Untitled @tradiepoolboi - Tumblr Blog

Bro, I promised to turn you into a wrestling champion. Give you the body and the mind of a true jock.

And now you've made it. Time for you to uphold your end of the bargain. Your free will and IQ can be deposited right here.

You'll be a perfect himbo dancer in my club bro. And entertainer behind closed doors.

jockboy12xxx

That elevator had a way of making wishes come true.

You just have to be careful what you wish for.

His wish to have more muscle was granted.

But the side effects would be more fun.

Addiction to lifting, low IQ, and an insatiable sex drive.

Once he exited, his new life would begin.

jockboy12xxx

They came looking for you Kevin.

But don't worry, no one recognized you.

None of them could imagine the airhead stripper they chatted with was formerly the English PhD that went missing a year ago.

It's ok. No need to worry. They won't make you go back. We both know the choice you made and how happy you are.

Just get up on stage Kevi. Show everyone that body you traded your life for.

jockboy12xxx

Ive been looking for my college roommate for a few months now.

He disappeared after checking out this sketchy gym near campus he won a free training session at. Literally went to visit and never came back.

I recently found this photograph of a guy who looks a lot like him. But my roommate was a skinny nerd. No where near this size. So I know it's not him.

If you have any information, please let me know.

devinpink-deactivated20251009

Fratification

Daniel was quiet, well-mannered, and stuck out like a sore thumb among his rowdy fraternity brothers. It's not like joining a frat was his decision; his father forced him to uphold family tradition. He tried adjusting, but it was impossible. The frat life just wasn't him, especially as the only gay guy. However, right before depledging, his fraternity brothers were able to successfully "change" his mind at the last second.

When the frat realized how hard it was for Daniel to adapt to their way of life, they knew he needed a little fine-tuning. After successfully pressuring a few beers into him, weakening his resistance, a few brothers used their infamous hypno skills on his newly mushed mind. They spent hours of what could have been spent on partying assimilating his mind and personality to theirs, so it totally was their good deed of the day! From that permanent conversion on, Daniel was interchangeable with any of the loud, cocky, and insanely wild frat bros.

The new and improved Daniel, "Danny-boy," is dumb as a rock, an aggressive pussyhound, and extremely obnoxious with his belches—proudly coining himself "the belch king!"

magnetic-maverick

Justin Bates 😍

o-blogdotesao-deactivated202603

Ben Verbeck

bruh

Alpha wave flexing

so horned after football practice

gonna rub and grind and jerk

biggunsbiggut

Not my normal type but love the way he presents his muscle pussy

occamstfs

Twink Turnabout

In desperate need of release, dom daddy Rob hits up the nearest twink he can find on Grindr. Arriving at Mattie's though, the king of the gym and femmest of bottoms find their identities realign as they grind a mile in the other's shoes.

Been a minute since I did a steamy one! Here's a muscle theft/role swap, Twink -> Dom and vice versa, hope you enjoy! -Occam

It had been a long day at work for Rob. Going hard at the gym only riled him up more. Thank GOD there’s always twinks down to fuck clicking on his faceless Grindr profile. Checking his pump and changing into a slightly less sweat stained tank, Rob leaves without showering to an uptown address sent by some easy to please bottom.

There’s little on his mind besides lust as he walks down the city streets, while one bitch in the hand is worth two in the bush, he can’t help but try and cruise on the way. Never know when an even easier fuck’ll present itself, not like he owes anything to this ‘Mattie.’ Rob’s sure the hole’ll find someone else to fill it before the sun rises. Though, smirking, Rob knows no one who’ll be nearly as good a lay as himself.

Today the streets are quiet. Rob returning to Plan A of getting his much needed release, arrives and waits to be buzzed up to the twink’s third floor studio. Opting for the stairs to work up a little more musk, bitches love that, he sprints up in short order and aggressively knocks on Mattie’s door. Impatiently waiting before knocking even more, he takes a few moments to actually look deeper at the twink’s own profile.

malefeetinflops

transform4u

Be Careful Who You Mock

Tyler was the kind of gay twink who walked into every room like it was a runway. Flirty, sarcastic, always dressed in something cropped, sheer, or way too expensive for his salary at the HR office. He was the first to dance at any party and the last to leave, often with glitter still on his collarbones and a vodka cranberry in one hand. Tonight was no different — except for the girl he accidentally bumped into.

"Ugh, careful, babe," he said with a fake laugh as her drink splashed across her hoodie. She wasn’t cute, not really, just nerdy and Middle Eastern, with glasses and a serious expression. “Maybe don’t wear Walmart to a bar next time?”

Her name was Basma, but he didn’t care to learn it. He just laughed with his friends, tossing his bleached bangs and sipping his drink. She didn’t yell, didn’t throw her drink back. She just smiled faintly.

“I hope one day you get to experience how others see you,” she murmured, brushing her wet sleeve and walking off. He rolled his eyes.

“Okay, mom,” he snorted, turning back to the beat and lights.

He danced hard. Harder than usual. Something in him felt hot. Not sexy hot — fever hot. His skin prickled with a weird sweat. He blamed the vodka, the flashing lights, the DJ’s mediocre remix of “Toxic.” But when he stumbled to the bathroom, the mirror told a different story.

“...What the fuck?”

His jaw was wider. Not chiseled — chunkier, somehow. There were shadows along his cheeks he didn’t recognize, and his smooth chest under his sheer crop top looked… darker? His skin was tanner. And he stank. Like unwashed armpit and cheap weed.

“What is this smell?” he gagged, sniffing himself.

He lifted an arm and yelped. His once-smooth underarm now sprouted a dense patch of black, curly hair — already wet with sweat. His crop top clung to him, the glittery fabric stretched tighter over shoulders that looked subtly broader. His nails, once polished, looked uneven and… bitten?

He stumbled backward out of the bathroom and into the hallway, woozy. His body felt off — like the center of his weight had shifted forward. He reached for his phone in his tiny faux Prada purse but it was gone. In its place? A battered Galaxy with a cracked screen and a fake gold case. Arabic script flashed on the lock screen.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, the words slurring.

He gasped. His voice — thicker. His tongue felt heavy, and the vowels were wrong. Everything was dipping, gravelly, like he was imitating a bad Borat accent. “What the fahhk?” he said again, stumbling into the bar.

His friends were gone. Or maybe… he didn’t recognize anyone?

He wandered to the back, bumping into someone. A girl with huge fake lashes and a vape tucked in her bra giggled.

“Sorry,” he muttered, but it came out slow and sleazy. “Ayy... my bad, sexy. You good?”

He froze.

“Did I just say that?”

But his eyes drifted to her cleavage, lingering. He could feel himself smirking, his hand twitching to grope or slap something. He wanted to hit on her. Hard.

His face itched — his beard was coming in. Dark stubble, scratchy and uneven, prickled his jaw and upper lip. His skin now gleamed with sweat and oil, the pleasant clean scent of his body mist gone, replaced with something musky and sharp, like days-old sweat and too much cheap cologne.

He bolted toward the exit, tripping over his suddenly sagging jeans. His legs were hairier. Thick calves peeked out from under his pants — darker, dusted with black hair. His formerly shaved, toned twink thighs were now muscled but sloppy. He waddled slightly. His gait was all wrong — a wide, slow, strutting walk. His shoes, once pristine white Reeboks, were now knock-off Yeezys covered in grime.

He ducked into the alley, panting. His breath reeked of stale cigarettes. And he was horny. Not flirty or playful — grossly, leeringly horny. He felt his cock stiffen, aching in a pair of stained boxer-briefs that had somehow replaced his stylish underwear.

Then he burped. Loud. Wet. Disgusting.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, scratching his belly. His hand disappeared under his increasingly tight fake Versace hoodie — fingers idly scratching a trail of wiry black hair across a slightly soft, tan stomach. “Need beer… need to fuck… fuckin’ cock is killin’ me, wallah.”

He blinked.

“...Wallah?”

He tried to say what the hell is happening to me, but it came out: “Bro, I feel fuckin’ mashup, man. I need… fuckin’ kebab, bro. An’ a girl wit’ big fuckin’ tiddies, wallahi.”

His accent was thick. He couldn’t speak properly. He tried again: This isn’t me! I’m gay! I’m— but the words turned to slurred slang: “Nah bro, I’m no faggot. I fuck bitches, ya feel me? Ain’t into that man shit, get outta here, bro.”

He slapped his own face. Tears welled in his eyes. But his fingers were too rough, the nails grimy. A crust of something — beer? sauce? dried sweat? — clung to the edge of his sleeve. He reeked.

He looked down. His cock was huge now, a thick slab of meat pressed against the front of his boxer-briefs. Veiny. Hairy. Angry.

“Fuckkk,” he groaned, squeezing it through his pants.

He fumbled in his pocket and found a phone number scrawled on a napkin — Layla, Big Tits, Call Me 😘

He smirked, like it was the funniest thing in the world.

And as he turned back to the bar, his name fully gone, his memories dulled, replaced with foggy nights, cheap clubs, broken English, and sleazy pickup lines, only a faint flicker of Tyler remained — deep down inside the mind of Tariq.

“Ey yo, who got a fuckin’ lighter?” he called, scratching his chest. “I needa fuckin’ blaze before I smash dis bird, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

He didn't even hear the echo of his old voice anymore.

Just bass. Breasts. Booze. Bros.

The sunlight hits him like a fuckin’ hammer.

Tariq groans, rubbing his face with a crusty palm. His mouth tastes like ash and stale beer. One of his socks is still on. The other? No clue. There’s a kebab box stuck to his bare chest. Grease stains streak his knockoff hoodie. He doesn’t know what day it is, but he doesn’t care.

“Fuuuuuck,” he drawls, scratching his balls under the stained waistband of his boxer-briefs. “Proper fuckin’ mad night, innit?”

He stands up from the broken futon — which he now thinks is a bed — and stretches, his hairy, lightly muscled torso slick with morning sweat. He doesn’t remember how he got home. He doesn’t remember where home is. But the place reeks of weed and cheap cologne, and that feels right. There are vape cartridges and empty Stella cans littered across the floor. A single poster of a pornstar with a camel toe hangs crooked over the peeling paint.

His eyes skim past it without judgment. Just hunger.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Brooo,” comes the voice on the other side. “You still alive, ya fuckin’ animal?”

Tariq scratches his chest, opens the door in nothing but his briefs, and lets out a lazy, sleazy grin. The guy on the other side — some sweaty, red-eyed lad in a fake puffer — slaps his shoulder.

“You look rough, bruv.”

“Fuckin’ shagged this bird behind the bins, swear to god,” Tariq mutters, his accent now fully thick, words chewed through the back of his throat like he barely knows how to form them anymore. “Like… fat arse, tits like fuckin’ water balloons, fam. Proper head game, you get me?”

He lights a cigarette and exhales with a grin, yellowed teeth on full display.

There’s no mirror in the flat, but if there were, he wouldn’t even notice the difference now. The pale, polished skin? Gone. His face is darker now, a dusky brown with uneven stubble etched into the jaw like it’s been there since birth. His nose is wider, crooked slightly, his lips chapped and puffier. His eyebrows are too thick. His eyes? Bloodshot, but filled with smug, greasy confidence.

“Oi, lemme chuck some fuckin’ joggers on,” he says, walking to the corner of the room and picking up a pair from the floor. They’re inside out, covered in something crusty. He doesn’t care. No underwear. Just slides them on commando-style, his cock swinging loose.

He doesn’t even remember being gay. He couldn’t, even if he tried.

Once, Tyler would’ve recoiled at the thought of this room, this body, this stench. But now? It soothes him. There’s no pressure here. No expectations. Just heat. Sex. Smoke. Dumb jokes and greasy fingers tapping on a cracked phone screen filled with saved TikToks of girls twerking in club bathrooms.

“Check dis, bruv,” he says, chuckling as he shows his mate a video of some drunk girl riding a mechanical bull. “Look at ‘er tits flyin’, bro! Swear down, I’d bust inside before she even looked at me, wallah!”

His laugh is ugly. Loud. Too open-mouthed. No control. His gut jiggles a bit when he does it — the soft muscle of someone who drinks too much but still fights guys outside bars.

His mate laughs too, slapping his back.

“Oi, don’t you have, like, a job or some shit?”

Tariq squints. Job?

“Man said job,” he snorts. “Ain’t got time for that shit. I sell some vapes. Got a cousin in Barking. I’m chillin’, fam.”

He lights a second cigarette off the first. Doesn’t notice the ash falling onto his crotch.

Then his phone buzzes.

It’s Layla.

The one from last night. Or the one before? He doesn’t really remember. But the profile pic shows cleavage and that’s enough.

“Yo baby girl, what you sayin’?” he says as he answers the phone, his voice instantly dropping into a low, sexual tone that would’ve made Tyler’s skin crawl. “You tryin’ to link again? I got that hash you like... and the tongue game, innit.”

He winks at his reflection in the dark window. He looks like a fuckin’ mess. Hair wild, eyes lazy, stains on his pants, smoke in the air. And all he feels is pride.

“I’m tellin’ you, bro,” he says after hanging up, slapping his bare belly. “She wants this dick again. Told her last time I’d give her a son, innit. Like, real shit. Gonna nut inside that bruv.”

His mate hands him a cheap plastic bottle of whiskey. Tariq takes a long swig, wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and belches loud enough to wake the neighbor’s dog.

There’s nothing left of Tyler.

No memory of brunches. Of friends. Of Grindr dates or dance classes or Spotify playlists. Just the pounding bass of shisha lounges, vape smoke, warm pussy, and cheap liquor.

“Fuckin’... this is the life, fam,” Tariq mutters, scratching his balls again and adjusting his crotch. “Ain’t nothin’ better than tits, weed, and a cold fuckin’ beer.”

He doesn’t hear the faint echo of Tyler’s voice anymore. The last bit of it was drowned in bong water and sprayed across Layla’s tits the night before.

This isn’t a curse anymore.

It’s him.

Tariq. Proper fuckin’ roadman. Sleazy, stupid, and fuckin’ lovin’ it.

mindyourbod

Bull's Eye

Bro, I was aiming for the other guy.

Yeah, the long leggy hunk on the treadmill. The one with the pretty face, abs, and bubble butt. The perfect twunk bottom.

I found this shady website talking about astral projection and stuff. There were a ton of warnings about how "one should be careful their astral self ne'er intersect another's", and "the astral plane is neither other nor akin to the physical, and instead lies betwixt it" and whatever.

Basically, don't astral project into someone else, otherwise you'll end up taking over their body.

I practiced a few times, sat myself cross legged on my floor one evening, and astral projected into the gym... right into the middle of it. Where this dumbass muscle bull was standing and admiring his mug in the mirror.

So now I'm stuck in this sweaty, hairy, bloated pile of man meat... and his muscle memory runs deep. Makes sense with how much muscle he's got. I find myself in the gym twice a day like clockwork, body practically aching with how much it needs to burn some excess energy lifting serious iron.

I thought I'd have an easy time getting laid as a primped pretty boy. Turns out, it's still pretty easy as an overgrown, straight acting, brutish gym bro bottom. So I guess I still got what I wanted.

hairy-bothered

POV: By the end of the first week, the agreement already feels like a joke played on you. One month, you both said. Just thirty days in each other’s lives, long enough to understand what the other man had always taken for granted. But now you sit at the kitchen table in his softer, heavier body, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee that went cold twenty minutes ago, while three kids shout over each other before breakfast. The plaid shirt pulls at your bigger stomach when you lean forward. Your back aches. Your face in the dark microwave door looks older, puffier, and more tired than you feel on the inside.

His wife moves behind you with the practiced impatience of someone who needs help, not your confusion. The children keep calling you Dad, tugging at your sleeves, asking where their shoes are, why the cereal is gone, whether you can drive them later. You nod at all of it, dazed and trapped inside a life that looked ordinary from the outside and impossible from within. Every time your hand brushes the unfamiliar weight at your middle, panic rises again. Your friend promised this was temporary - an opportunity for you to experience family life and a break for him. But with every exhausting morning, and every sexless week you become more certain that the man wearing your old bachelor body has no reason at all to come back.

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