance that he has forgotten to appreciate the beauty of the present moment. He makes a vow to try and stay present and mindful, even as he faces the uncertainty of his changing body.

After collecting enough herbs, the group returns to the village, where they spend the rest of the day preparing the herbs for use, grinding them into powders and mixing them with other ingredients. Nick helps them, eager to learn more about their ways.

As night falls, the group gathers around a fire and drinks a concoction made from the herbs they collected. Nick feels his body relax and his mind clear. He realizes that he has never felt so at peace. He looked at the monks around him and felt a sense of belonging.

Nick sat cross-legged in the small hut with the group of monks, and they patiently taught him their language, using gestures and drawings to help him understand. Nick is eager to learn and tries to focus on the lesson, but his mind keeps wandering back to the poultice on his penis. He tries to discreetly adjust himself, but the poultice seems to be firmly in place.

The monks notice Nick's distraction and pause the lesson. One of them asks Nick if something is troubling him. Nick hesitates, not sure if he should mention the poultice. But they know his situation, that he is circumcised. They know what the shaman requested to do. So, he decides to speak up, hoping they can offer him some reassurance.

"I...I was just thinking about the poultice the shaman put on my cock," Nick says tentatively, gesturing for clarity. "I really don't want to grow a foreskin. It's weird, and being cut is so much easier and cleaner."

The monks exchange a look, and the shaman speaks up. "We understand your concern, Nick. But the poultice is an ancient remedy that we have used for centuries to help restore balance and harmony to the body. It is not meant to force anything upon you that you do not want."

Nick nods, feeling somewhat reassured. He trusts the monks and their knowledge of traditional medicine, but he doubts a foreskin can regrow. He felt silly for even bringing it up. He decides to focus on the lesson again and try to let go of his worry about the poultice, he can't imagine that it will actually work anyway.

But, just to check, Nick steps away for a moment. He pulls open his pants and pushes through the new straight, black hair hair in there to take to look at his cock. He feels a sense of unease in his stomach. He can see that the poultice has indeed been working, and a thin layer of skin has already begun to cover the glans of his penis!

He pulls the unwanted skin down onto the shaft where it belongs, and feels a strange sensation as he touches it, a feeling of sensitivity he's never experienced before.

As Nick examines himself, he notices that the skin around the head of his penis is becoming more sensitive, almost tender to the touch. He can feel the head rubbing against his underwear now, without the skin to cover it, and it's slightly uncomfortable. He wonders if this is what it's like for the men who have foreskins naturally.

Nick feels a wave of apprehension wash over him. He has never had to deal with this extra bit of skin before. It's strange and foreign to him, and he's not sure how he feels about it.

He would wash the poultice off, but it seems too late for that now, the growth has begun.

He can't help but feel a sense of loss, as he had always been proud of being circumcised. But at the same time, he can't deny the excitement of experiencing something new. He feels a twinge of guilt, as if he's betraying his own identity with all these changes, but at the same time, he can't help but be curious about the new sensations he's experiencing.

Nick quickly closes up his pants and tries to push the thoughts out of his mind. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. He wants to focus on learning the language of the monks and adapting to his new surroundings.

He returns to the other men and contines the language lesson as if nothing is wrong, as if he hadn't just seen that the poultice is actually working and felt the new skin on his cock head. He tries to focus and repeat after the monks as they speak, mirroring their intonation and pronunciation. However, the sensation lingers in the back of his mind, and Nick can't shake off the curiosity that now surrounds him.

As the days go by, the foreskin continues to grow, and Nick can feel it getting longer and more sensitive, even when he's not watching. It's almost like he's wearing a protective sheath around his penis, and he's not sure if he likes it or not. He tries to keep his mind off of it by focusing on his studies with the monks, but it's always there in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of his new life in the village, and the changes he's endoured to adapt.

One evening, as he washed in the bathing hut, Nick looked down at his penis and studied it with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The poultice had been doing its job, and he could see that the thin layer of skin had grown even further over the head, partially covering it. And it was dark, darker than the rest of the skin on his body. The sensation was different, almost like a layer of clothing was being worn around his cock head. He couldn't help but feel self-conscious and wondered how he would ever adjust to the changes that were taking place.

The shaman had assured him that it was natural and that having a foreskin was common among Asian men. But for Nick, who was not Asian and had been circumcised from birth, the change was a bit unnerving. He had always been comfortable with his body, but this new transformation was making him feel vulnerable and exposed.

As he looked around at the other men in the bath hut, he noticed that all of them had foreskins too. They seemed completely at ease with their bodies and moved about freely, without any hint of self-consciousness. Nick, on the other hand, felt like he was constantly on display.

He tried to push these thoughts out of his mind and focus on the tasks at hand.

The monks took him out into the woods to gather herbs and mushrooms for their medicinal practices. As they walked, they pointed out different plants and taught him the names in their language. Nick tried to commit everything to memory, eager to learn as much as he could about their culture.

But every time he glanced down toward his penis, the feeling of discomfort returned. He couldn't help but think about how different it felt, and how different he felt in his changing body. He wondered if he would ever be able to fully adjust to all these changes, and to having a foreskin.

As they returned to the village, Nick couldn't help but feel like everyone was staring at him. He knew it was probably just his own insecurities, but he couldn't shake the feeling. He made his way to his hut and lay down, trying to clear his mind.

But even as he closed his eyes and tried to relax, the feeling of the foreskin continued to linger. It was like a constant reminder of how much he had changed, and he wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

Nick kept himself busy with the daily routines and practices of the monks, hoping to distract himself from the changes happening in his pants. He focused on learning their language, helping them collect herbs and meditating with them. Despite his efforts to push the thought of the growing foreskin out of his mind, he couldn't help but feel a sense of unease about it.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 2

As the days passed, Nick began to feel stronger and more energetic. He spent his time exploring the mountains and helping the monks with their chores. He found himself admiring the bearded Asian men, and the way they seemed to move with ease through the rugged terrain.

One morning, as Nick stood in front of a small mirror, he noticed that his face was covered in a light fuzz. He ran his hand over his jawline, feeling the stubble growing there, and he couldn't help but smile.

Later that day, as he was helping the shaman gather mushrooms, Nick noticed his reflection in a nearby stream. He was surprised to see that his face was covered in a thin layer of stubble.

"Huh," he said, rubbing his chin. "I guess I'm growing a beard."

The shaman looked over at him and smiled. "Yes," he said. "You are more like us every day."

Nick laughed. "I don't know about that," he said. He was so physically different from the monks, a beard wouldn't be enough to make him like them.

The shaman shook his head. "No, Nick," he said. "You have adapted to the mountains, just like we have."

Nick was taken aback by the shaman's words.

He looked back at his reflection in the stream, and saw that his beard was growing in thicker than he had expected. It was still patchy and uneven, but he could see the start of a full beard.

"I don't think I can grow a beard like yours," he said, looking back at the shaman.

The shaman smiled. "The mountains have a way of changing us," he said. "You will find that your body adapts to the environment in ways you never thought possible."

Nick nodded, feeling a sense of wonder and amazement. He had never imagined that he would be able to grow a beard like the Asian monks, but here he was, watching it grow in thick and dark.

As he turned to follow the shaman back to the monastery, he felt a sense of excitement and anticipation. He knew that he still had much to learn from these bearded monks, but he was eager to discover what other changes the mountains had in store for him.

Over the next few weeks, Nick watched as his beard grew thicker and darker with each passing day. He trimmed it occasionally, using a small knife that the shaman had given him, but mostly he let it grow free.

And to his surprise, Nick discovered that the beard was more than just a cosmetic change. It seemed to change him from within, giving him a sense of strength and confidence that he had never felt before.

As the weeks passed, Nick's beard grew in full and black, just like the bearded Asian men. He noticed that it protected his face from the harsh winds and biting cold of the mountains. He felt a sense of pride and accomplishment, knowing that he had adapted to the environment just like the monks.

One day, as he was chopping wood with the other men, he overheard them talking about the upcoming winter. They spoke of blizzards and freezing temperatures, and Nick felt a sense of unease. He knew that he was still an outsider in many ways, but he also knew that he had adapted to the mountains better than he had ever imagined.

As he walked back to the monastery, he ran his hand over his full, black beard and felt a sense of gratitude about it. He knew that he would need every advantage he could get to survive the winter in the mountains.

As he entered the monastery, he saw the shaman sitting by the fire, tending to a pot of soup. Nick sat down beside him and watched as the shaman stirred the soup.

"You're looking well, Nick," the shaman said, looking up at him.

Nick smiled. "I feel well," he said. "I feel like I've become a part of this place."

The shaman nodded. "You have," he said. "You have adapted to the mountains in ways that few outsiders ever do."

Nick felt a sense of pride at the shaman's words. He knew that he still had much to learn from the bearded monks, but he also knew that he had already accomplished more than he had ever thought possible.

As he ate the soup, and wiped drops off his new beard, he noticed the other men watching him. They were looking at his beard with a sense of admiration and respect and Nick felt a sense of belonging that he had never felt before.

As the night wore on and the fire burned low, Nick felt a calm wash over him. He knew that the winter would be harsh, but he also knew that he had the strength and resilience to survive it. He was grateful for the bearded Asian monks who had taken him in, and he was determined to do whatever it took to prove himself worthy of their trust and respect.

One morning, Nick was helping the monks with their daily chores when they heard the sound of horses approaching. The monks quickly realized that it was a group of Chinese officials who had come to collect taxes from the villagers.

The monks immediately sprang into action, gathering up their belongings and religious symbols and hiding them in various nooks and crannies around the village. They knew that if the officials found anything out of the ordinary, they would be in trouble.

"Nick," the shaman said, motioning for him to follow him. "Come with me."

Nick followed the shaman to a small hut at the edge of the village. The shaman gestured for him to crawl inside, and then covered the entrance with a piece of wood.

"Stay here," the shaman whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Nick nodded, feeling a sense of apprehension. He could hear the sound of the officials' horses outside, and the sound of their voices as they questioned the bearded monks.

Nick felt a sense of gratitude towards the men for taking care of him, and he knew that he needed to remain hidden until the officials had left.

As he sat in the small hut, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was afraid that he would be discovered, but he also felt a sense of excitement. He knew that he was part of something bigger than himself, something that was worth fighting for.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the officials left. The monks removed the valuables from their hiding places, and Nick crawled out of the hut.

"Are you alright?" the shaman asked, looking at Nick with concern.

Nick nodded, feeling a sense of relief. He knew that he had been lucky to escape discovery, and he felt grateful towards the bearded monks for protecting him.

"Thank you," he said, looking at the shaman. "Thank you for everything."

The shaman smiled. "We are all in this together," he said. "We must protect each other, no matter what."

Nick nodded, feeling a sense of camaraderie and brotherhood with the hairy Asian men. They had saved his life, tended to his wounds, and had taken him in as one of their own. Even though he was a stranger from a different part of the world, they had accepted him without question.

Nick realized that he had never felt this sense of belonging before. He had grown up in a wealthy family in London, surrounded by people who were always busy with their own lives. He had never felt like he had a place where he truly belonged.

But here, high in the snowy peaks of China, surrounded by these bearded Asian men, he felt like he had found a home. They shared a bond that was born out of survival and a common cause, and he knew that he had become a part of that.

As he sat by the low fire, feeling the warmth of the oil on his skin, he looked around at the bearded men and felt a sense of peace. For the first time in his life, he knew that he had found a place where he truly belonged.

The next morning, Nick woke up feeling refreshed and energized. He stretched his arms and legs, feeling the cool air of the village hut against his skin. As he sat up, he reached for his winter hat, which he had been wearing to bed to keep his head warm at night.

But as he pulled off the hat, he noticed something strange. His hair, which had always been a sandy blonde, was now black and straight. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling how the texture had change from its usual fine and silky one to a coarser, thicker feel.

As Nick stretched and yawned in the dim light of the hut, he caught a glimpse of his bare chest in a nearby mirror. To his surprise, he saw that his once smooth, fair skin was now covered in a layer of straight black hair, just like the bearded monks who rescued him.

At first, Nick was taken aback by the changes in his appearance. He ran his fingers over his chest and arms, feeling the coarse texture of the hair against his skin. But as he examined himself more closely, he realized that the hair is another sign of his adaptation to this new environment.

The bearded Asian men have taught Nick how to survive in the harsh mountain terrain, and he has thrived under their tutelage. His body has changed to better suit this new way of life, and the hair is a physical manifestation of that transformation.

As he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his beard had also continued to grow in full and dark and matched the straight black hair that covered his chest and arms, he really was looking more like the bearded monks who had taken him in.

Nick smiled to himself, feeling a sense of pride and belonging. He was no longer the outsider, the foreigner who crashed his plane in a remote corner of China. He was a member of this small community of bearded and hairy men who lived in harmony with the mountain wilderness.

Nick was both surprised and intrigued by the changes in his appearance. He wondered if it was the oil that the shaman had been using on him, or if there was something in the water or air that was causing this transformation.

As he stepped out of the hut, he noticed that the monks were all staring at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement. They noticed the changes in his appearance too, and they seemed pleased by them.

Nick couldn't help but feel a sense of connection to the bearded Asian men now, as if he had been accepted as one of their own. He felt grateful to have found a place where he could belong, even if it meant growing a beard and having his hair change color.

He smiled as the monks, sharing their curious and amused energy, and feeling a sense of contentment that he had not felt in a long time.

The moning was crisp, and cold in the mountain village. Nick could see his breath in the air as he left his hut. The bearded monks were already up and moving about, preparing for a day of hunting in the snow-covered forest.

Nick joined them, feeling confident and strong in his new, hairy body. He pulled on a pair of thick boots, strapped on his bow, and was happy to have the thick beard on his face to protect him against the biting wind. As they made their way into the forest, Nick noticed how the wind didn't cut through him like it once did, and he felt more resilient than ever. The hair on his chest and arms kepts him warmer than he ever would have been before.

The bearded monks led the way through the forest, tracking game with practiced ease. Nick followed, and helped them take down a deer for the community's evening meal. As they made their way back to the village with their prize, Nick realized that he feels more alive and connected to this world than he ever has before.

He may have crashed his plane and ended up in a remote corner of China, but now he saw that it was all meant to be. He has found a new home with these bearded and hairy men, and he feels grateful for the transformation that has taken place within him. The hair on his body is no longer just a physical adaptation, but a symbol of his belonging in this community of survivors.

After his time in the mountains, Nick's appearance has changed quite significantly. His hair, once a sandy blonde color, is now black, matching the straight black hair that covers his chest and arms. His beard has also grown in full and black, like the beards of the Asian monks who rescued him.

In addition to his new hair and beard, Nick's skin has taken on a slightly darker, more weathered appearance from his time in the elements. He feels stronger and more rugged than before, having adapted to the harsh mountain terrain.

He remembers the shaman’s words with fear and excitement: "You are becoming more like us every day."

But despite the changes, Nick was still recognizable as himself. His blue eyes still sparkle with intelligence and warmth, and his smile is just as infectious as ever. How can I possibly become like them; he wondered. Was that really even possible? Nick wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

[thefleshlab]

The Rescue 1

Nick had always been a thrill-seeker and flying his twin-propeller plane through the treacherous mountains of China had been one of his most daring adventures yet, plus the pay was good. But then, from nowhere, the storm hit. As the wind howled around him, and the rain pounded against the metal frame of his plane, he knew he was in trouble.

Before he could react, the plane was hurtling towards the earth, and Nick braced himself for an impact. When it came, it was violent and sudden, and he felt the pain shoot through his body as he was flung forward.

When he came to, he was lying in a snowdrift, surrounded by the wreckage of his plane. He was alive, but his supplies were scattered across the mountain, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the cold and hunger took their toll.

Days passed, and Nick struggled to survive in the harsh environment. He built a makeshift shelter out of the wreckage of his plane, and scavenged for food in the sparse vegetation that dotted the mountainside. But as the snow piled up around him, and the temperature plummeted, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

It was then that the broad-faced Asian men on horseback appeared. They were a striking contrast to Nick, with their thick black beards and narrow Asian eyes, but they welcomed him with open arms. They spoke no English, but they communicated with gestures and kindness, and Nick knew he had found his salvation.

They took him to their village, high in the mountains, to a warm and smoky hut and there, exhausted and wounded, Nick fell asleep.

Nick woke up groggily, some time later, his head throbbing and his body aching all over. He blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light in the hut. A low fire smoldering in the center of the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls, and the thick smoke of incense filling the air.

As his eyes wandered around the small hut, Nick noticed a bearded Asian man tending to his wounds. The man was dressed in a rough tunic, with a colorful scarf wrapped around his head. Nick couldn't help but assume the man was some kind of village shaman, due to his unorthodox appearance and the medicine he prepared.

Nick felt confused and disorientated. He didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there. He'd lost his plane and belongings. The last thing he remembered was the crash, and then everything had gone dark.

The bearded Asian man, noticing Nick's confusion, gestured reassuringly, and said something in a language Nick didn't understand. Nick tried to sit up, but the pain in his ribs stopped him.

"You're lucky to be alive," the man said in broken English with a thick Chinese accent. "The storm was fierce. It's a miracle you survived the crash."

Nick was too exhausted and sore to ask questions, so he stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling of the hut. He tried to remember the events leading up to the crash, but it was all a blur. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was lucky to be alive.

As the Asian man continued to tend to his wounds, Nick closed his eyes and let himself drift off into a restless sleep, wondering what the future held for him in this strange and foreign land.

Nick wakes to find he is still wearing the tattered clothes he had on during the plane crash. They are torn and dirty from the impact and his time spent on the mountain, but he is grateful to still have them on his body.

Despite feeling self-conscious about his tattered clothing, Nick realizes that his physical appearance is the least of his worries. He is more concerned about how he will survive in this foreign and remote place, where he cannot speak the language and knows nothing of the customs or traditions.

Nick drifted in and out of consciousness, while the shaman continued to tend to his wounds. He applied herbal ointments to Nick's bruises and cuts, and changed the bandages on his broken ribs. Nick was thankful for the man's kindness and care, but he was still weak and growing hungry.

The shaman brought him a bowl of strange smelling soup. Nick's stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma, and he eagerly took a sip. The soup was spicy and savory, with an exotic blend of flavors he had never tasted before. He ate heartily, feeling his strength slowly returning.

As Nick ate, the bearded shaman watched him intently, his dark eyes filled with concern. Nick realized that he had no idea where he was or how he was going to get back to civilization. He tried to ask the shaman about it, but the man spoke only broken English, and Nick struggled to understand him.

The shaman was middle-aged, with a weathered face and a thick black beard that hung down to his chest. His narrow, dark eyes were filled with a deep sense of wisdom and compassion, and his low, gravelly voice conveyed a sense of authority and confidence. He wore a long, flowing robe made of coarse, brown fabric, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular, hairy arms. Despite his rough appearance, there was a gentleness to his manner that put Nick at ease, and he felt a deep sense of gratitude and respect for the man.

For several days, Nick rested in the hut, slowly regaining his strength. The shaman brought him food and water, and Nick slept for long hours at a time, his body recovering from the trauma of the crash.

When he woke up again, the bearded shaman was still there, watching over him. Nick tried to sit up, and this time the pain in his ribs was not as bad as before.

"Thank you," Nick said, trying to convey his gratitude to the man in his limited vocabulary.

The shaman nodded and gestured towards a corner of the room. Nick looked over and saw a pile of clothes there. They were rough, simple garments, but they looked warm and sturdy.

Nick felt a surge of gratitude towards the man. It seemed that he had not only tended to Nick's wounds but also provided him with clothes to wear. He wondered if he would ever be able to repay this kindness.

Nick felt strong enough to stand and explore outside and he was surprised at what he found. The village was a small, close-knit community, with simple homes made of stone and mud. The villagers were friendly and curious, eager to welcome Nick into their midst.

As Nick walked through the village, he realized that he had been given a second chance. He had survived the crash, and he had been rescued by these kind and generous people. He felt a sense of gratitude and wonder.

The monks in the village refuge were a diverse group, but they shared certain physical characteristics.

All the men had heavy black beards, which they kept neatly trimmed and oiled. Their hair was often worn long and tied back in a knot. They dressed in simple, practical clothing made from wool and cotton.

Some of the monks had weathered, lined faces that spoke to a lifetime of hard work and exposure to the elements, while others had more youthful features. Most were broad-shouldered and muscular, with calloused hands and a rugged, sturdy build.

Despite any physical differences, the monks all shared a sense of quiet dignity and inner strength. They moved with purpose and grace, and their eyes were full of deep wisdom and serenity.

Nick was struck by the contrast between the monks and the people he was used to in his daily life back home in London. He saw a simplicity and a purity in their way of living that he found deeply appealing.

As Nick continued to recover, he asked the shaman about the history village. The shaman explained that they were an persecuted sect of monks, shunned and banished by the Chinese government for their beliefs and practices. They had been forced to flee their homes and take refuge in the mountains, where they had adapted themselves to the harsh environment over many generations.

Nick looked around at the men in the village, noting the heavy black beards. He couldn't help but feel the cold air on his own face, and he shivered involuntarily.

The shaman noticed Nick's discomfort and offered him a thick, woolen scarf. "You'll need this," he said, "The winters here are unforgiving."

Nick wrapped the scarf around his neck, feeling the warmth of the wool against his skin. He looked around at the simple stone houses and the rugged landscape, and he realized that he was in a place unlike any he had ever known.

As he explored the village and met the people there, Nick began to understand the challenges that they faced. They had no access to modern technology or medicine, and they had to rely on their own resourcefulness and ingenuity to survive.

But despite all that, the people were resilient and optimistic. They welcomed Nick into their community, treating him with kindness and respect.

As he settled into life in the village, Nick knew that he had found a place where he could make a difference and be part of something greater than himself. He felt a sense of purpose and meaning, and he knew that he had been given a second chance for a reason.

That evening, Nick sat in the shaman's hut, and the Asian man tended to Nick's wounds, gently cleaning and bandaging his cuts and bruises. Nick watched him work, grateful for the shaman's care and expertise.

As the shaman worked, Nick couldn't help but note the thick black hair that covered the man's arms and chest. He had noticed this on many of the other monks in the village as well.

Nick himself was fairly smooth, with only a light fan of hair on his chest and arms. It seemed unusual for Asian men, at least from Kick’s experience. He couldn't help but wonder if there was some benefit to all the hair that these men seemed to have.

"Excuse me, shaman," Nick said tentatively, "I don't mean to be rude, but I noticed that many of the monks in the village are unusually hairy.”

The shaman paused in his work, looking up at Nick with a thoughtful expression. "Yes," he said slowly. "In this harsh environment, the beards and hair provide protection from the cold and the wind. It helps to keep us warm and protects our skin from the elements."

Nick nodded, understanding the shaman's explanation. He couldn't help but feel a little envious of the monks' ability to adapt to the harsh conditions of the mountains.

As the days passed, Nick continued to observe the monks and their way of life. He saw how they worked together to maintain the village, gathering firewood and tending to the animals that provided their food. He saw how they shared their resources and looked out for one another, creating a sense of community that he had never experienced before.

And as he watched them, Nick began to understand that the hair on their bodies was not only a physical adaptation to the environment, but a symbol of their resilience and strength. It was a reminder that they had survived against all odds for generations, and that they were capable of thriving even in the harshest of conditions.

The next day, Nick woke up to find the shaman standing over him, a small jar of oil in his hand. The shaman began spreading the thick, fragrant oil across Nick's bare chest and arms, rubbing it in with firm, practiced strokes.

"What's this for?" Nick asked, feeling a little uneasy about the whole thing.

"Warmth," the shaman replied simply, continuing to massage the oil into Nick's skin.

Nick tried to sit up, but the bearded shaman gently pushed him back down. "Lie still," he said. "This will help keep you warm in the cold mountain air."

Nick lay back down and let the shaman work. He could feel the warmth of the oil spreading across his skin, and he had to admit, it did feel good. But he couldn't help but wonder about the shaman's intentions.

As the shaman worked, Nick watched him carefully. The man's face was expressionless under the thick black beard, and his movements were slow and deliberate. Nick couldn't tell if the shaman was trying to heal him or harm him.

Finally, when the shaman was finished, he stepped back and regarded Nick with a cool, detached gaze. "There," he said. "You should feel warmer now."

Nick sat up and looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick layer of oil, from his chest to his arms to his face. He couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious, but he had to admit, he did feel warmer.

As the day wore on, Nick noticed that he was indeed feeling warmer than he had in days. The cold mountain air no longer seemed to penetrate his skin, and he was able to move around with greater ease and comfort.

Over the next few days, Nick grew more accustomed to the oil, even coming to appreciate its soothing, warming properties. And as he continued to recover from his injuries, he found himself feeling more and more grateful to the shaman and the other monks who had taken him in.

[thefleshlab]

A New Hood: The Lake House 9

Kayvon woke up the next morning, Saturday, still naked, the cum in his beard and chest hair now dry and crusty. He needed to take a shower.

Phil was missing, but the sounds and delicious smells of someone cooking came from downstairs. Kayvon climbed out of bed, cock swinging, balls bouncing. He was happy to see his cock head was fully covered by his foreskin now, not even a glimpse of pink could be seen. and it really was a foreskin, not just some extra skin, not at this stage. Who was he trying to fool thinking like that?

He pulled the skin back and watched it slide up again. He was like all those uncut guys now. He had a fucking foreskin! With a frenulum and everything keeping the skin up on the head each time he slid it down. And it didn’t like being slid down that far. It didn’t like being tucked behind the flared ridge of his cocky head. It choked the head too tight, and he didn’t like it that way either, the feeling of his cock head being choked like that.

He stepped into his white sweatpants, commando style, Phil style. He didn’t need underwear when his foreskin protected his cock just fine now. Besides, his cock and balls needed room to hang free, so down the left leg they went. The sweatpants were tight across his ass, and the fabric brushed against the curly hair in his crack, giving Kayvon a brief jolt of pleasure. Jesus. Why did having a hairy ass feel so good?

Kayvon wasn’t able to find his hoodie, so walked out shirtless, scratching at his hairy pecs, crusty with dried cum.

He paused as he passed the mirror in the hallway upstairs. His head didn’t fit into the frame, but his chest and shoulders did. God, he’d grown so tall and muscular, the hard curves of his pecs, and delts, and traps, even his biceps and triceps bulged without flexing. These were not the sort of muscles that grew from swimming. These were the thick, heavy muscles of a bodybuilder! And all of them covered by a blanket of curly black hair. There was no denying that Kayvon’s shoulders and upper arms had grown more hairy. The curly mat of hair on his chest now grew up and over his delts and traps to combine with the hair on his back.

God, his back hair.

Kayvon could tell, turning to the side, that his back was easily as hairy as his front, and grew they together, not just over his shoulders, but around his sides, connecting his hairy pecs and abs to his hairy back!

And while his chest hair was too tightly curled to rise up out of his collar, on his back, the hair grew all the way up his neck now, into the hair on his head. He should need to start shaving the back (and sides?!) of his neck? He would have to shave out a collar of hair around his neck, three hundred and sixty degrees around now. Jesus.

What was happening to him? How was his body changing so much so quickly, and why now? Could it be that some regressive genes were finally becoming dominant? He’d never heard of that happening, and the changes felt like more than simply that. These weren’t little changes. He was turning into someone else: a muscular, hairy, uncut, Black dude!

Just thinking about all the changes, the hair, the muscles, the foreskin, chubbed up Kayon’s cock. What the fuck? That was the other thing that was changing. He was turning gay. He’d already taken a cock up the ass twice! And sucked Phil off! And he’d liked it! Snaking down his left pant leg, his cock continued to harden, so Kayvon stepped away from the mirror. He had to think about something else!

He padded down the stairs in his sweatpants and bare feet, hairy pecs and shoulders out.

Something smelled good, and Kayvon’s stomach growled. He found Phil in the kitchen, cooking, and there was Kayvon’s gray hoodie. Phil was wearing it!

How that same hoodie fit Phil so well, when he was both shorter and smaller than Kayvon, was a mystery. But it looked great on him, accented the shape of his muscles and the tight V of his silhouette.

I’ll have to buy one of those for Phil, Kayvon thought.

“There’s my Kaybear,” Phil said, smiling.

Kaybear?

“Thought I’d make breakfast,” Phil said.

Kayvon had never even remotely thought of himself as a bear, physically or otherwise, certainly not while he was Kevin. He’d always been too thin, and straight, and not hairy or muscular at all. But he’d just seen the proof in the mirror. It was true, undeniable. Kayvon was a bear! A Black bear!

The two exchanged a kiss at the stove, and Phil slipped a hand into the back of Kayvon’s sweatpants. He cupped Kayvon’s ass and caressed the kinky, hair covered cheeks. And Kayvon’s crack! God, that hairy crack sent tingles of pleasure through Kayvon’s body every time Phil brushed along the kinky cleft of hair.

Kayvon couldn’t help but get hard over the way Phil touched him, the way Phil casually helped himself to the masculine pleasures of Kayvon’s body, the things that Kayvon were the most embarrassed about, or that felt the most vulnerable, seemed suddenly erotic, and full of pleasure.

“What you cooking?” Kayvon asked, trying to keep his mind on something else.

“You like Huevos Rancheros?”

Kayvon did, he liked them a lot.

“That’s what I’m making.”

Damn, Kayvon was such a lucky man to have this sexy, handsome boyfriend cooking for him. He gave Phil another kiss, and Phil ran a calloused hand across Kayvon’s thick hairy pecs.

Is that what they were now, boyfriends? Kevin had rarely been single, back when he was still Kevin, and when he was single, it was by choice. He missed those days of being a couple, having someone to pal around with, and have fun with. Especially now, in this pandemic, when everyone was so isolated.

And, of course, someone to fuck and be fucked by.

“So, about last night,” Kayvon lingered around the stove as Phil stirred the eggs and sausage in the frying pan. “You think we could make that, like, a regular thing?”

Phil stopped stirring and grinned. “Hell yeah!”

“‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I need more of that in my life.”

“That being?” Phil slid his arms around Kayvon and looked up into his eyes teasingly.

“Man, I think you know,” Kayvon said, smiling. He dipped his head and gave Phil another kiss, longer this time, with more lips and tongue. Down his left pant leg, Kayvon’s hard cock stirred.

Phil noticed the hard rod as their bodies pressed together and he stroked Kayvon’s cock through the fabric.

“Someone’s ready for a morning fuck.”

“After breakfast!” Kayvon laughed and pulled away. If he listened to his fat cock every time it wanted attention, he’d never get anything else done!

Noticing Kayvon’s bare chest as if for the first time, Phil took off Kayon’s hoodie and handed it back to him.

“It was freezing in here when I woke up,” Phil explained.

But Kayvon didn’t mind sharing the hoodie. It looked good on Phil. Kayvon took a moment to find the tag and check the brand. The Flesh Lab. Seemed like a weird name for an athletic wear company. Regardless, he’d have to look them up and buy a hoodie for Phil.

“Let’s get you one, then we can be twinsies.” Kayvon laughed.

“Yeah, totally, ‘cause we look so much a like.” Phil laughed too and gave Kayvon his sparkling smile as he served breakfast.

The food was amazing, and Kayvon couldn’t believe how much he ate. Gotta feed those muscles, Phil said. Satiated, Kayvon was ready for that morning fuck.

But after breakfast, Phil actually had other ideas. A surprise, something secret.

They took a shower, barely able to keep their hands and lips off of each other, and then dressed.

Kayvon wore his khaki shorts, which seemed shorter than usual as his hairy legs had grown longer, and a white tank top under a light, pink short sleeved button down. Back when he was still Kevin, his complexion had been too pale to wear pink or white well, although he still tried. But now pink and white looked amazing against his dark skin. And with his new hairy muscles, his normally loose tank was skin tight and filled out in all the right places. His hairy black pecs practically fell out of the front of his shirt, and he was a little unsure about showing off so much hairy cleavage, but Phil approved.

Phil had packed an overnight bag and left it in his truck, in anticipation that he might stay over, so he changed into a tight black t-shirt and cut off jeans that showed off his hairy legs too.

“On to the next step,” said Phil, once they were dressed and ready to go.

They took the keys off the wooden peg by the back door, and unlocked the boat house. Inside was the family pontoon boat.

“This thing is perfect,” Phil said. “Your cousin kept it up.”

Kayvon, who grew up in the suburbs before he moved to the city after college, had never driven a boat, because why would he? But Phil, who grew up on the lake, was an expert.

The boat started right up. With Phil driving, they cruised across the lake to the other side, where, amongst the trees, Kayvon could make out a restaurant with an outdoor bar and a large open patio facing the lake. Tables with umbrellas held shirtless revelers, drinking and dancing. Music and laughter floated across the water. As they approached in the boat, Kayvon could see all the muscular, hairy men swimming and splashing near the shore. Were there any women?

They docked the boat next to all the others, and walked up the stone path to join the party.

“A gay couple own this restaurant and they host a monthly thing,” Phil explained. “Bottomless mimosas, and bears!”

Phil’s eyes went straight to Kayvon’s hairy muscular pecs, and he grinned.

Holy shit, Phil brought him to a bear party!

All around were hairy, shirtless men of various sizes and colors, some short, some tall, some muscular, some fat. Many were bald, most were bearded, and nearly all were covered in hair.

Kayvon hesitated at the top of the path.

“I don’t know, man.” It was one thing for Kayvon to be hairy, muscular, and black in the privacy of the lake house, but another thing altogether to be out in public, surrounded by other guys, bears even, who had way more experience and confidence than he did.

“Don’t worry, you look great,” Phil said, no doubt trying to read Kayvon’s reaction. “If you don’t want to stay, we can leave.”

But Kayvon was curious. He wanted to see this new world, and find his place in it, plus his cock was already stirring in his shorts just looking at all the hair and muscle.

So, Phil paid their entrance, and took Kayvon’s hand as they walked through the crowd to the bar. Kayvon tried to act casual, like holding another dude’s hand was an everyday thing. (As if being a hairy Black dude was an everyday thing, which it was quickly becoming.) His cock felt suddenly thick and heavy, whether that was from holding hands, or being surrounded by so many hot hairy dudes, was unclear.

The bar was under an awning on the back patio of the restaurant. Strings of lights hung overhead and created a nice, inviting ambiance. No one would ever know there was a pandemic happening, the way these hairy shirtless men were partying. No masks, nothing.

A stocky, muscular, East Asian man with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed mustache was mixing the drinks. He was shirtless, but tight, black leather bands were buckled around each of his thick biceps. His chest was completely hairless, but a wide black treasure trail grew up his cobbled abs. Looking at all that straight, black hair fanned out over the the bartender’s abs made Kayvon’s already excited cock stretch further down his leg. The man smiled when he noticed Kayvon staring, and Kayvon found himself smiling back demurely, lowering his eyes like a tease. He felt his cock head edge toward the opening of his foreskin, that’s how hard he’d gotten!

Damn, what was this world he was entering, this world of hot men. Had it always existed? Had men always been this hot and Kayvon simply never noticed back when he was Kevin?

Phil ordered mimosas for the two of them, and as the bartender poured the drinks, Kayvon studied the path of dark hair leading down into the Asian man’s black leather shorts. He tried to envision the bartender’s cock. He bet it was thick, like the rest of him, and uncut. Darker skinned than the rest of his body, like Phil and Diego’s were. Kayvon imagined getting fucked by that cock, by the bartender taking him from behind while he bent over the arm of the brown sofa. The bartender’s thick, uncut cock spreading Kayvon’s ass cheeks wide and penetrating him hard. Kayvon imagined his ass was the first hairy black ass the man ever fucked, and he liked that. He liked the idea of giving the bartender a new experience and expanding his horizons.

Jesus, what were these thoughts?

Never mind that until a few weeks ago Kayvon had been a scrawny white guy named Kevin with barely a dozen hairs on his chest, and that the bartender was more muscular and masculine than Kevin had ever been, or that Kevin would never have found men a turn on back then to begin with, let alone Asian men with hairy abs. So, who was expanding whose horizons?

As the bartender put orange slices on the rims of their glasses and passed the drinks across the bar, Kayvon met his eyes again and blushed. The bartender smiled, his dark eyes becoming arches.

Kayvon reached for his wallet. “Let me get it,” he said, eager to think about something else, but Phil already had his card out and insisted on paying yet again.

“I want to make sure you have a good time. Don’t worry about it,” Phil said.

So Kayvon thanked Phil and dipped down to give him a kiss. (Funny how he was taller than Phil now!)

That Phil had been to this monthly party many times before was obvious from all of the hellos and waves he gave and received. And maybe it was simply because of Kayvon’s new height, and the fact that most men came up to his chest now, but Kayvon couldn’t count the number of men who stared at his hairy pecs as they walked by. So much so that he wanted to say, hey, man, my eyes are up here. Guys couldn’t keep their eyes off his hairy chest, but it was a bear party after all. He should expect to get ogled, being that he’d grown so hairy himself.

Was this how women felt when they were in a room full of men?

And while Kayvon wasn’t the only Black guy at the party, he was by far the hairiest, and the most muscular, which gave him a twist of guilt. He’d done nothing to earn this body, why should he be the one to enjoy it? It didn’t seem fair.

They put down their drinks on a tall open table. Phil immediately stripped off his black t-shirt. He ran his big hands across his muscles, not so much to feel them up as to run them over all the hair, get that hair fluffed up and looking good, as if no one would have noticed it otherwise.

Kayvon couldn’t help but watch, entranced. His cock uncomfortably hard down his pant leg, the head threatening to revel itself out of the bottom of his shorts.

“Jesus Christ,” Kayvon said, pulling down the leg of his shorts. Why didn’t he wear longer ones? Did he even have any? God, was this going to be a lifelong problem now?

Phil laughed, suddenly aware of what was happening. He stepped over and put his fingers up the leg of Kayvon’s shorts, feeling around for Kayvon’s cock head.

Kayvon gasped as Phil’s fingers found his foreskin and pulled gently. The skin slid down, well past the head, giving Kayvon some sweet relief, but still, the warm grip of Phil’s hand was stimulating. Kayvon’s lips couldn’t help but find Phil’s lips, and they connected passionately, tongues working tongues.

Phil reached up to Kayvon’s chest with his other hand and slipped the pink button down off of Kayvon’s body, revealing Kayvon’s hairy shoulders and upper arms, and no doubt, as the shirt slid lower, his hairy upper back. Kayvon, feeling exposed, and not quite sure if he wanted everyone to see just how hairy he was, nonetheless didn’t struggle. Next, Phil took both hands and pulled up Kayvon’s tight white tank top, pulled it all the way up, as Kayvon lifted his arms, up and over Kayvon’s head, until he too was shirtless. His bare upper body on display, in all it’s hairy black glory. And if anyone saw Kayvon’s uncut cock head slip briefly out of the bottom of his shorts, well then, that was their bonus.

But Kayvon and Phil were so closely wound together at this point, that such a thing would have been hard to see. Their muscular arms around each other, they pressed their hairy upper bodies together while they kissed and made out. The men around them watched eagerly, growling and woofing.

What was this world, this life, this gay experience, that Kayvon suddenly found himself thrust into? It felt like a dream, like he was living in someone else’s body, in Kayvon’s body, and someday the dream would end, someday it would all be over, and Kevin would wake up back in his own body, straight, and white, and small. All the hair and muscles gone. The foreskin gone. And he would go back to his old life in the city as though none of this every happened. As if he’d never once been muscular, or hairy, or black. As if he’d never kissed a man, or sucked a dick, or taken a cock up the ass.

It couldn’t be permanent, any of this wonderful dream. How could it be?

Kayvon couldn’t answer that question any more than he could explain how he might somehow turn back into Kevin. His old life seemed so far away, gone forever.

That thought, that this life might actually be permanent, that this might really be who he was now, Kayvon, Kaybear, a hairy, muscular Black man, gave him pause, and he pulled away from Phil.

“You alright?” Phil asked. He smiled up at Kayvon, but there was a look of concern in his eyes.

“Yeah, just need a break.” Kayvon pulled down the legs of his shorts again, trying to keep his hard cock hidden. He smiled awkwardly, somewhat ashamed that he was holding Phil back again.

So many guys were watching him, smiling and making eyes at him. Jesus. “Everyone is looking at us anyway.”

“They’re just jealous.”

“Of what?”

“You know they all want you to fuck them, right?”

“What?”

“Yeah, they want that big black cock up their asses.”

Holy shit. Was that true? The thought of putting his cock in an ass made Kayvon’s own cock wither. No way was he fucking some dude up the ass! He could only imagine how hairy all these dudes’ asses were and that only further turned him off.

Although, he now knew from experience that it could feel good, someone stroking their cock head along the hairs on your ass, up and down your hairy crack, driving in and out of your hole as they hit your prostrate.

The thought of it started to get him hard again, but the thought of doing all that to someone else? No way.

“You don’t seem very thrilled about the idea,” Phil observed with a chuckle.

“Me fucking these dudes?” Kayvon wasn’t sure what to say. He’d never thought about fucking men. He’d only ever fucked women, somehow, back in the past, back when he was someone else, in a life that seemed further and further away from who he was now. How had he done that, had sex with women? No, not him, Kevin. Kevin had done that. Kayvon would never fuck a woman, or a man. Who would even take his big cock?

“Ironic, ain’t it?” Kayvon said. “All this cock goin’ to waste - but not this ass!”

They both laughed at that, and Kayvon felt better with the knowledge, the realization that he did prefer to bottom. Who wouldn’t? He thought of his dildo arriving soon, and that made him happy too. He couldn’t wait to put that dildo to use. God, what the fuck was happening to him?

There was a space for dancing in front of the DJ table, and Phil took Kayvon by the hand and led him into the crowd of hairy, shirtless men, all moving to the beat.

As Kevin, he’d only been to clubs with women, or to score women. He’d never danced with so many men, certainly not half naked, bare chested men. He could smell their sweat slicked bodies, and feel their hairy muscles brush against his own hairy body. Hair against hair, muscle against muscle, sweat mixing with sweat.

Kayvon and Phil pulsed and throbbed to the music. Kayvon backed his ass up into Phil’s crotch, and began to grind up against him.

Kayvon had to keep one hand on his cock, which was in a constant semi-hard state. He had a difficult time keeping it angled so it didn’t extend beyond the bottom of his shorts, but the more he held it, the more his mind focused on it, and the harder, and longer, and thicker it got. He could feel the head trying to emerge from its dark foreskin.

Phil couldn’t help but notice Kayvon’s struggle. With a grin he asked, “You want some help taking care of that?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Kayvon smiled.

They went into the restaurant, into the men’s room, and took the last stall.

Kayvon immediately dropped his shorts and pulled his hard cock swung out, too heavy to rise straight up. It bobbed, terrifying and bestial. It had to be eleven inches by now, as thick as a Coke bottle, and the whole thing covered in thick, veiny foreskin, the bottom half especially dark and coarse with all the kinky black hair that grew up the shaft. He was rock hard, and his cock head should have pushed its way out of the opening by now, but that skin still covered the head, like it wasn’t so short any more. Had it grown longer? Was the skin long enough to cover the head even when hard now? Sure seemed like it.

Holding up his cock with one hand, Kayvon slid the foreskin down with the other, and nearly gasped at the feeling of the cool air on his cock head. The skin had definitely grown longer. It took not one tug, or two, but three to skin it all the way back! And holy shit, his cock head looked a little different too, not so much in shape or size, but in color. Maybe it was just so full of blood, but it didn’t look as pink as it usually did. The head looked darker, more a brownish red than pink. Still, it contrasted with the rest of his black cock, even if it no longer looked like his old cock head at all.

Kayvon felt Phil’s hands running across the hairy globes of his ass, interrupting his thoughts. And then he felt Phil’s leaking, cut cock press against his hairy ass crack, and try to split Kayvon’s furry ass cheeks apart!

Jesus, Phil wanted to fuck him right there in the men’s room!

Kayvon looked over his should to see Phil grinning, lust in his eyes.

“You got me so hard, babe.” Phil ran a hand up and down Kayvon’s hairy, muscular back. “So much hair and muscle. How am I so lucky?”

Phil pressed him against the side of the stall, and Kayvon noticed a hole in the thin wall, and an eyeball looking up at him!

“Holy shit, there’s a glory hole in here!”

“Please, man,” came a voice through the hole. “I need that black cock down my throat.”

Kayvon saw a fifty dollar bill slide into the hole. The dude was offering money to suck his cock!

Jesus!

Kayvon looked back at Phil for some sign of what to do, but Phil was more concerned with fucking Kayvon’s ass, busy using his dripping cock to lube up Kayvon’s hole.

There was another rustle, and a second fifty dollar bill slid inside the first! A hundred dollars! To suck his cock! With a hundred dollars he could easily pay Phil back and even take him out to dinner. Around here, a hundred dollars went pretty far. Still, Kayvon hesitated. Hi buddy Durant would be like, girl, get it. Get that money and a blow job too!

Phil said, “Do it. Let him suck your cock, while I fuck your ass.”

Holy shit!

Kayvon took the money. He’d never done this type of thing before, because why would he have, but it seemed pretty straight foreword. He slipped his cock through the hole. It fit. Barely.

“They must’ve drilled this hole for white boy cock,” Kayvon said of the tight fit.

From over his shoulder Phil chuckled. “That’s what we got the most around here.”

There came a quivering voice from the other side of the wall. “Uncut! Oh, my god. Uncut!”

And then the pleasure of a warm tongue under his foreskin (His foreskin!) caused Kayvon to toss his head back, while simultaneously, Phil pushed his cut cock into Kayvon’s puckering hole. Kayvon shuddered with delight, unable to do more than moan and groan, words, let alone sentences, failing to fall from his lips.

This experience was yet again a different kind of fucking, a more upright kind of fucking. While Kayvon humped the wall before him, and fucked the face of whoever was on the other side, Phil, from behind, drove his cock up Kayvon’s hairy ass, hitting his prostrate with every thrust.

Never in his life did Kevin think he would be here, getting fucked in the ass, while a stranger sucked his cock. But he couldn’t think of things that way. Of course they wouldn’t happen to Kevin, but to Kayvon, the world was a whole different set of possibilities. Kayvon, Black, muscular, hairy, and hung, had new opportunities open to him, and he couldn’t wait to explore.

[thefleshlab]

A New Hood: The Lake House 8

They were barely inside the door before Kayvon and Phil began kissing and groping each other: pecs, biceps, asses. So different from Kayvon’s experience with Diego, who didn’t express any affection.

Kayvon unzipped his hoodie, presenting his broad hairy chest and Phil quickly stripped off his t-shirt, hardly even breaking a kiss to do so.

Phil, with a hungry smile, slid his hands across Kayvon’s furry pecs, up Kayvon’s muscular shoulders and down his arms, and slid the hoodie off Keyvon’s thick, muscular body. Then he greedily felt up Kayvon’s round shoulders and back, over all the curly black hair.

God, Kayvon’s cock was so fucking hard.

“Where do you want to do this?” Kayvon asked between a break from all the kissing.

“What happened to the shy guy who needed time to think?” Phil asked with a grin.

He got fucked in the ass last night.

“He came to his senses,” Kayvon said, which was no less accurate.

Smiling and licking his lips, Phil pulled down the waistband of Kayvon’s pants, and dropped them to the floor. Phil cupped the heavy bulge in the front of Kayvon’s red boxer briefs and Kayvon groaned. Kayvon’s hard uncut cock stretched out, threatening to burst through the fabric. (God, he was so uncut now! The head was completely covered!)

Kayvon, meanwhile, worked on opening Phil’s jeans. He undid the button, and unzipped the fly to find a pleasant surprise.

Phil was going commando again!

Phil’s cock sprang to full mast, hard, and cut, and two-toned. A dark circumcision scar separated the lighter top of the shaft from the darker bottom half. Kayvon marveled at it. Back when he was cut, his own cock had never had that much contrast. Although now, with his pink head and black foreskin, he could compete, but in a different way.

Kayvon took Phil’s cut cock in his hand, and ran his thumb around the rough, flared crown, making Phil moan. The head felt much drier and was not as smooth as Kayvon’s new uncut head. But overall, Phils’ cock was longer and thicker than Kayvon’s old white cock. Seven and a half inches at least, and a satisfying thickness. It was certainly not a cock anyone would ever complain about.

Jesus, Kayvon was holding another dude’s cock! Just like that, without even asking first or thinking twice! What the fuck?

He marveled at the feeling, the nostalgia even, of a cut cock in his hand. So tight and rigid. The flared head a contrast to the hard shaft, so different from Kayvon’s new uncut cock, which always felt a little soft now, even when hard. The shaft always had some movement because of the extra skin, and the uncut head wasn’t so much at the end of a hard shaft, as it was emerging from within the dark skin of it.

Phil’s hands were busy too. Before pulling Kayvon’s cock out of his shorts, Phil slid a hand along the shaft, stroking it through the red fabric, all the way up to the foreskin-covered head. Kayvon groaned from the sensation. His cock was so hard, but the skin hadn’t slid back!

Both of them marveled at the other’s cock at the same time. Phil caressed the end of Kayvon’s cock through the red fabric, and asked, “You uncut? Why’d I think you were cut?”

“I thought you didn’t see anything?” Kayvon said, reminding Phil of the moment they’d first seen each other through the window, while Kevin was naked.

Phil laughed. “I guess I really didn’t.”

Then he pulled down Kayvon’s boxer briefs and freed Kayvon’s hairy uncut cock, and balls.

Phil whistled as he took in the sight Kayvon’s cock. He slid the skin back to expose part of the head and smiled. He then stroked the cock from the base to the tip. The foreskin easily slid foreword, over and beyond the head of Kayvon’s cock.

“Shit, you’re hairy everywhere,” Phil said. His thumb grazed across the kinky black hairs that grew halfway up Kayvon’s shaft. “Even your cock.”

Kayvon didn’t know what to say. Yeah, he was hairy! He knew he should be ashamed about all the hair (Hair on his shaft?!), but mostly he no longer cared. He was too caught up in the pleasure of someone stroking his hairy cock. He enjoyed being hairy.

“‘Cause I’m a man,” he growled, and never felt any truer words come from his mouth.

“I know you must have some white in you if your head is this pink,” Phil said. “That’s what I heard at least.”

Was that true? It made sense in Kayvon’s case. Thank god some part of him hadn’t changed. Some part of his old body still remained.

The new size and length of Kayvon’s cock was such that it no longer stood up when hard, and it was very hard now. At best, it stood horizontally, or in this case, it leaned against Phil’s hairy abs, the pink head partly covered by the foreskin, which Phil had tried to slide down.

Kayvon shifted his hips side to side, so his cock rubbed itself against Phil’s hairy stomach, the foreskin slowly peeled further back from the motion, allowing the sensitive head to feel all that hair on Phil’s stomach. It was so painfully pleasurable, Even Kayvon’s nipples tingled. Kayvon arched his back and groaned from the pleasure. Phil took Kayvon’s cock in his hand and began sliding the skin up and down the shaft, over the head and back again.

Phil then rubbed Kayvon’s leaking precum into all the hair, making the thick center stripe of Phil’s wide treasure trail sticky and wet.

Kayvon was glad that his foreskin was short enough to retract. That it allowed the pink head to come out and experience the world. As someone who’d grown up cut, he liked seeing his cock head, liked getting pleasure from it, even if it had grown more sensitive over the last week or so as more foreskin grew over it. (Oh god, he had a foreskin now!) Especially the part on the underside, where the skin attached to the head. Jesus, that part was sensitive as fuck. But, he didn’t know what he’d do if the skin got too long, if the head didn’t slide out as easily as it did.

Kayvon, lost in ecstasy, ran a hand across Phil’s hairy chest, loving the smooth, straight hair that was so different from his own tightly curled chest hair hair. The hair grew close to Phil’s body, shadowing and accenting every curve of his muscles. Kayvon grabbed a handful of the thickest part, the center of Phils chest, and Phil groaned.

Phil took Kayvon’s cock and pressed Kayvon’s cock head against his own. He then tried to slide Kayvon’s foreskin over both their heads.

“Can we dock?” Phil asked, but despite Phil’s efforts, Kayvon’s foreskin proved to be too short, and wouldn’t stretch far enough.

Kayvon felt a pang of regret when he saw the look of disappointment on Phil’s face.

“You’re so lucky, man,” Phil said. “I hate being cut.”

Kayvon didn’t know what to say. Having experienced both sides now, he wasn’t ready to say that having a foreskin was better, not yet anyway. Although he was starting to think it was. More so, he wasn’t ready to say that circumcised cocks were bad.

“Cut cocks can feel good,” Kayvon said, which probably made no sense, because what experience did Phil think he possibly had? But Kayvon thought Phil was so hot, and his two-toned cock was hot too. He didn’t want Phil to hate any part of his body, especially not a part that was so important.

Phil smiled that smile.

And then, as if to prove what he said, that he thought cut cocks were hot, Kayvon was suddenly on his knees, level with Phil’s cock. He couldn’t be sure how he got to his knees, was he guided, did he go down of his own desire, a little of both? It didn’t matter, because there he was, confronted with Phil’s cut cock, and all he wanted to do was make it feel good.

Kayvon licked his lips, not out of hunger but in preparation for what he was about to do, suck Phil off!

Kayvon appreciated his new, fuller lips even more as they wrapped around Phil’s cock head. Phil, from up above, groaned in pleasure, and put his strong, calloused hands on Kayvon’s head and hairy shoulders to help guide him.

But Kayvon had received quite a few good blowjobs back when he was Kevin, when he was still circumcised, and quite a few more bad ones, so he knew very well what to do, and how to make a cut cock feel good. He worked Phil’s cock with his tongue, and mouth. His big thick lips sucking and kissing and squeezing.

Some part of Kayvon’s mind, the part that was Kevin, that remembered being thin, and white, and small, couldn’t help recalling all the times he’d been called a cocksucker. He’d never taken the slur seriously. He laughed it off, as if. But, occasionally, like most men, he’d been insulted by the implication that he was gay, that he was a fag, or that he enjoyed sucking off dudes like he was a woman.

But now, with an actual cock in his mouth for the first time ever, he couldn’t help but feel some regret that he hadn’t done this sooner.

Jesus! He didn’t understand these feelings, but, damn, if he didn’t enjoy sucking on Phil’s cock.

Phil seemed to be enjoying it too, from the moans and groans, and sounds he made. He slid his hands across Kayvon’s hairy shoulders and upper back. Damn! Kayvon was distracted by the feeling of those hands sliding across his hairy muscles. God, being hairy got him so hard! While he held onto Phil’s thick hairy leg, his other hand massaged his own cock head through his foreskin, finding it too sensitive to touch the head directly. He had to use that skin as a buffer, use his foreskin to jerk himself off.

But that was all secondary pleasure, the hands on his hairy back and shoulders, the foreskin massaging his cock. Right now, Kayvon’s real pleasure came from having Phil’s hard cut cock between his thick lips.

Kayvon sucked and worked Phil’s cock with his mouth until Phil had to pull away, gasping for breath, and begged to stop.

“Not yet, not like this. I’m trying to save it.”

Kayvon wiped his lips with the back of a broad, hairy hand. His mustache and bearded chin were wet with saliva and who knew what else.

“How about the bed?” Kayvon asked, and Phil gave an eager nod.

Kayvon was still not used to walking around naked with his heavy, thick cock swinging between his legs. Even less so when it was hard and jutting out in front of him. With one hand he grabbed his cock and help it up, to keep it from swinging, and with his other hand he cupped his low hanging balls to keep them still too.

Kayvon laid back onto the white bedsheets and Phil climbed atop him.

Back when he was Kevin, Kayvon, had been in this position before, on his back during sex, but that was so a woman could ride him, so she could be on top. This time was different. This time a man, hairy, hard, and muscular, was pushing his legs apart and grinning down at him from above. This time he was going to be topped in a different way!

“You look beautiful,” Phil said. He stroked Kayvon’s bearded cheek, and rubbed his hairy pecs. Kayvon felt himself blush. No one had ever spoken to him like that, no woman he was ever with, and certainly not Diego last night.

Kayvon felt beautiful too, dark and hairy against the white sheets. His hard cock stretched and climbed up his abs. The pink head emerged sticky and leaking from Kayvon’s black foreskin to leak all over his hairy stomach.

“This okay?” Phil asked as he placed Kayvon’s legs over his shoulders. Kayvon nodded, and then Phil’s cock head was at his ass, prodding Kayvon’s hairy crack.

“So much hair,” Phil said. “I like it.”

So does Diego.

Kayvon, who, for the most part, was still not used to being so hairy, who up until a week ago, barely had hair on his body, let alone his ass, was still not sure how he felt about the hairy ass situation. On the one hand he was ashamed. He didn’t want to be hairy! Especially in such an intimate place. And to have someone commenting on his hairiness, to feel so revealed and exposed, pained Kayvon with shame. But on the other hand, being hairy felt so good.

Phil’s hard cock brushed against the curly black hairs on Kayvon’s ass and sent waves of pleasure through Kayon’s body, to his cock and to his nipples. His erection was painfully hard, but not tight, thanks to his new foreskin, which kept the shaft skin loose.

Phil had come equipped with lube, which he spread on Kayvon’s crack. Kayvon stifled a whimper every time Phil so much as brushed his hole.

“Another down side to being cut,” Phil said as he lubed up his cock. “I need a lot of this.”

With Kayvon’s legs still over Phil’s shoulders, Phil rested the head of his cock against Kayvon’s puckering hole and paused there.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Phil said. “We’ll do this together.”

Phil was so sweet, trying to be gentle and thoughtful. Kayvon felt a little guilty about getting fucked last night. He didn’t want to seem too eager, too ready for another cock in his ass, but he was!

Just fuck me already! Kayvon thought.

“I’m ready,” Kayvon said, and then gasped as Phil pushed his cut cock in and penetrated Kayvon’s hairy ass.

This time the fucking was different. Kayvon’s mind did not immediately merge with his hole. This time he was able to keep his sense of self as Phil slid in and out. For one thing, no sooner was Phil in him, then his face was above Kayvon’s, nuzzling and kissing him.

Phil stroked a hand across Kayvon’s hairy pecs, and tweaked a nipple as he fucked in and out of Kayvon’s hairy ass with a steady gliding rhythm.

Where last night had been a pounding, tonight was a love making and it felt wonderful.

So, this was what it’s like, Kayvon thought, this was how people got addicted to anal sex, this was how people turned gay. He had a moment of panic then. Was that happening to him? Was he turning gay? No, Kayvon was gay already. He’d felt that from the beginning, but the part of him that was Kevin, the part that was skinny and straight, was that part turning gay too? Was even Kevin gay now? Kayvon’s cock pulsed at the thought.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Phil said in a hushed voice.

“No, it’s great.” How could this ever be too much? This could go on for decades and it would never be enough.

As Phil thrust in and out, Kayvon’s knees rose higher, compressed toward his chest. His hard cock slid backwards up and down his abs, and the head, as it emerged from Kayvon’s foreskin, rubbed against the course black hairs. God, it was stimulating. Kayvon reached out to stroke his cock, felt how easily the skin slid over the head, shockingly fast. He was so hard, and his cock was so long now, and dripping. Kayvon discovered that if he allowed it to happen, if he let Phil press in and compress him more, and push his knees up even higher, Kayvon could reach his pecs with his cock! He could slot his cock head between his hairy pecs, while Phil thrust in and out! And if he flexed his pecs he could grip it! He could grip his uncut cock with his hairy pecs. And the pink head slid in and out with Phil’s every thrust. Holy shit, he could pec fuck himself!

While he was getting fucked in the ass, he could fuck his own uncut cock with his thick hairy pecs!

“Oh my god,” Phil said when he noticed what Kayvon was doing. “That’s so fucking hot!”

They began to thrust in harmony then. A cock in his ass, and a cock between his pecs! Too much! Kayvon couldn’t take it any more!

Kayvon called out in ecstasy and shot load after load over his hairy chest and bearded chin. Above him, Phil gasped and pulled out. He came too, adding to the cum on Kavon’s pecs and face.

Kayvon’s mind reeled. He’d never orgasmed like that before. He dropped his legs, and Phil collapsed onto Kayvon’s hairy chest, massaging the cum into the dense mat of Kayvon’s curly chest hair.

“That was incredible,” Kayvon said. “God damn.” He wiped off his face with his hands.

“Awesome. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Phil said. “The first time is always special.”

Right. The first time.

Kayvon wanted to say something, wanted to revise the timeline and let Phil know that, well, actually, the first time had been last night with Diego. But he didn’t know how, or even why, to bring it up. What would be the point? So, he stayed silent, and gave Phil a kiss on the head while they cuddled, cozy and warm in each other’s arms, until Kayvon fell asleep.