Evan had been hired to play a construction worker for a deliberately provocative fashion campaign: hard hat, reflective vest, tiny white briefs, and an oversized cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Give me tougher,” the photographer called.
Evan drew deeply on the cigar and stared through the glass wall as the camera flashed. The smoke tasted strangely sweet. Heavy.
His face changed first. Soft youth hardened into middle age within seconds—stubble spreading across his cheeks, lines pressing into his brow. Then his stomach lurched.
A huge weight burst outward beneath his tight shirt.
Evan gasped around the cigar as his abdomen inflated into a massive, hanging belly. His chest sagged, his waist vanished, and thick flesh packed itself around his hips, arms, neck, and thighs. The white briefs strained against his swelling body while the reflective vest was pushed helplessly aside.
The photographer never stopped shooting.
By the final flash, the handsome young model was gone. A heavy, middle-aged man stood in his place, breathing hard, cigar smoke curling around his bewildered face. His enormous belly protruded beneath the shirt, permanently reshaping his body.
Evan tried to pull the cigar from his mouth.
His hand refused.
Instead, he took another slow drag—and heard the photographer whisper:
Graham was everything Evan feared becoming: bald, broad, heavily bearded, and burdened with a belly so large it strained every shirt he owned. Most evenings, he sat on his porch in tight navy shorts, smoking thick cigars and laughing loudly enough for half the neighbourhood to hear.
Yet Evan watched him constantly.
He watched Graham’s big hand rest possessively beneath his stomach. He watched smoke curl around his bald head. He watched the older man move without shame, utterly comfortable in a body Evan should have found embarrassing.
Secretly, Evan admired him.
One warm evening, while staring across the fence, Evan felt a sudden pressure beneath his ribs. His modest stomach pushed outward against his palm, swelling smoothly and rapidly as though years of heavy meals were being packed into him at once.
“What the—?”
His beard erupted before he finished speaking. Dark stubble thickened across his jaw, spreading into a coarse full beard. His shoulders broadened, his chest softened, and his belly surged farther forward until he had to cradle it with both hands.
Then age struck.
Lines carved themselves around his eyes. Grey threaded through his beard. His hairline raced backward, leaving a smooth, shining crown surrounded only briefly by thinning remnants. Within minutes, those vanished too.
Evan staggered into the bathroom.
Graham’s body stared back at him.
Not merely similar—almost identical. The same heavy stomach. The same thick neck and powerful arms. The same bald scalp and dense greying beard. Even his shorts had tightened around larger thighs.
He should have screamed.
Instead, a deep laugh escaped him.
It sounded exactly like Graham’s.
Evan clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. The laughter continued between his fingers, rich and helpless, while unfamiliar memories settled inside him: evenings on the porch, the satisfying weight of a cigar between his teeth, the pleasure of smoke filling his lungs.
A wooden box waited on his kitchen table.
Inside lay twelve cigars.
The lid carried a simple inscription:
FOR THE MAN YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO BE.
Evan tried to throw them away. His hand refused to release the box.
By sunset, he was sitting in a wooden chair on his porch, his enormous belly exposed above his shorts. A cigar burned between his teeth. He hated the taste.
Then he inhaled again.
Across the fence, Graham raised his own cigar in greeting.
“Knew you’d come around,” he called.
Evan attempted to ask what had been done to him, but another booming laugh emerged instead. He rubbed his belly as though it had always belonged there and drew deeply on the cigar.
By morning, every photograph in his house had changed. Evan had always been bald. He had always been heavy. His family remembered decades of failed diets and constant cigar smoke.
Only Evan remembered the younger man he had been.
After several months, even that memory began to fade.
Every evening, two nearly identical men sat on neighbouring porches, laughing through clouds of smoke.
And sometimes Graham looked at Evan’s house, wondering why he could no longer remember ever having lived alone.
Daniel had been told not to touch anything in Uncle Martin’s study.
That warning made the room irresistible.
Martin was not really his uncle, merely his father’s oldest friend: a broad, ageing man with a taste for whisky, heavy cigars and antique furniture. While Martin spent three months travelling abroad, Daniel had been asked to check the house twice a week.
On the third visit, he poured himself a glass from Martin’s best bottle, removed his shirt and stood before the great mirror in the study. Then he opened the humidor.
“One cigar,” he said to his reflection. “He’ll never notice.”
The first draw filled his lungs with dense, sweet smoke. Daniel coughed, laughed and admired himself in the mirror with the cigar between his teeth. For a moment he imagined how Martin would look standing there.
Then his stomach cramped.
He staggered into the bathroom and gripped the basin. Something moved beneath his skin—not inside his belly, but across his entire body. His smooth chest prickled. Dark hair pushed through it in a thickening mat. His shoulders softened, his abdomen lost its definition and began to swell.
Daniel stared as a heavy beard spilled across his jaw in seconds.
“No. No, stop.”
The beard vanished just as suddenly.
For one hopeful moment, his face was his own again. Then it returned thicker, rougher and streaked with grey. His stomach expanded farther, rounding over the waistband of his jeans. His arms grew softer and heavier. Years carved themselves into his face, first ten, then twenty, then more.
His hairline retreated while he watched.
Daniel clutched at it, but every touch pulled away another handful. The crown opened into a widening bald patch. Grey curls remained only around the sides and back, framing a scalp that looked decades older than the terrified man beneath it.
His beard turned almost entirely silver.
By the time the transformation stopped, a stout, balding man nearing sixty stared back from the mirror. His chest and stomach were thickly furred. A pendulous belly strained his jeans. The only thing unchanged was the horror in his eyes.
Daniel tried to call his father.
His phone no longer recognised his face. His voice, when he attempted the passcode, emerged deep, gravelly and disturbingly similar to Martin’s.
The doctors found nothing wrong. His fingerprints no longer matched his identification. His blood suggested a man three decades older. Every photograph Daniel showed them looked like someone else.
After weeks of failed examinations, he visited a barber and asked for anything that might make him look younger.
The barber studied the sparse horseshoe of hair.
“There’s not much worth saving.”
Daniel sat in silence as the remaining grey curls were shaved away. Then the beard followed, leaving only a heavy silver moustache. It did not help. Without the hair, the age in his face looked even more complete.
Months passed.
Martin never returned.
His emails stopped. His telephone number was disconnected. When Daniel finally searched the study properly, he discovered that every photograph of Martin had changed. The man beside Daniel’s father now had Daniel’s old face: young, handsome and smiling beneath a full head of dark hair.
The cigar had not simply aged Daniel.
It had traded their places.
Daniel began sitting alone in the park each afternoon, dressed in Martin’s old undershirts and loose jeans because none of his former clothes fitted. He had tried giving up the cigars, but the cravings grew painful enough to make his hands shake.
Eventually, he lit another.
The first draw calmed him immediately.
Across the ocean, somewhere under a borrowed young face, Martin was enjoying the life he had stolen. And on the park bench, Daniel slowly exhaled, his permanent new belly rising beneath his shirt as smoke curled past the moustache that now felt as though it had always belonged there.
Ethan was alone, half-watching a late-night film when his television flickered.
The picture vanished beneath a wash of blue static. For one second, words appeared across the screen:
RELAX. YOU’VE EARNED IT.
Then something struck the back of his throat.
Ethan gagged. A thick cigar now protruded from between his lips, already lit, its tip glowing orange. He grabbed it, but his fingers froze before they could touch it. An invisible pressure forced his jaw closed around the tobacco.
Smoke poured into his lungs.
He had never smoked. He expected to cough, yet his body inhaled deeply and held the smoke with practised ease. A warm heaviness spread through his chest.
Hair erupted across his skin.
Fine stubble became a dark mat covering his pecs, stomach, shoulders and arms. Ethan stared as his lean abdomen softened. The sharp lines of his muscles blurred beneath new weight. His waistband tightened.
The cigar remained fixed between his teeth.
Another involuntary breath.
His belly pushed forward.
It did not grow gradually. It lurched outward in a sudden, sickening swell, becoming round and heavy enough to rest across his lap. His thighs thickened. His chest sagged beneath dense body hair. The leather chair groaned as his weight increased.
Ethan tried to scream around the cigar.
A sharp tingling crossed his scalp.
His dark hair greyed at the temples, then rapidly retreated. Strands loosened and slid down his shoulders while the crown of his head opened into a spreading bald patch. Within seconds, only a thin horseshoe remained around the sides.
His face changed next.
Lines carved themselves around his eyes. His jaw thickened. His cheeks grew heavier. The frightened young man reflected in the black television screen became a broad, balding stranger in his late forties.
The cigar finally dropped from his mouth.
Ethan gasped and tried to stand, but his new stomach pinned him against the chair. His remote slipped from trembling fingers.
The television returned to normal.
The film continued as though nothing had happened.
Beside the chair, a wooden cigar box had appeared. Ethan opened it with shaking hands. Inside were eleven identical cigars and a small card.
ONE EACH NIGHT. NO EXCEPTIONS.
He threw the box into the aquarium.
By morning, it was waiting on the kitchen table.
That evening, shortly before midnight, Ethan’s lungs began to ache. The pain grew until he could scarcely breathe. He understood what it wanted.
He lit the second cigar.
The agony stopped immediately.
Over the following weeks, the transformation settled into permanence. Doctors insisted he was healthy for a heavily overweight, middle-aged man. His fingerprints no longer matched his records. Facial-recognition software identified him as someone named Edward Crane, a man who had supposedly lived in the apartment for twenty-three years.
Even Ethan’s family remembered Edward.
No one remembered Ethan at all.
Each night, another cigar appeared between his lips at midnight. Each night, he became a little heavier, a little hairier and a little older.
Eventually, he stopped searching for a cure.
He bought a larger chair.
And when the television flickered blue one final time, Ethan—Edward—was already lighting the cigar before the words appeared.
Twenty-four-year-old Tyler went into the costume shop looking for something to wear to his swim team’s end-of-semester party. The theme was “movie characters,” and he decided that his mustache and swimmer’s physique made him perfect for some kind of Magic Mike costume. Near the back of the shop, Tyler found faded blue plumber’s coveralls with a stitched name patch reading MIKE. He grinned at the word play. A sexy blue-collar version of Magic Mike practically wrote itself.
The coveralls hung loosely from his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Tyler left the front partly unfastened, struck an exaggerated pose in the mirror, and buckled the heavy tool belt around his hips.
Then his stomach pushed against it. His tight swimmer’s body softened and expanded, his belly swelling into a huge, heavy gut that sagged over his waistband.
Gray spread through his hair as his handsome young face broadened and aged toward fifty. His chest remained powerful and hairy, but his waist grew thick and solid. His mustache became fuller while deep lines settled around his eyes.
As the changes slowed his cloudy mind grabbed his items and left the changing room - pausing in front of a vanity. He lifted his belly and stared at the burly plumber in the mirror.
For one fading moment, he remembered a swimming pool, a college campus, and a name that might have been Tyler. Then the memories slipped away.
Mike frowned at himself, wondering why he had wasted so much time posing in front of a mirror. He buttoned his coveralls over his belly, checked the tools on his belt, and headed out to the van. He had three service calls left before dinner and he was starving!
Grant Holloway had spent twelve years building his body.
Every meal was weighed. Every workout was logged. Every gram of protein had a purpose. At thirty-four, he had shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway, arms that strained the sleeves of every shirt he owned, and abdominal muscles so sharply defined that strangers occasionally asked whether they were real.
That morning, he stood in his private gym wearing nothing but olive-green training shorts and a thin gold chain, admiring the results of his latest cutting phase.
“Two hundred and forty pounds,” he told his reflection in the dark window. “Eight percent body fat.”
He flexed one arm.
The muscle rose like a cannonball.
Grant smiled.
Then he reached for the plastic shaker sitting beside the squat rack.
It looked exactly like his usual one. Black lid, transparent body, chocolate-coloured liquid inside. His nutrition company sent him boxes of experimental supplements all the time, and he had stopped checking the labels months ago.
He took a long drink.
The flavour was unusually rich.
Not unpleasant. Just heavier than his ordinary shake, with a strange buttery sweetness beneath the chocolate.
Grant frowned at the bottle.
“New formula?”
He drank the rest anyway.
A body like his required fuel.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then his stomach growled.
Not the quiet sound of hunger. It was a deep, rolling vibration that seemed to come from somewhere beneath his abdominal muscles.
Grant lowered the shaker.
“What the hell?”
His skin prickled.
A wave of heat flowed through his chest, shoulders and arms. At first, he smiled. Perhaps the new formula contained some unusually strong pre-workout ingredient.
Then his abdominal muscles twitched.
One by one, the hard ridges beneath his skin softened.
Grant stared down.
His six-pack blurred.
The clean lines around each muscle seemed to melt, as though a warm hand were smoothing them from beneath. His waist widened by an inch, then another. The skin over his stomach loosened and pushed outward.
“No.”
Grant grabbed his belly.
It had never felt like that before.
Soft.
There was a layer between his fingers and the muscle beneath.
He squeezed harder, horrified by the small fold that appeared around his navel.
“No, no, no.”
His chest shifted.
The enormous pectorals he had built through years of bench presses remained massive, but their hard, square shape began to sag. Flesh accumulated beneath them, making them heavier and rounder.
Grant stumbled toward the mirror mounted beside the weight rack.
His face looked fuller.
A slight swelling had appeared beneath his chin.
The shaker dropped from his hand and bounced across the rubber floor.
Grant rushed toward it, snatched it up and turned it over.
A faded sticker had been placed beneath the usual label.
He peeled it back.
RETIREMENT BULK — RAPID MASS FORMULA
Underneath, in smaller writing:
For former strength athletes seeking a permanent transition to maximum comfort mass. Not intended for active competitors. Results cannot be reversed.
Grant’s mouth fell open.
“Permanent?”
His stomach answered with another growl.
The waistband of his shorts tightened.
He watched his belly expand in the mirror, round and heavy, pressing outward until it covered the drawstring. His once narrow waist vanished beneath new layers of flesh.
Grant sucked in.
Nothing happened.
He flexed his abdomen.
The muscles were still there somewhere, but they were disappearing beneath an increasingly thick cushion of fat.
His weight rose so quickly that the floor creaked.
“Stop!”
Grant slapped both hands against his stomach as though he could physically hold it back.
The flesh continued to swell between his fingers.
His sides widened. His chest dropped lower. His powerful thighs thickened until the fabric of his shorts stretched tight against them.
Then his scalp began to itch.
Grant froze.
“No.”
He ran a hand through his thick dark hair.
Several strands remained between his fingers.
His eyes widened.
He touched it again.
More hair came loose.
Within seconds, the floor around him was covered with short dark clumps.
Grant clawed desperately at his head, but every touch made the shedding worse. His hairline raced backward across his scalp. The dense hair at his crown thinned, revealing a widening circle of bare skin.
“Not the hair too!”
The last strands on top released together.
Grant stared into the mirror at a broad, shiny bald scalp surrounded by only the faintest shadow.
A tingling sensation spread across his upper lip.
Dark hairs pushed through the skin.
Grant wiped at them, but they grew beneath his palm, thickening into a heavy moustache that extended across his mouth. Within half a minute, it had become dense, dark and unmistakably old-fashioned.
His cheeks remained clean.
The moustache alone transformed his face.
Combined with the bald head, expanding jowls and swollen neck, it made Grant look less like a competitive bodybuilder and more like a retired wrestling coach who spent his evenings telling stories at the local bar.
He stared at himself.
“No,” he whispered.
His voice sounded deeper.
Then the final surge began.
His belly pushed forward with terrifying speed.
Grant staggered backward as his centre of gravity changed. The round mass grew beyond his chest, beyond his hands, forcing his arms apart. His abdominal skin stretched over it, covered in a thickening mat of dark hair.
His gold chain disappeared into the folds beneath his neck.
His chest became broad, soft and heavy. His shoulders remained enormous, but much of their definition vanished. His arms still carried traces of muscle beneath the flesh, yet they were now thick, bulky limbs rather than sculpted competition arms.
The yellow drawstring of his shorts looked absurdly small beneath the vast dome of his stomach.
Grant’s breathing became laboured.
At last, the growth stopped.
Silence filled the gym.
Grant stood motionless between the squat rack and the bench, holding the empty shaker in one hand.
He looked down.
His belly blocked his view of his own feet.
He lifted it with both hands.
It was shockingly heavy.
When he released it, it settled over the waistband of his shorts with a soft bounce.
Grant’s eyes filled with panic.
“I was supposed to compete next month.”
A notification sounded from his phone.
He lumbered over to the bench, moving with an unfamiliar rolling gait, and picked it up.
There was a message from his sponsor.
Did the new cutting formula arrive? Blue label, silver lid.
Grant looked toward the shaker on the floor.
Black lid.
A second message arrived.
Whatever you do, don’t use the brown sample. That one belongs to Walter. He’s our retired strongman ambassador.
Grant slowly typed a reply.
I drank it.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Then vanished.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
All of it?
Grant swallowed.
Yes.
The phone rang.
He answered.
“Grant?” his manager said. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Grant turned the camera toward himself.
There was a long silence.
“Oh,” the manager whispered.
Grant’s moustache trembled.
“Fix it.”
“We can contact the laboratory.”
“Good.”
“But the formula was designed to override metabolic resistance permanently.”
“Fix it!”
“We’ll try.”
Grant stared at his reflection while the manager continued speaking. Bald. Moustached. Vastly overweight. Still powerful, perhaps, but buried beneath an enormous body that no longer resembled the one he had spent half his life creating.
On the workbench, his untouched meal-prep container waited.
Plain chicken.
Broccoli.
Rice measured to the gram.
The sight of it suddenly seemed unbearable.
A new scent drifted into his awareness from the kitchen upstairs.
Bread.
Butter.
Something sweet.
Grant’s stomach rumbled so loudly that the manager heard it through the phone.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Grant disconnected the call.
He climbed the stairs slowly, one heavy step at a time. His belly shifted with each movement. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was sweating.
On the counter sat a box of pastries his neighbour had brought over the previous evening.
Grant had planned to throw them away.
He opened the box.
Six remained.
He ate the first while standing.
Then the second.
By the fourth, his panic had begun to fade beneath a warm, sleepy satisfaction.
Grant caught his reflection in the microwave door. The bald man with the thick moustache stared back at him, crumbs caught against his chest hair.
“This isn’t me,” he said.
His reflection looked unconvinced.
The laboratory confirmed the worst two days later.
There was no reversal.
The formula had not merely added fat. It had rewritten his body’s preferred state, changing his appetite, metabolism, hair growth and hormone balance. Dieting might reduce a few pounds, but his old physique would never return.
His sponsor cancelled the competition contract.
Three fitness companies dropped him.
His social media followers assumed the photographs were fake until Grant posted a video stepping onto a scale.
Three hundred and eighty-six pounds.
The clip received twelve million views.
For several weeks, he hid at home.
Then one afternoon, someone knocked on his door.
It was Walter—the retired strongman for whom the shake had been intended.
Walter was nearly seventy, enormous, bald and moustached, with a belly even larger than Grant’s. He wore suspenders over a white undershirt and carried two grocery bags.
He looked Grant up and down.
“So you’re the poor bastard who drank my breakfast.”
Grant folded his arms.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.” Walter stepped inside. “I think it’s familiar.”
He placed the bags on the kitchen table. Inside were steaks, potatoes, bread, cheese and several bottles of beer.
Grant stared at them.
“I don’t drink beer.”
Walter glanced at the empty pastry box.
“Not yet.”
They ate together.
Walter explained that the formula had been created for ageing strength athletes whose bodies had been damaged by decades of extreme dieting. It was supposed to make retirement easier: reduce joint strain, increase appetite, encourage rest and replace obsessive competition with contentment.
“The problem,” Walter said, patting his own belly, “is that you took a full dose while your metabolism was still running like a furnace. It hit you all at once.”
Grant looked down at his stomach.
“So this is forever.”
“Probably.”
“My career is over.”
“Your old career.”
Walter leaned back.
“You still know more about training than almost anyone. You just don’t look like the advertisement anymore.”
Grant scowled.
Walter smiled.
“Maybe that’s useful.”
Six months later, Grant returned to the gym.
Not as a competitor.
As a coach.
His first new client was a nervous nineteen-year-old who had been starving himself because an influencer had said carbohydrates destroyed muscle definition.
Grant listened quietly.
Then he lifted his shirt, revealing the vast hairy belly beneath.
“I used to measure lettuce,” he said.
The young man stared.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. It made me miserable.”
Grant wrote a sensible training plan and ordered him to eat dinner with his family.
Word spread.
Grant became known as the coach who understood obsession because he had lived it. His videos changed. Instead of posing beneath perfect lighting, he talked about injuries, unrealistic expectations and the difference between being strong and merely looking strong.
His audience grew larger than before.
He never regained his old body.
His weight settled at just over four hundred pounds. The moustache became his trademark. Eventually, he stopped shaving the rest of his face and grew a short beard around it, although the top of his head remained completely bare.
He also remained surprisingly powerful.
One afternoon, a loaded barbell slipped from a rack.
Grant caught it against his enormous stomach, adjusted his grip and casually lifted it back into place.
The entire gym fell silent.
Grant looked around.
“What?”
Someone began laughing.
Soon everyone joined in, including Grant.
That evening, he found the old shaker at the back of a cupboard.
He turned it over in his hands.
For a moment, he remembered the man he had been: chiselled, disciplined, admired—and terrified of missing a single workout.
Then Grant looked at his reflection.
A huge bald man with a dark moustache, broad shoulders, a mountain of a belly and a life he had never planned.
He placed the shaker in the rubbish.
From the kitchen came the smell of dinner.
Grant smiled.
The wrong shake had ruined the body he had built.
But, inconveniently, it had also forced him to build something else.
By the time the fourth phone's Scruff profile was activated, none of the four friends sitting at the dining room table were laughing quite as naturally as before.
(Pictured Left to Right: Phil, Don, Ralph & Tom)
Tom’s house had always been their safest gathering place. It sat at the quiet end of a suburban street, comfortably furnished but still half-decorated, as though Tom had moved in months ago and had never committed to where everything belonged. The dining room opened directly into the living room, where a warm floor lamp cast amber light across the couch, the darkened windows, and the crowded wooden table.
There were cards, poker chips, bowls of pretzels and tortilla chips, four beers, and four phones displaying newly created Scruff profiles.
They all knew the rules. One current photograph. No filters. No false ages. No changing the location radius. Each player would transform into the first man that messaged them. Not just his face. Everything.
Age, height, weight, dick, voice, posture, health, mannerisms. Even personality would begin to bleed across, along with fragments of memory from the stranger’s life. The player’s own mind would remain underneath it all, but the longer the night went on, the harder it might become to tell where one man ended and the other began.
They were not allowed to answer the messages. The strangers would never know what had happened.
Phil had been the one to discover the game, or at least the instructions for it, buried in an old online TUMBLR called Hairy-Bothered, which was devoted to transformation stories that everyone insisted were fictional. He had brought it up as a joke months ago. Don had dared him to prove it was real. Ralph had spent two weeks researching every version of the ritual he could find, then concluded that it was probably fake. Tom had volunteered his house.
Now, with the profiles active, “fake” no longer felt like the right word.
“Last chance,” Don said.
At thirty, he was the oldest of the group and behaved as if that made him responsible for the others, despite the fact that he was usually the one pushing them toward bad decisions. His thick brown hair was styled into a deliberate wave, and his heavy mustache gave him an old-fashioned athletic confidence he clearly enjoyed. Even seated, he held himself like a man posing for a locker-room photograph—shoulders back, arms apart, gray T-shirt stretched neatly across his chest.
Phil glanced at him. “You were the one who said backing out would be pathetic.”
“I said backing out after uploading the picture would be pathetic.”
“That is where we are now, dummy!” Ralph reminded him.
Ralph, twenty-six, sat across from Don in a black short-sleeved shirt with NAUGHTY printed in large red letters across the chest. His dark hair was carefully styled and his mustache looked almost too precise, as though he had trimmed it immediately before coming over. He was normally the most cautious of them, the one who checked rideshare license plates and made sure everyone had charged phones.
Tom sat at the right end of the table, younger than all of them at twenty-five, wearing a red Lacoste polo and khakis. He was smiling at his phone in a way that made Don narrow his eyes.
“You’re hoping for somebody old,” Ralph said.
Tom shrugged. “Not old. Mature.”
“You have been saying that since you were twenty-one.”
“What can I say? I know what I like” Tom smirked.
Phil shifted in his chair. His blue henley made his fair skin and short blond hair look even lighter beneath the warm lamp. At twenty-seven, he was quiet, agreeable, and so conflict-averse that he sometimes apologized when someone else bumped into him - like any good Canadian immigrant to a sleepy American suburb.
Phil picked up his beer but did not drink. “What if the personality part doesn’t go away in the morning?” he asked.
Ralph looked toward him. “The instructions say everything reverses at sunrise.”
“The instructions were written by someone called Hairy-Bothered. Do we feel like he's a reliable source of information?”
“They were very specific.”
“But that doesn’t make them reliable.”
Don leaned over and tapped the table near Phil’s phone. “You wanted to know whether it was real.”
Phil opened his mouth to answer. His phone buzzed and all four men froze. The sound had been ordinary, almost disappointingly so. A short vibration against the wood. Phil looked at the screen.
A new message sat beneath the profile photograph of a heavyset man in his mid-thirties. He wore a dark cap and a bulky jacket. A massive brown beard covered most of his lower face.
The message contained three words.
How you doing?
Don whistled. “Well, Phil.”
Phil stared at the picture. “He’s large.”
“He’s a hot daddy redneck,” Tom said.
“He looks like he owns several guns...” Ralph added.
“I don’t think I want—”
Phil stopped. His breath caught sharply, and one hand flew to his stomach. The first sensation was pain. It began beneath his ribs and rolled outward, flooding his chest, shoulders, and abdomen. His blue shirt tightened gradually across his torso. The fabric did not change, but the body beneath it did, swelling into unfamiliar proportions.
“Is it happening?” Tom asked.
Phil blushed and nodded quickly. His stomach pushed forward, rounding heavily over the waistband of his jeans. His shoulders broadened, not with the balanced definition of a gym-trained body but with the solid weight of someone naturally large. His arms thickened against the sleeves. Blonde hair darkened at the roots and seemed to retreat beneath the shape of a cap that had not been there before.
Then his face began changing. Phil pressed both palms against his cheeks as his jaw widened beneath them. Light stubble darkened into coarse brown hair. His beard grew quickly, spreading over his chin, down his throat, and outward until his fingers vanished into it.
“Oh my God,” Don said, half laughing and half appalled.
Phil’s eyes widened. “My voice—”
The words came out deeper than before, dragged through a thick Southern accent. He went silent.
Something else had entered him alongside the voice. For one disorienting moment, the dining room disappeared. Phil smelled hot pavement, gasoline, tobacco and stale coffee. He remembered sitting behind the wheel of a truck he had never owned, watching miles of highway disappear beneath him. He remembered arguments conducted loudly and without apology. He remembered a father who believed silence was weakness and a string of roadside bars where no one had ever asked him to lower his voice.
The memories were incomplete, but the emotions attached to them were powerful. Confidence settled over Phil like another layer of muscle and fat. His usual urge was to make himself smaller when people stared. Now he found their attention satisfying.
He leaned back, spreading his legs comfortably beneath the table. His new stomach strained the blue henley. One hand moved through his enormous beard with instinctive familiarity.
“Well,” he said slowly, the Southern drawl now effortless. “Ain’t that something?”
Don stared at him. “Phil?”
Phil looked directly at him. The old Phil would have smiled nervously. This one lifted one eyebrow. “Who's Phil? He your faggy friend?”
Don blinked and Phil’s expression shifted into a broad grin. Then he laughed, a deep, booming sound none of them had ever heard from him before.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “It's me, Phil - mostly...”
Tom handed him a small tabletop mirror. Phil examined himself, turning his head from side to side. The more he looked, the more pleased he became.
“I look strong. Real strong-like.”
“You look like you could throw me through a window,” Ralph said.
Phil’s grin widened. “Maybe don’t test me on that, son.”
The change had taken less than two minutes. When it was over, there was nothing visibly left of the blonde, soft-spoken Canadian except the blue shirt and a faint uncertainty behind the stranger’s eyes.
Phil reached into a pocket and fished out a cigar that had appeared along with his cap. He picked it up naturally.
“I know how to smoke this,” he murmured.
“That’s the memory bleed,” Ralph said.
Phil rolled the cigar between his thick fingers, lit it carefully, and took a deep drag. “Feels more like remembering something I forgot.”
While the men were still dazed by what had just happened to Phil, all of a sudden Don’s phone buzzed. His confident smirk vanished.
The message came from a twenty-two-year-old with dark curly hair, a narrow face, a slim body and almost no visible facial hair.
Don shook his head immediately. “No. Nope. Nuh-uh. I'm not going to be some Twink. I don't want to play any more!”
Tom leaned over. “You can’t refuse after the message arrives.”
“I’m not refusing. I’m stating a fact. I’m out.”
But immediately after the last word slipped out of his mouth he felt his gray shirt begin to loosen across his chest. Don looked down.
The muscles he had spent years building began to soften and recede beneath the fabric. His broad shoulders narrowed. His arms slimmed against the sleeves, veins and body hair fading as his skin became smooth. He gripped both sides of the chair.
“Son of a bitch…”
His mustache thinned with every word until only a faint shadow remained. The strong lines of his face softened. His jaw narrowed, his nose changed shape, and his heavy brown hair curled forward in loose dark waves. Even his posture collapsed inward - more diminutive. More submissive.
Don had always sat as though he owned whatever room he entered. Now his knees drew together beneath the table. His hands looked too large for a moment, then became slim and youthful.
He glanced at Phil and immediately looked away, intimidated by the bear of a man Phil had become.
A rush of foreign memories hit him. A cramped first apartment with mismatched furniture. A phone held beneath restaurant tables while he waited for a daddy to answer. A nervous laugh used to smooth over awkward silences. Nights spent trying on three different shirts because he was afraid the first two made him look too big or too masculine.
The new personality did not erase Don’s confidence all at once. It undermined it from beneath. His anger remained, but the instinct to express it weakened. “I hate this,” he said. His voice was younger, lighter and less commanding.
Phil rested one enormous arm across the back of Don’s chair. “Aww, hey there buddy, you look cute.”
Don recoiled, his face flushing. “Don’t call me cute!” The words lacked their former force.
Phil laughed.
Don crossed his thin arms over his chest, but the gesture only emphasized how small he had become beside Phil.
“I’m twenty-two,” he muttered. “I’m younger than when I graduated.”
Tom smiled. “Some people would consider that lucky.”
“I don’t.”
Don caught his reflection in the black screen of his phone. For several seconds, he looked genuinely wounded. His mustache had always been part of the identity he projected—older, tougher, more established than he felt. Without it, and without the body that supported the image, he seemed exposed.
“I look like some dumb Twink bottom that I would take home and fuck, this is humiliating...” he said quietly.
Phil’s expression softened. “You’re still Don inside there, bud.”
Don looked at him.
Phil paused, as though searching through two personalities for the right thing to say. “At least underneath those cute baby cheeks and scrawny chicken arms.”
But before Don could respond with the appropriate level of vitriol, Ralph’s phone vibrated. Ralph looked down at his phone, blinked once then closed his eyes. “Of course...it’s always older men messaging me on three apps!”
The profile showed a man around 65 with a huge white beard, a bald crown, and a broad, heavy frame. Ralph’s face drained of color. “Come on, man, he's older than my grandfather!”
“Rules,” Don said, sounding almost pleased that someone else’s result was worse.
Ralph pushed himself to his feet. He paused as his balance shifted. His center of gravity settled lower, his stance naturally widening as his body grew broader.
The external changes began in his hands. His skin thickened, veins becoming more prominent beneath weathered flesh. Coarse gray hair spread across his forearms beneath the sleeves of the black NAUGHTY shirt.
His shoulders widened. His chest and stomach filled out into the solid build of a man who had spent decades carrying himself with quiet confidence. The chair groaned when he sat back down, now supporting considerably more weight.
His dark hair retreated rapidly from his forehead and crown. Gray swept through what remained before fading completely to white.
His neatly trimmed mustache blossomed into an enormous beard. It poured down his cheeks and over his chest until it formed a thick, brilliantly white curtain. Ralph instinctively combed it with his fingers, surprised by how soft it felt.
Deep lines settled around his eyes—not harsh ones, but the kind earned through decades of laughing - but at this moment his face rested in a grimace.
He blinked. A flood of memories slipped effortlessly into place. He knew exactly how to trim a beard this size without making a mess. He knew which reading glasses lived in the kitchen and which pair stayed in the car. He remembered the passwords to three different dating apps, which profile pictures got the most attention from younger men, and which local coffee shop was best for a first rendezvous.
His phone suddenly felt different in his hand—not unfamiliar, just... organized. He frowned. "Why do I have notifications turned on for everything?"
His thumb moved across the screen before he consciously decided to. Three settings changed. "That's better."
Tom laughed. "You just hacked your own phone."
"I didn't hack anything." Ralph kept scrolling. "This app keeps suggesting men forty miles away." He wrinkled his nose. "Absolutely not."
Phil leaned over. "What are you looking at?"
Ralph angled the phone away on instinct. "My business."
Phil grinned. "You weren't this private five minutes ago."
"In my 65 years I've learned that people online will absolutely waste your time." The words came out so naturally that Ralph stopped talking. "...Did I just say that?"
Don folded his arms. "You sound experienced."
"I am experienced. Well...he is?" The answer escaped before Ralph could think. He froze - lost between his former and current mind. Then, after another moment, he shrugged. "I suppose I am."
His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Gone was the restless energy of a twenty-six-year-old. He settled comfortably into the chair, crossing one thick leg over the other with practiced ease.
His gaze drifted around the room, assessing everyone. Tom -still unchanged - looked exhausted. Phil desperately needed a haircut and a beard trim. Don's shirt fit poorly across the shoulders. Ralph noticed all of it in an instant.
"What?" Tom asked.
Ralph smiled. "Nothing. You boys just have no idea how you're presenting yourselves. People used to put more effort into such things.”
Phil burst out laughing. "There he is."
"There who is?"
"The old guy."
Ralph reached up, absentmindedly stroking his beard. "It is an exceptional beard."
"It is," Tom admitted.
Ralph caught his reflection in the darkened window. A large man stared back—sixty-five, bald on top, framed by a magnificent white beard. He expected horror. Instead... "Huh." He tilted his head. "I actually pull this off."
Phil stared. "Seriously?"
"What? I'm not saying I'd have picked sixty-five..." He turned his face from side to side. "...but I'm handsome...I mean he's handsome." Ralph rested one hand in his beard, surprisingly at ease. "I still know I'm Ralph," he said quietly. "But I also know who this man is."
Tom looked up. "What's he like?"
Ralph smiled—not sadly, but with unmistakable fondness. "Confident." He glanced at his reflection again." Comfortable in his own skin." A beat passed. "And apparently very picky."
Phil snorted. "That sounds about right."
Ralph laughed. "It really does."
For several minutes, they sat quietly. Then Tom’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen.
The man who had messaged him appeared to be in his mid-forties. Dark hair showed gray at the sides beneath a baseball cap. Salt-and-pepper scruff framed a tired but attractive face. His profile offered little information, but the photograph had been taken in a kitchen. A family calendar hung behind him, partially visible on the wall.
Tom smiled.
Don noticed. “You are far too happy.”
“I told you, this could be fun! I got a hot daddy!"
Tom’s red polo tightened first across his shoulders, then relaxed as his body settled into a broader, slightly softer maturity. Fine lines appeared around his eyes. His face lengthened, his jaw grew heavier, and dark stubble spread across his cheeks before turning gray in patches.
His hair darkened from sandy brown, then silver appeared at the temples. Tom held his phone in front of him throughout the change, studying every new line with fascination.
His hands aged around the device. The skin grew rougher, the knuckles more pronounced. Hair thickened along his forearms and beneath the open collar of the red polo.
He inhaled sharply when the memories arrived. A wife asleep upstairs while he stared at his phone in the kitchen, looking at pictures of men. A wedding ring slipped into a drawer before taking photographs. Children calling from another room. Years spent building a life that looked perfect from the outside and felt increasingly divided from within.
Tom’s smile faded as the stranger’s guilt settled into him alongside his attraction. He felt the practiced caution of a man who deleted conversations, cleared notifications, and always listened for footsteps. For the first time, the transformation frightened him.
“Tom?” Don asked.
Tom looked up. His face now belonged entirely to the middle-aged stranger. “He has a family,” Tom said.
Ralph frowned. “You knew that from the picture?”
“I remember them.” He closed his eyes. “A wife. Two kids. He tells himself this app doesn’t count if he never meets anyone in person. He just shares pictures and sexts men while jerking off.”
Don looked uncomfortable. “That’s dark.”
Tom rubbed his salt-and-pepper jaw. The texture fascinated him despite the sadness in his expression.
“He’s lonely,” Tom said. “And terrified. And he’s been both for so long that they feel like the same thing. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep up the façade before it comes crashing down.”
The older personality moved through him more subtly than the others. His posture became relaxed but watchful. His speech slowed. He checked the position of his phone before setting it face down.
Yet when he looked at his reflection in the window, pleasure returned. Tom touched the gray at his temples and smiled. “I still like this face and body…”
Don groaned. “Of course you do, and if I'm being honest from my new body yours is looking pretty good to me as well...but I'll never admit that again so soak it up.”
Tom laughed, now in the warm, slightly rough voice of a suburban father. “Sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry...”
With all four transformations complete, the four friends - now unrecognizable - sat around the same table like strangers wearing evidence of a friendship no one else could see.
Phil lounged in his blue henley, cigar smoke curling from one hand, his large body relaxed with newfound authority. Don sat beside him in his loose gray shirt, slim and young, visibly annoyed whenever Phil’s arm drifted too close. Ralph occupied the center like an aging patriarch who had been dragged reluctantly from bed after 10pm white beard resting against the red NAUGHTY lettering across his chest. Tom on the right in his red polo, smiling at a touch of his salt and pepper beard or a glimpse of his older hands whenever he thought no one was watching.
They returned to the card game. It was not the same. Phil became competitive and loud. He slapped winning hands onto the table and accused Don of bluffing in a Southern drawl that grew thicker as the night continued and he had more to drink.
Don insisted he was not bluffing, then folded whenever Phil stared at him too long out of sheer intimidation.
Ralph complained about the quality of the beer, the temperature, and the way young gay men today can’t tell Tina Turner from Janet Jackson.
Tom quietly won three rounds in a row - reluctant to draw attention to himself or to the conversation he began with a now younger man on his phone on GRINDR.
By midnight, the new personalities settled more deeply, and fragments of the other lives slipped into their conversation.
Phil described rebuilding an engine, then stopped when he realized he had never done it.
Don mentioned a roommate named Evan and could not remember whether Evan was real or imagined.
Ralph began telling a story about a great niece’s birthday before his voice broke.
Tom reached automatically for a wedding ring that was not on his finger.
At around one in the morning, the game ended without anyone declaring a winner. They remained around the table, surrounded by empty bottles, cards and phones.
As they prepared to depart for their own homes, to give themselves a few hours to "explore" their new situations, Don asked "What happens when we wake up?”
“We go back...in theory.” Ralph said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
No one answered immediately. Phil looked down at his huge hands.
“I think I’m gonna miss this, y'all.”
Don curled his cute twenty-two-year-old nose and gave Phil a tired smile, “I won’t.”
“Maybe we keep some of it," Tom said.
“The memories?” Ralph asked.
“The perspective.”
The next morning Tom woke with his cheek pressed against his pillow - and an unfamiliar young man in the bed next to him. Someone who messaged him thirstily on GRINDR before his friends headed home for the evening.
For several seconds, he did not move. Then he lifted his head and saw his own young hands. His red polo laid on the floor next to the bed. The gray had vanished from his hair. His face felt smooth. "Ugh, this is going to be fun to explain to him."
In the back of his mind Tom also felt a sense of satisfaction. He was able to follow through on an action his middle-aged married counterpart was always too afraid to carry out.
After a couple minutes reflecting on his predicament, Tom reached for his phone and saw a chain of messages from his friends on the experience from last night culminating in a message from Phil:
So ... Same time next month?
Next to the message were 2 thumbs up. Tom smirked and typed:
Eighteen-year-old Ben slipped into the costume shop to escape the rain on a cold Chicago fall morning. Scrawny, freckled, and painfully aware that he still looked younger than most college freshmen, he decided to browse a bit to pass some time - hoping for the rain to let up. He stopped when he found an old Chicago police uniform tucked behind a rack of capes.
It was several sizes too large, but he tried it on anyway. Staring at the baggy sleeves in the mirror, he laughed. “Yeah, real convincing. I look soooo intimidating.”
Then the uniform tightened. Ben shot upward as muscle filled his shoulders and arms. The uniform started to fit better.
His youthful face sharpened and aged beneath his fingertips while reddish peach fuzz spread into a dark mustache on his upper lip.
His hair thinned rapidly until only a narrow fringe remained around the edges. By the time he looked thirty-five, the uniform fit perfectly—and he was smiling.
He leaned into the mirror to admire his new more handsome, rugged looking face. Grasping at the corner or his new mustache and smirking.
Before long the last strands of hair disappeared and his face sagged a bit with age as his body settled into the powerful frame of a man in his mid-forties.
As the rain finally relented, Ben stepped out of the shop a changed man. Nobody would have mistaken him for a kid anymore. His days of homework and youthful anxiety were just a distant memory. It was time to return to his precinct and then hit the beat for the day.
You finally landed the cute twink who worked at your local coffee shop. It had taken months of flirting. In addition to a bit of an inside job by one of your recent twink conversions, your approach entailed wearing outfits that gradually exposed more and more of your older, muscular, extremely hairy body. At first he had only see your bearded face and maybe the black hair all over the back of your fingers and hands as you would take your coffee from him, purposefully brushing your larger, thick fingers along his. A few months later, and sick of the perpetual blue balls he was causing you, you showed up wearing a very snug, fitted t-shirt and shorts, muscle and fur on full display. The second he saw you he was visibly stunned, unable to focus on anything or speak. You passed him a piece of paper with your number, saying “time to make this happen,” and left without getting a coffee. He texted 20 minutes later. You replied that you weren’t looking for something quick, that you wanted him to spend the entire upcoming 3-day weekend at your place so you could “get to know him better.” It took him a few minutes, but you knew his lust would override any lingering concerns in the back of his mind. He liked your message, and you locked him in. He came to your place at 10am Friday morning as instructed. Given your overly swollen balls and your plans for the next 3 days, you decided that instead of the usual hypnotic manipulation, you should be upfront with this twink. You told him that your sperm would cause substantial changes to his body, a masculinization of untold proportions, and he would leave looking very different than he does now. He smiled, said that it sounded hot, clearly thinking he was going along with some fantasy. He became a little more serious when you had him sign a waiver and took a before picture. The next 3 days were some of the most intense you have had in a while. After breaking in his tight virgin hole, you battered it again and again with raw breedings every hour. By the second day, his little hole had gaped wipe open, matching the exact size of your enormous breeder cock. Of course the changes had started with the very first load, but you resisted taking any pictures until Sunday evening. As he stood in the same position as the before pic, you felt a pang of guilt for what you did to him. He would spend the next days and weeks convincing friends, family, and co-workers that it’s really him, making up some story for why he looks so different, knowing that he can’t tell them what changed him was an older hairy man’s sperm repeatedly shot deep inside of him. You flipped back and forth between the before and after pic, studying the excessive fur now coating his body, the thick mustache and beard, and of course the very advanced male pattern baldness. But you got over the momentary guilt, taking pleasure in knowing that his perfectly reshaped hole would be ready and willing to take your raw load any time you need to breed a hairy bottom pig.
***heads up, this story contains needles and injections. You have been warned.***
"Hello there! Will, is it?" The doctor asked, reaching out for ahandshake
"Ugh, yeah." Will stuttered.
"Let me see..." The doctor flipped through the pages on his clipboard. "Ah! You're here for some gender affirming care."
"Ummm, I just wanted to look a bit manlier."
"Yeah, that's the goal of this appointment. To make the inside match the outside."
The doctor sat down on a small stool and scooted over towards Will. After putting on some latex gloves, he started grabbing Wills face. He grabbed his chin and tilted his face every which way while examining every detail.
"Alright, I think I've seen enough." He backed away and started ruffling through a nearby cabinet. "I know exactly what you need."
"But you haven't even asked me what's wrong?"
"Don't need to. Just trust the process."
He grabbed a small bottle and dispensed some foamy cream onto his hand. With no hesitation, he started rubbing the cream all over Will's jawline and across his cheeks.
"This is rogaine. It'll tell the hair follicles in your face to turn on, letting you grow some manly hairs over that baby face." The doctor said as he continued rubbing the cream into Wills skin.
"Oh ok... I've always wanted to grow a beard."
"Now we'll just leave that on for a few minutes."
Will could already feel it working, it felt like pop rocks against his skin as the cream settled into his pores. It even started to itch a little, which probably meant it was working.
It felt like hours of waiting before the doctor wiped off the cream with a towel.
"The results are coming in quick, why don't you take a look." He held up a mirror towards Will.
Will almost didn't recognize the man looking back. He had a full black beard covering his face. He couldn't believe it as he ran his fingers the 4 inch long hairs.
"Holy shit, that was fast."
"How do you like it?" The doctor asked.
"I love it!"
"How about we do a little more."
"Sure, yeah whatever you want."
The doctor quickly got to work. He rummaged through his cabinet and grabbed a needle that he quickly filled with a clear substance from a nearby vial. And without saying anything, he injected into Will's thigh.
"Ow, what the hell?"
"This is testosterone, it'll help balance out your hormones since you're clearly lacking it."
"You could have- ahem - you could have at least warned me." Will paused as he noticed his voice had dropped significantly.
"Ah, it's already working."
"Wow, I ummm, didn't know all this stuff would take effect so fast."
"Oh yeah, it's pretty much instant, I mean look at your chest."
Will looked down and saw dark hairs peeking out of his collar. He pulled at his shirt, allowing him to see the hair spread across his chest and down his stomach. The thick pelt of hair spread over his arms and legs, making his skin barely visible underneath. Even his hands and feet became buried under a forest of wiry hairs.
"Pretty sexy, right?" The doctor asked.
"Hell yeah doc."
He was busy admiring his hairiness when he felt a sudden pressure in his crotch.
"Oh shit!" He quickly grabbed his balls, trying to readjust them in his pants, but they didn't seem to settle right.
"Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that, testicle growth is normal with high doses of testosterone." The doctor noted.
"You don't say." Will chuckled as he tried to hide the tennis ball sized imprints in his pants.
"How's about one more treatment."
"Whatever you say doc!"
"Right on."
The doctor grabbed another vial and filled the same syringe with the unknown substance. Then, with no warning again, he injected Will in the arm. This time Will didn't even flinch.
"This is a steroid that should help you reach the muscle mass that men your age should have."
"Ohhh I can feel it doc."
Wills arms started to pulsate around the injection site, and each time his muscle swelled larger and larger. His noodle arms quickly grew into watermelon sized biceps that would make any quarterback jealous.
His chest expanded into two juicy pecs that strained the buttons on his shirt, allowing his thick hair to poke through. His flabby stomach tightened into a defined six pack while waves of muscle formed along his back.
His pants began to rip when his thighs thickened with dense muscle, squishing his massive balls even more.
"Fuck, man. This feels amazing."
Will took a moment just to feel his newfound strength. He hit a few poses, so fixated on his own body that he didn't even notice the doctor getting hard as he watched on.
"Why stop now, onto the next treatment."
"Huh?" Will was barely paying attention.
The doctor pulled out a sketchy looking bottle and poured a couple pills into his hand.
"Here, take these."
"Whatever you say, doc."
Will popped them into his mouth without a second thought. This one took effect immediately. Will started to grunt and groan before bringing his hands down to his crotch. He writhed in discomfort as the bulge in his pants became harder and harder to ignore. His dick was full mast, sticking straight out, and growing. It came in waves, adding inches to his shaft every time. His once average dick quickly surpassed 8 inches, then 10, then over a foot.
Will let out a deep moan as his fly ripped open and his massive 15 inch cock spring out towards the doctor.
"Fascinating, I've never given a patient two of those pills before..."
"What!?" Will said between heavy breaths.
"Nothing. We can't stop now!"
He turned around and grabbed a small device from the counter. He grabbed Will's head and directed him to face down.
"There's no time to waste."
All Will could see was clumps of his hair falling to the ground as he felt a faint stinging feeling on his scalp.
"Almost done.... And.... Voila!"
The doctor held up the mirror to Will. Just like earlier, he barely recognized the man looking back at him. His hairline had receded a few inches around his temples and the rest of his hair had thinned out.
He ran his hands through the thin hair, it couldn't have been much thicker than the hair on his arms.
"My hair..."
"Looks great doesn't it, so manly."
"I'm really starting to look like a real man." Will smiled.
"Almost, there's one more step."
The doctor grabbed an unlabeled can and handed it over to Will.
"Drink this."
"What is it?"
"It's a beer. Nothing makes a man like an ice cold beer."
Will examined the suspicious looking can before opening it and chugging the beer. It went down smoother than any drink he'd ever had in his life.
He crushed the can like it was nothing and chucked it across the room.
"That's the spirit." The doctor smiled. "How do you feel."
"I feel...umm... I feel" Will grabbed his stomach.
*BBBBUUUURRRAAAAPPPP*
The burp echoed around the room. It was quickly followed by a loud growl that erupted from his stomach.
"I don't feel so good."
Just after the words escaped his lips, his stomach swelled outward with immense force. All the buttons of his shirt flew across the room as thick fat piled into stomach, burying his six pack. What started as a small bulk quickly spiraled out of control, growing into a full on belly. His hairy beer gut spilled onto his thighs as it finally stopped growing, leaving him with a solid dad bod.
The doctor grabbed Will's belly, examining it while pinching his soft fat.
"I may have finally perfected the formula."
"Huh?" *Burp*
"Oh, nothing that concerns you."
The doctor pulled back Will's shirt, or what was left of it, revealing his pecs, or what could be better described as man tits.
"Marvelous."
He grabbed Will's hands, acknowledging the plumpness of his fingers and the girth of his palms.
"You've truly turned out the best of my subjects. I mean patients." The doctor began putting his equipment away. "Now why don't you come back to my place, we can order some pizza and watch the game with my previous patients, you'll love them."
"I got a better idea." Will growled as he grabbed the doctor by the collar. "I force this beer down your throat and fuck you while you transform."
The doctor didn't say a word as Will's hulking body pressed him against the wall, he simply blushed before Will forced the beer into his mouth.
Daniel came into Paul’s Barbershop because the rain was hard and the sign said WALK-INS WELCOME. He only wanted a trim. He had an interview on Monday, a cousin’s wedding in a couple of weeks, and a face he still thought of as temporary, with no clear distinguishing features other than the glow of youth.
Paul was waiting beside the old leather chair, white sleeves rolled to his forearms, silver hair combed back, mustache curled at the ends. He looked less like a barber than the portrait of one hanging in some atelier.
“High fade,” Daniel said.
Paul smiled. “Of course. Sit back.”
The shop smelled of bay rum, warm towels, shaving cream, and wood that had absorbed a century of conversations. The chair creaked when Daniel settled into it. Paul fastened the cape around his neck, then reached for a pair of heavy brass clippers resting beside a yellowed envelope marked FOR THE NEXT BARBER.
“These belonged to my mentor,” Paul said as the clippers glinted.
Daniel felt the warmth before the blades touched him. At first it was only a pulse against his scalp, then a hum through his bones. His shoulders broadened under the cape. His arms pressed thickly against the chair. Hair bristled across his forearms, dark and dense. In the mirror, his jaw squared; faint lines gathered beside his eyes, and the sandy brown of his hair was slowly replaced by silver at the sides.
“Hold still,” Paul said gently. “Let the cut finish.”
Daniel tried to speak, tried to protest, but the buzzing drowned him out - calming his mind. His hairline receded at the temples, dark curls giving way to silver waves combed neatly back from his forehead. His cheeks hollowed and sharpened. Lines folded themselves beside his eyes and across his brow with the calm authority of years. His chest strained beneath his shirt as coarse gray hair climbed above the collar.
Then came the mustache: heavy, full, curled slightly at the ends.
Daniel stared at the mirror, but his own face was gone. Paul the barber stared back at him from the glass.
“That’s real,” Daniel whispered in a deeper voice, touching the mustache with trembling fingers.
Behind him, Paul exhaled, long and relieved.
When the clippers stopped, the shop was quiet. Paul cleaned the lose hairs and fiddled with the cape on Daniel’s shoulders, but his hands were changing as he worked. The age thinned out of them. The veins softened. The silver hair above his brow darkened and loosened into Daniel’s curls. His mustache shrank back into the younger face Daniel had brought in from the rain.
By the time Paul reached for the yellowed envelope and handed it to Daniel, he no longer looked like Paul at all - he looked exactly like Daniel.
Daniel rose unsteadily from the chair, broad and older now, dressed in Paul’s shape as completely as if he had always worn it - envelope in hand.
“Read it,” Paul said, with Daniel’s young voice.
Daniel opened it with hands that no longer looked young.
If you’re reading this, the shop has chosen again. No one knows who the first barber was. Every few years the chair passes the skill, the face, and the work to someone new. The old barber leaves young. The new barber stays. When your time comes, you’ll know who to seat in the chair.
Daniel looked up slowly. “What about you?” he asked.
The younger man smiled with Paul’s familiar patience, though it looked strange on Daniel’s face.
“I kept the chair warm,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”
Memories that were not Daniel’s settled behind his eyes: tapers, straight razors, hot towels, the exact pressure of a steady hand against a nervous customer’s shoulder. He remembered men coming in young and leaving old. He remembered old barbers stepping out into the rain with new names, new hands, new lives waiting for them somewhere beyond the glass. He remembered, dimly, that Paul had once asked the same question.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as the old barber in Daniel’s body stepped out into the rain - and into his new life.
Daniel watched him go. For a moment, his old face paused beneath the striped awning and looked back through the window. Then Paul lifted one hand in farewell and walked into the rain, carrying Daniel’s youth with him.
The shop settled around Daniel like a well-made suit. The next morning, a young customer stepped through the door.
“Morning, Paul,” he said. “Same cut as always.”
Daniel turned toward the mirror. The mustache lifted with his smile.
“High fade and a beard trim,” he said, reaching for the clippers. “Leave the top longer. Bay rum after.”
The brass clippers rested heavy and warm in his hand. Around him were the chair, the portraits, the tools, and the life waiting for him. Someday the envelope would pass from his hand to another. But not today.
Daniel looked at himself in the mirror and saw Paul’s face smile back. “I think I’m going to like being the barber.”
Alan had been fed up with the laziness of his son. He’d never expected himself to get to such a point but everyday after coming home from work and watching the younger man sit on his ass watching football or whatever, instead of practicing while Alan went out to work at some dead-end job continued to add up.
Of course, the final straw was the complete and total forgetting of Father’s Day. There’s only so many birthdays or Christmases that Dave could forget before Alan had enough. It’s not even like Father’s day was all that special to the man. Usually just grilling some burgers and getting some pun of a card was all he wanted.
But this was the last straw. After seeing Dave sitting around and not even saying, ‘Happy Father’s Day’ to him, he took matters into his own hands. There was a card he’d bought, almost as a bit of a gaff, that was supposed to be enchanted. Instead of receiving the card Alan gave it to his son.
Not that Dave cared. He tossed it in the trash without a second thought. Alan smirked. It didn’t need to be accepted, only given. With that the present was already starting to take hold. With each step down the hallway, Alan could feel the smallest bit of his body starting to change.
Without thinking he was already walking taller with stronger steps. Each stride seemed to have added another week to his lifespan. Hair started to grow back on the top of his head. He could feel his atrophying muscles building up again without any effort at all. His clothes felt tighter across his shoulders and chest and his belt looser around his waist.
Without even thinking Alan entered into what he thought was his son’s room. Yet, when he looked at the Wolves mascot he had a certain kinship with it. But when he saw that the trophies had his name on it, Alan knew full well that the spell had worked.
Alan took a seat on what was soon to be his bed. The changes were happening whether Dave wanted them too or not. A sly smirk covered his face as he laid down and wallowed in the bed almost marking it.
Still his clothes continued to feel tighter. His chest was really starting to push against the buttons of his shirt. His shoulders continued to grow wider and waist thinner. Yet, his pants felt tighter as thick muscular quads started to fill them.
He sat back up wiggling his toes as his shoes were completely filled with his feet. “Only a matter of time,” he mused to himself as he grabbed the football and tossed it gingerly into the air.
Meanwhile in the other room, Dave started to feel something was off. His whole body started to feel a strange bloat to it. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away. Neither farting nor burping did anything to release whatever strange bloat was plaguing him.
Dave stood up and tried to stretch, hoping that might make some kind of change. Yet, the first thing he noticed was his shirt. It was riding up over a belly. “What the hell?!” he cursed staring down at the forming stomach. What had been lean cut abs was now starting to become a belly. He let out a grunt as it continued to get even bigger.
“What the hell’s going on?!” he grimaced at the strange belly forming on him. Even worse the college sleeveless shirt was starting to feel tight against his chest. And his shoes were starting to feel even tighter. His thoughts raced back to the card. It didn’t make sense but it was the only thing that he could go off of.
Panic raced through Dave as weight continued to pile onto his once lithe body. His muscles almost seemed to have exploded with an unknown force adding power and strength that the lean ones would give. However, with that size also seemed to come age.
His shaggy blond hair was starting to fall out while thick coarser hair started to cover his arms, legs and chest. He scratched it absentmindedly. “This can’t be real…” he declared but when he saw his face in the mirror and he looked to be well into his thirties, that didn’t matter anymore.
Dave ran down the hallway as fast as he could. His thick burly body shook the house with each step. The hulking frame took up nearly the entire space. He only paused for a second seeing a picture and watching as Alan and him had swapped spots. “ALAN!” he shouted loudly through the house.
Alan chuckled. Hearing Dave’s voice echo through the house only spurred his excitement. He knew the changes were still happening. He could feel his strength growing more and more. Each muscle developed into something thicker and stronger than he had ever had. It was like decades of work were all piling into him at once as his body also lost those decades in age.
The once portly older man was now growing more spry and filled with a excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. His body moved easily and effortlessly. His muscles were strong and full. His face young and filled with a handsomeness he’d never known.
Alan ripped off the rest of his clothes, discarding the relic that he had been. They weren’t who he was anymore.
Alan went over to the mirror again examining the new powerhouse of a man he’d become. He’d stolen so much of his son’s youth and strength, that he almost felt bad. Yet, seeing those powerful muscles staring back at him washed any of those feelings away. A confidence burgeoned within him as he went through what had been his son’s closet to find something to wear. Most of it was a little tight, but he could figure something.
Not even the loud knocking on his bedroom door made him nervous.
On the other side was Dave. The lean handsome man had turned into an absolute beast. Muscular bulk covered every inch of the other an. However, it also gave him two more decades of experience. Alan wasn’t sure what the ‘curse’ really was, but seeing how Dave had only grown bigger and stronger than even Alan was, made him grin.
Even as Dave stared him down with as much anger and menace that the man could muster, it didn’t phase Alan the slightest bit. He gave his ‘dad’ a pat on the shoulder and started walking through the house. Dave’s anger turned to confusion. His hulking size would have made the biggest of men panic, yet, Alan walked past him like it was nothing.
Dave continued to follow Alan. His heavy footsteps were softening. Even with all that bulk he was quickly learning how to control his excess weight. He watched as Alan turned into the garage and was absolutely stunned by what he say.
“Happy Father’s Day,” Alan said. “It took a while and I’m glad you didn’t come in and spoil it.” He smiled as he showed off the fully stocked gym in their garage. It didn’t make sense, yet the magic continued to push and pull making everything feel as though it made sense. Somehow Alan had been sneaking in weights and machines under Dave’s nose to surprise him with a fully stocked gym.
“Damn it boy,” Dave growled with a menacing tone. “I told you not to do anything this stupid.”
“Oh c’mon pops,” Alan grinned mischievously. The word fell out of him so naturally that he couldn’t help but add a chuckle. “I knew you wanted to take things to the next level and those paid gyms can’t handle your strength.”
“Whatever,” Dave grumbled as he entered into the workout space. He grabbed Alan into a headlock, forcing the other man into his pit and roughed up his hair. “All I wanted was some steak and you’d gone and given me all this shit.” He let go and then extended his hand. “Good on ya boy.” He grinned shaking his sons hand.
Alan smirked. The new reality was setting in. Dave didn’t seem to remember the old one. Or if he did, that past lazy son he was was now gone. Alan took his father’s hand and shook it. “Ready to test some of this out?” he offered.
“HELL YEAH!” Dave shouted. Before they knew it the two were working out with Dave pushing Alan to his absolute limit.
Tried something a little different to see if it worked. Created using ChatGPT. Pictures AI generated, Story written by me.
They only went into the costume shop because Connor had forgotten Father’s Day…again.
“Gift card?” Mason suggested, pushing through the door beneath a hanging rubber bat and a faded plastic skeleton.
Connor, blond, lean, and smug beneath the little mustache he’d grown mostly to annoy his dad, rolled his eyes. “For my father? He’d use it to buy socks and then tell me I ruined the surprise.”
Mason laughed. He was dark-haired, sharp-jawed, with a few days of stubble and the relaxed confidence of someone whose dad had never met a grill he didn’t try to dominate. “Then get him something stupid. Something he’ll actually wear once and pretend to hate.”
They found the aprons in a back corner beneath a sign that read DAD CLASSICS — HALF OFF. One was bright red and said KING OF THE GRILL in peeling yellow letters. The other was denim-blue with fake grease stains printed across the front and ASK ME ABOUT MY MARINADE stitched over the chest.
Connor held the red one against himself and made his voice deeper. “Boys, the secret is propane and emotional distance.”
Mason snorted and grabbed the blue apron. “No, no, you need to stand wider. Dads always stand like they’re guarding a cooler.”
There were changing rooms beside the novelty costumes. Neither of them knew why grill aprons needed changing rooms, but that made it funnier.
“Hey!” Connor said. “Take off your shirt and go try it on for the full effect. We can snap a couple selfies and use them as a prank later.”
“Gotcha, man! Good idea.”
They ducked behind the curtains, still joking through the thin partition as they tied the aprons around themselves.
The two young men stepped out to admire their aprons and take a sarcastic selfie.
After returning to their dressing rooms Connor fumbled for the knot on the back of the apron but before he could undo it he felt the knot tighten at his waist. Then his stomach lurched.
At first he thought the room had tilted. His knees cracked, his shoulders thickened, and a heavy warmth spread across his chest. Pale hair burst beneath the apron straps, crawling over his sternum and shoulders in dense, uneven patches. His blond hair thinned, then retreated, pulling back from his forehead until only a sparse ring remained around a mostly bald crown. His neat little mustache swelled outward, darkening, bristling, curling at the ends into a proud, ridiculous handlebar that dominated his face.
“Uh,” Connor said, but his voice came out deeper. Rougher. Familiar. “Are you feeling ok over there, Mason?!”
On the other side of the partition, Mason made a startled choking sound. “Not really, dude!”
His own body had softened almost instantly. His flat stomach pushed forward into a round, heavy belly that pressed against the apron. His arms grew thicker but less defined, covered in dark hair. His stubble lengthened down his cheeks and jaw, spreading into a thick beard that tumbled over his mouth until his lips nearly vanished behind it. His dark hair receded at the temples but stayed thick enough to look neglected rather than stylish. When he stumbled out of the changing room, he looked like a man who had spent twenty years saying he was “getting back to the gym soon.”
Connor stepped out at the same time, one hand on his bald head, the other gripping the edge of his huge mustache.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
“Mason?” Connor whispered.
“Connor?” Mason’s voice rumbled through the beard, muffled and older. “Why do you look like your dad?! You’re bald dude! You even have his mustache!”
“What about you, bro! Did you gain 100 lbs in there? And that beard!! You look just like your dad!”
They remembered everything. The shop. Father’s Day. The joke. Their real faces. Their real ages. The horrifying fact that Connor now looked exactly like his father, right down to the slightly squinting expression he wore whenever he tried not to admit he was confused. Mason looked like his own dad after Thanksgiving dinner: soft, bearded, hairy, comfortable in a way that felt impossible to fight.
“We have to take the apron’s off!” Mason said.
But neither of them moved.
Connor looked down at the red apron stretched across his broader, hairier torso. His hand settled on his belly, then rose to smooth the curled end of his handlebar mustache. The panic in his eyes weakened, replaced by irritation. Not fear. Just the vague annoyance of a man who had forgotten what errand he was running.
“Why were we here again?” he asked.
Mason frowned beneath the beard. “Grill stuff, I think.”
“Right.” Connor nodded slowly. “Need charcoal.”
“Already got charcoal.”
“Then steaks?”
Mason considered this, his memories sliding away like receipts tossed into a junk drawer. College apartments, group chats, late-night burgers, the urgent knowledge that he had once been someone else—all of it blurred and thinned until it seemed less like memory than a strange dream he had no reason to mention.
He patted his apron. “Could use a new spatula.”
Connor grunted approvingly. “Good spatula’s important. Better put our clothes back on and buy these new aprons. They are hilarious!”
A bored clerk watched the two middle-aged men leave the dressing rooms and approach his counter - still wearing the novelty aprons.
One was mostly bald with a grand handlebar mustache and a satisfied dad squint. The other was pudgy, dark-haired, and buried behind a long beard that swallowed his mouth. They paid in cash, argued amiably about whether lighter fluid was cheating, and walked out into the afternoon sun without once remembering they had come in as sons.
Across town, two older men woke up from accidental naps they had not meant to take.
Connor’s father jolted upright on a couch, suddenly blond, smooth-skinned, and twenty-two, his hand flying to a mustache that was far too small.
Mason’s father staggered back from a bathroom mirror, dark-haired and lean again, rubbing at the stubble on a jaw that had not been that sharp in decades.
For several seconds, both men stared at themselves in separate mirrors, stunned by the impossible youth looking back.
Then Connor’s father blinked and whispered, “oh shit, Father’s Day is coming up soon and I didn’t buy my old man anything yet!”
And Mason’s father, across town, touched his flat stomach with dawning horror - quickly fading into submission as he forgot his old life and responsibilities. His phone buzzed on the sink nearby. A text from Connor’s dad’s phone.
Dude! I need to buy my Dad a Father’s Day gift. Wanna join me?!
The invitation had been sitting on his phone all week: HAIRY MEN’S POOL PARTY — SATURDAY, NOON, BRING A TOWEL, SUNSCREEN, AND CONFIDENCE. The photos attached to the invite were exactly what he expected—bearded men laughing in the pool, thick chests slick with water, shoulders and stomachs covered in dark natural hair.
Rob wanted to go, badly, but every time he looked down at himself, he felt like he’d been invited by mistake. His face was smooth. His chest was bare. His arms and stomach looked almost untouched. His look wouldn't fit the party.
Everyone knew hair tonic worked now; it wasn’t some weird underground thing anymore. Guys used the standard version before dates, beach trips, costume parties, even just a night out. Rub it in, wait a few minutes, and the first growth came through right there in the mirror. It was like make-up for men.
But Rob hadn’t bought the standard version. He’d paid extra for the overnight formula—the one marketed for men who wanted deeper, fuller, more permanent-looking results. The directions were simple: apply generously, massage into all target areas, sleep, and allow eight hours for maximum activation. So that night, with the pool party invitation still glowing on the bathroom counter beside him, Rob stripped down and went all in. He rubbed the tonic over his cheeks, jaw, upper lip, throat, chest, stomach, shoulders, arms, and legs. He didn’t want a little stubble or a polite dusting of hair. He wanted the kind of body that would walk into that party and belong there immediately.
At first, the change felt like a subtle heat under his skin. His jaw prickled. His chest tingled. The smooth skin over his stomach seemed almost too sensitive beneath his fingers. By the time he checked the mirror again, only minutes later, the overnight tonic was already giving him a preview. A dark shadow had formed along his jaw and upper lip, and faint curls were beginning to push across his chest. His body looked stronger somehow with the new hair sprouting, more solid and athletic, as if the tonic was improving the whole presentation while it prepared the real transformation underneath. He went to bed staring at the ceiling, feeling tiny sparks of growth across his body, wondering what he would look like by morning.
That night, while Rob slept, the changes continued apace. Hair sprouting on his chest, his beard growing in denser and longer, hair developing on his arms, and shoulders.
When he woke, he barely recognized himself.
His face had filled in with a dense beard and a heavy mustache, rugged and deliberate, the kind of facial hair that made his old smooth face seem like a forgotten draft. His chest was no longer bare; it was covered in a thick dark pelt, densest across the center and spreading over his pecs, down his stomach, and into a heavy trail. His arms and legs had grown coarse and masculine, and his shoulders—where he had applied extra tonic twice—now carried visible hair too, making the whole result look natural, powerful, and unmistakably intentional.
By the time he arrived at the pool party, towel over one shoulder and sunglasses on, he didn’t feel nervous anymore. He saw men glance at his beard first, then at the heavy hair across his chest and shoulders, and for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was trying to keep up. The invitation had promised confidence, but the tonic had given him the body to match it. He stepped into the sun, smiled under his new mustache, and knew he had used exactly the right amount.
Maybe life as a middle-aged mall guard isn't so bad.
-Oh shit, “He” is here again! And… all my friends?- I said in solitude while I had half of a delicious and greasy donut inside my mouth, I swallowed quickly letting the sugary crumbs fall on my dirty blue uniform and my big greasy belly.
I moved as fast as my new body allowed me, I got up from my huge chair dropping a bunch of crumbs, the back pain disappeared from my mind as I walked to the door of the surveillance room to lock the door, and then I returned to my comfortable chair to continue watching the show.
I changed each of the security cameras to focus on those perfect bodies, their steps were arrogant, and their shirts were soaked with sweat, at no time did they stop looking at the security cameras smiling, or flirting with me through the computer.
They all stopped in front of the dairy aisle and one by one, they started removing their shirts. revealing their perfect, muscular bodies. I couldn't resist for another second, and I searched between my fat crotch to find my small penis. With the tips of my fingers, I began to jerk off while my gaze focused on my old body.
-Damn Bob... you're doing so fucking good with my body- in just a couple of seconds my security guard uniform was soaked with sweat. Maybe the smell of the sweat from this body was the worst part, but right now I didn't care at all, all I could think about was the show I was receiving right now.
The pleasure didn't last long, I was now a premature ejaculator, my hands were covered in the hot smelly goo, -Fuuuuuck!- I screamed with my hoarse voice as the last drops came out of my little cock, I had to admit it, this body had the best orgasms, and I was an addict, I let my thoughts wander as I caught my breath, and I remembered how this all started, how it made me addicted to all this…
One second I was lifting weights at the gym and the next I was in a disgusting and smelly public bathroom holding a phone with one of my Instagram pictures in one hand and the other was submerged in a thick layer of white hair holding an unknown penis… I had so many questions, but I wanted to rub my cock with this calloused hairy hand even more…
I still don't know how Bob swapped our bodies, every day I woke up in Bob's smelly fat body was a new nightmare, especially with the real Bob sending me erotic pictures and forcing me to masturbate in his body, it's amazing that several months later I'm actually enjoying my new life... I get hot selfies of my old body and my friends, and occasionally Bob sends me a video of himself jerking off to the thick, veiny piece of meat I used to have between my legs.
Maybe life as a middle-aged mall guard is alrigh, actually like my new beard!
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Hey guys, sorry for the long wait for new stories. The truth is, my life took a sudden turn and… I didn't feel up to writing anymore, but things are stabilizing now. This is one of my old stories that I have in my archives, which will be updated again soon. I have a bunch of stories I want you to see and some ideas I want to write. See you soon.
Ryan found the costume shop tucked between a closed pawn shop and a vape store, though he was sure there had been a laundromat there the week before. He was a thin, clean-shaven guy in wire-frame glasses, the kind of man who owned three nearly identical cardigans and had been invited to a costume party only because his friend Andrew felt bad and in the condition that he doesn’t come dressed as a spreadsheet again…
Inside, the shop smelled like cedar, dust, and old cologne. Cowboy hats hung from the ceiling. Leather jackets slouched on headless mannequins. Near the back, Ryan found a rack labeled LOCAL COLOR, and laughed when he pulled out a sleeveless plaid work shirt with pearl snaps, a faded trucker cap, and a belt buckle shaped like a bass. The shirt looked ridiculous—broad in the shoulders, wide in the middle, like it had been made for a man who leaned against pickup trucks and called everyone “buddy.” Ryan held it up to himself in the cracked mirror. “Perfect,” he said. “Ironically perfect / the opposite of a spreadsheet.”
The moment he snapped the last button, the mirror fogged from the inside. Heat rolled through him, thick and heavy. His narrow chest pushed outward, then softened as his stomach swelled into a broad, heavy belly that strained the plaid fabric. Dark hair prickled across his chest, crawled down his arms, and spread over the backs of his hands. His smooth jaw roughened with stubble, but his upper lip burned hottest of all as a thick, bristling mustache pushed out, dark and heavy, completely changing his face. Ryan grabbed at his scalp as his neat hairline crept backward, thinning at the crown until the top of his head shone through, leaving him with unmistakable male-pattern baldness.
His cheeks looked fuller, his neck thicker, his posture heavier and more relaxed. The cardigan-wearing office nerd in the mirror was gone. In his place stood a big-bellied, hairy redneck with a powerful gut, a dense mustache, a receding hairline, and an expression that somehow looked like it had always belonged to him. Ryan opened his mouth to panic, but what came out was a low chuckle. “Well, hell,” he said, the accent rolling naturally off his tongue “I reckon I look pretty good like this!”
By the time he reached the party, he had stopped tugging at the shirt and started enjoying the way it fit him. Andrew opened the door, stared for a while, blinked, and said, “Ryan? Where the hell did you get that costume? The bald cap and fake belly look insane!”
The big man grinned under his thick mustache, adjusted the trucker cap over his balding head, and patted his belly like it was part of the costume. “Course it’s me,” he said, stepping inside with a confidence Ryan had never once possessed. “Told you I wasn’t comin’ as a spreadsheet.”
Your father always said you needed to learn how to change a tire but you always laughed at him. Now you werent laughing. Your car is stock, all four tires blown after driving over something sharp in the road. Its mid day but the closest sign of civilization is miles away, you need to start walking now if youre going to find anyone before it gets dark and the creatures come out.
Youre not built for this, youre a classic 20something twink, thin, weak, long hair, and no body hair. Youve spent years of your life getting laser to remove any sign of stubble. Youre smart, an academic, and a big beard or hairy ape arms dont go well with the imagine youre trying to potray. You want to look civilized, smart, not like these blue collar long bearded country guys. Theyre only good for one thing, the occasional hookup.
After walking for a bit you come across a cabin surrounded by a few small sheds. An older man is sitting on his porch smoking a pipe. Great, hes one of those blue collar guys, big beard, pipe, baseball cap. His beard is mostly white with streaks fo brown still holding on by the cheeks and upper lip. Theres no visible skin on his lower face, no lips, nothing, everything is drowning in thick wire hairs.
If the context were different youd think about trying to hook up with him but better not to, some of the guys out here are homophobic.
"Hey kid! You lost?"
Kid? Youre not a kid. "Im 26!" You say.
"26?" The guy laughs. "You don't look it. Where's your face fur?"
The word 'face fur' makes you shiver first with ick and second with something else... something nice? No. "I broke down! Can you help out?"
"Didnt your daddy ever teach you how to change a tire?" He asks. He taps a chair next to him on the porch. "Sit with me while I finish this pipe and Ill get you fixed up." You, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, join him. "Want a pipe?"
"No, Im good thanks."
"So youre a stogie man?"
"No."
"Cigarette?"
"Nothing."
The porch reeks of tobacco from the man's pipe. You sit with him and he asks where youre from, you tell him the city. You try not to gag on the smell but the longer you sit with him the more you get used to it. You're getting hotter too so you take off your jacket leaving you in just your tank top.
"At least you broke down on a nice day." The man says.
"Yeah," you say, "could be worse." Does your voice sound different? Does it have a bit of an accent? Does it sound deeper? More manly?
The man leans in. "Sure you don't want to smoke anything?"
His face is so close to yours, you cant stop looking at his beard. Its so long, you wonder how long it took him to grow it. Your dick begins to harden in your pants. The man notices.
"Getting excited, big boy?"
The words 'big boy' shoot through you like a shot of vodka. It makes you feel great. You get even harder. Then you realize where you are and try to move to hid it.
"No, no," the man says, "show daddy." He smiles and you get harder.
"Can we just," your voice is defiantly different, it catches you off guard, "uhhh."
The man smiles. "Hard to think?"
"No! No! I'm smart!" You say, but you dont sound smart... you sound dumb. You look at the mans pipe, his beard.
The man holds out the pipe. "Take a hit, big boy. You think so hard, you should take a rest." The smoke tastes manly. The man is holding you as you smoke, one hand scratching your chin, one around the throbbing bulge in your jeans. "That's it, big boy."
You just make grunts, stupid pleased sounds like an animal. You dont notice the hair growing your arms, or the way they inflate turning into solid trunks of muscle. You realize how the sound of the mans scratching changes. When he first started scratching your chin it sounded like flesh on flesh but now it's different. You bring your hand up to your chin... is that hair?
"What are you doing to me?" You stand up, your voice deep and accented now. "Stop it!"
The man smiles. "Come on Big Boy, you love your beard." He points at a window where you can see your reflection. Its your pride and joy."
You don't recognize the man looking back at you. His expression is so dumb. His face has lines from working in the sun, his hairline is receding, and a thick bush of a beard spills out covering the lower half of his face. Its thick, dense, with a mustache covering his upper lip. Only his lower lip, your lower lip, is visible. You bring your hand up to touch it, to make sure it's real. It is. This is you. Your face is drowning in beard.
You want to scream, to fight it, but with that same dead fish eyed look you watch as your hand rubs your bulge. You want to fight it, your brain wants to fight it, but your body only cares about one thing, sex.
The man, your new daddy, smiles. "Good think I put those jacks out on the road. I didnt think Id catch such a wonderful big boy. Youll be perfect."
Your last memory before you fully give in is of your rubbing your bulge, looking at your new self with a dumb expression, and saying "Thank you Daddy."
