A request from @cyocfan :
I love clothing tf. Hey stud! If you had me, how would you tf me?
You were out shopping for a new shirt to wear to a friendâs summer barbecue when you stepped into the dressing room and found it a mess with clothes dumped on the floor. You realize with a scoff that they arenât even new clothesâthere is what looks to be a sweat-stained tank top sitting right on top of the pile.
For some unknown reason, you pick up the shirt to smell it. The ripe, pungent odor of man-sweat assaults your nose, causing you to recoil in disgust for a split second before the scent begins to overpower your senses. Your vision turns hazy, and you feel your mind begin to fog over.
Through the fog, you feel an overwhelming need to put the shirt onâto have that salty scent of man cover your body. Moving as if in a daydream, you strip out of your clothes and pull the shirt on. Immediately, a sense of rightness hits you. You are vaguely aware of your muscles twitching as your lanky body grows more defined and the slight outline of tattoos appears on your arms with a pleasant, prickly sensation. You inhale deeply, letting the ripe, masculine smell wash over you.
Still in a daze, you grab a musky pair of old jeans from the pile on the floor and struggle to pull them on. Your legs seem to be thicker than you remember. The unfamiliar feeling of the fabric stretching tight over your quads and ass sends a trickle of thrill through you. It feels so good... so right.
Next comes a denim vestâheavy with the persistent, sour scent of sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric. It fits perfectly over your bulky frame, showing off your broad shoulders and massive arms. It is like it was made for you, or you were made for it; your dazed mind is unable to decide. Either way, it is right.
Then, as you pull on a cap claimed from the pile, you blink and look around in confusion as if waking from a dream. But when you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror, a cocky grin spreads across your face. Youâve always loved ducking into a dressing room to admire yourself whenever you got the chance. Fuck, you look good.
After flexing for the mirror one last time, you grab a pack of smokes and the six-pack you came to get for your buddyâs tailgate party. Stepping out of the store, you immediately light up a cigarette and take a long drag. It feels like itâs been a lifetime since youâve had a good smoke, but it couldnât have been more than an hour or so. You lean against your truck, savoring the taste of the cigarette and the way the sun falls on your massive, tattoo-covered muscles.
As you take another long drag, an odd thought crosses your mind that things are finally right now. But you quickly shake off the thought; after all, youâve always been the same man as you are todayâa natural-born powerhouse and the pinnacle of everything masculine. A man who is simply doing the world a favor by standing in it. Fuck, itâs good to be you.
Hey there. I've been teaching my introduction to theatre class for about 10 years now, however this semester has to be the worst. They've stuck me with the absolute worst group of students. Listen, I love being able to teach students and help them better connect to the wonders of performing, but this Gen Ed class of freshman couldn't care less. It's full of straight jocks, guys who think they'll get famous on TikTok, exchange students from the middle east and a bunch of stuck up religious homophobic nepo babies who write slurs on the chalkboard. I can't stand it. I'm ready to quit. But this Friday, I found a box of chocolate on my desk with a typed note saying that it was time I learned a lesson. I have no idea which one of these assholes gave it to me and I'm sure they are laced with something but I can't help but want to try one of the chocolates....
You knew you should just throw it away. Put the small box of stupid chocolates in the nearest garbage and forget about it. The box itself looked like it was handcrafted with cardboard and tape. The chocolates inside? Probably made in one of your student's kitchens. Sloppy, made hastily- being homemade alone didn't make something good. As a teacher, you did get gifts on occasion. But in all of your years of teaching, this one was certainly the absolute worst.
"Alright, alright." You mutter, "I'm a teacher, not a food critic."
You relent and grab one of the small truffles, inspecting it closely. It was obviously coated in milk chocolate, a few red, white, and blue sprinkles garnished the top.
"CJ." You think, "Yeah, bet it was him."
Loud, obnoxious, patriotic- the ultimate stupid all-American jock who probably spent the same amount of time drinking beers as he did in the gym. With a sigh, you plop the truffle into your mouth and start to chew. You taste the milk chocolate and get a few notes of peanuts and apple pie. Not the worst thing you've ever eaten, but definitely not...
"Oh fuck..." You grunt and catch yourself on the nearest table, "Oh fuck it hurts." You grab your stomach and wince, "Wh...?"
Your eyes widen as you watch your dress shirt start to shred into pieces, unveiling more and more of your average frame. You let out another yelp as your dress pants start to come undone, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.
"What the fuck?" You grunt as the room begins to spin around you.
The humble walls of your classroom give way to a raucous tailgate. The smell of brats, burgers, and beers fill your nose. The sound of boisterous laughter, cheering, and shit talk fill your ears. But as you stumble in confusion amidst the new setting, you gasp as you look down at your hand.
"Brody, bro!" One of the jocks yells out, "You good man?"
You watch in terror as your hand thickens and becomes calloused from all those lifting sessions with your bros at the gym. You watch as the muscle expands rapidly in your forearms, before your biceps explode with it. Your triceps aren't spared either as your previous twigs-for-arms thicken from all the lifting, creatine, and protein powder you've been using. But you quickly found out your arms were just the start. The air was knocked out of you as your pecs swelled rapidly, back cracking and widening. You stumble, still trying to get used to your increasing bulk.
"Woah, bro..." You mutter, giving your swollen pecs a squeeze, "All right..." You shake your head, "No... no what am I saying?" You can feel a weed sprouting in your head- another voice, another being.
"Yeah this is the shit." It says using your mouth, "Grow baby, grow."
You laugh, deep and dumb. And as you do, your gut packs on more weight and muscle, pushing out with the firmness of extra bulk. Your abs covered by a soft layer of fat brought to you by all the late night snacking and beers you've downed with your bros.
"Check this, bros." Your voice is slower, dumber, and clearly tipsy from the alcohol. But you don't have time to consider that as you let out a massive fart, "Bro! You hear that? Fuckin' legend, dude!"
You grunt as your ass beefs up, swelling with muscle and fat. Jiggling with each step you take. Your thighs and legs bulk up, as your feet crack and expand into wide, size 15" monsters.
"Alright bros!" Brody says, pumping his fists, "Let's fuckin' go!"
You can't do much as Brody has the best fucking time of his life. You do a keg stand, make-out with some blond cheerleader, wrestle with your bros, and bounce your muscle tits while your dick chubs up. To Brody, its the fucking life. But to you- trapped in this smelly, brutish frat bro- you're in hell. Was this the lesson? Was this what your asshole students wanted to teach you? To...
"Yo what're those?" Brody drunkenly makes his way over to a small box of chocolates, "Don't mind if I do." He guffaws and grabs one.
He plops it into his mouth and you can taste it. Cardamom, cinnamon, and dates. Brody wrinkles his nose as he chews it.
"The fuck kinda flavor is that?" But he doesn't have much time to think more on it as the world around him starts to spin, "Oh fuck, too many beers..."
You can feel it too. The world spinning. Its disorienting, terrifying. And you can feel a burning and itching sensation across your chest. You watch in horror as a patch of coarse black hair sprouts from Brody's chest, spreading rapidly like wildfire. It itches intensely as it grows thicker and longer, soon covering his entire torso in a dark pelt. Brody lets out a grunt, rubbing his hands over his new fur.
"Wh-what's going on, bro? I'm so fuckin' hairy."
Meanwhile, the burning sensation spreads to your face. Black stubble erupts on your jawline, quickly forming a thick, unkempt beard. Your once fair skin blotches with an olive tint.
"Dude, I'm American. Why do I look⊠fuckâŠ"
Every inch of your skin is now olive tinted. There's a grunt as you pack on a little more extra weight and muscle to your previous jock-bro frame. A wave of vertigo hits you hard as reality warps and shifts yet again. The tailgate scene dissolves into a sleek sports car interior. This new man grips the steering wheel tightly, weaving through traffic at dangerous speeds. His bulks grows more, as do his muscles.
"Yallah, move it bitch!" he yells, honking aggressively at a minivan.
"Samir, chill bro." The other Arab man in the passenger seat says.
"Chill? We got places to be, yaar." Samir replies, revving the engine.
You can only watch as this new version of you pulls up to a hookah bar. And as Samir enters, you can smell it too- the air is thick with fragrant smoke and the sound of Arabic music pulses through the speakers. Samir struts in confidently, his broad shoulders, hairy chest, and musculature on full display.
"Marhaba, habibi," he greets the hostess, flashing her a charming smile. She giggles and leads them to a plush booth in the back.
As they settle in, Samir leans back and lights up a large hookah pipe. His arms stretched behind his head. The smell of his musky pits invading your sense.
"Ahhh, perfect," he sighs contentedly. He takes a long drag, holding the sweet smoke in his lungs before exhaling slowly. His friend nods in agreement. "This is the life, yaar. No worries, just good times with the boys."
And as Samir takes another drag, you can feel your mind swimming. The smell of hookah, the laughter, the pride in your middle-eastern heritage. It hurts your head as your identities mix. Teacher? Frat bro? Prideful Arab man? Who are you? What are...
"I... Please, I want this to..."
"Yo who're you?" You freeze. Brody was still here. In your head. Talking to you, "Brah, this whole shits fucked. I got a party to get back to."
You find yourself nodding slowly, "Yeah... a party..." Makes sense, right? You should be partying... at the tailgate... But... you're a teacher, you're a...
Samir takes another long drag from the hookah, blowing the smoke out slowly. "These Americans, they don't know how to live," he says, shaking his head, "Americans, they're weak. Greedy and self indulgent. But us? We're real men, yaar. Strong, proud." He takes another drag, "Inshallah, may Allah bless us with more days like this."
And as the hookah invades his lungs, you too feel it invade your mind. The smell, the camaraderie. The sight of your olive skin, the scraggliness of your beard. And as your buddies pat Samir on the back, you feel like you're part of something more. Something greater.
"Feels nice." You think, "This... this is living... how it should be..."
And as your mind swims with your newfound appreciation for Samir's culture, Samir's attention is captured by a box of chocolates. He smirks and grabs one of the truffles plopping it into his mouth. And almost immediately you can taste it. The bourbon. The hint of vanilla. Maybe even some lavender.
"Wha-" he starts to say, but the words dissolve on his tongue.
You can feel it again. The world spinning around you. Faster and faster. And with it comes the changes. You can feel the heftiness around your midsection starts to dissolve, while the abs underneath are molded perfectly, leaving you with an impressive six-pack. You can hear Samir yelp as his pecs start to puff out further with dense muscle, the hairs starting to dissolve away, leaving behind clean shaven, smooth skin.
"Ugh so pathetic." He groans, running his increasingly meatier hand against his smooth skin, "What is this?"
His skin suddenly begins to lighten once again. His dark eyes become blue, and narrow as a new attitude starts to swell up in your increasingly more crowded mental space.
"This is disgusting."
"Brah, check these muscles."
Your head is spinning with all these different voices. Your body aches as the bulk continues, giving you the body of a greek adonis. Arms swollen, chest solid, abs proudly displayed. The hookah bar finally vanishes, replaced by the glittering expanse of a private pool. Sunlight glints off the water. And you find yourself coming up for air, water falling from your brunette, styled hair.
A girl in a skimpy bikini approaches, carrying a tray of drinks. "Here you go, Mr. Westley," she says, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. This new man takes a drink without even looking at her, already bored. Just another servant. Just another pretty face.
"Get me another one while you're at it." He calls out. He watches her walk away, smirking as he stares at her ass.
He takes a swig of the martini and sighs. Everything looks so bright and crisp. Like the world had been put through a filter. The sky is bluer, the grass greener. Even the water sparkles. And his physique? Toned, tanned, and dripping wet. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"Yeah... I can... I can get used to this..." You mumble as if in a trance.
"Same brah." Brody joins in.
"Fuck that." Samir lashes out, "Spoiled white boy."
The new man exits the pool, tousling his hair, and finding the nearest lounge chair. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, basking in the sun.
"Chad?" He turns towards a man in business attire, "Your father would like a word."
"Tell dear old dad I'm busy." Chad replied dismissively, "And while you're at it, find the groundskeeper and tell him to get this place cleaned up, its a fucking disgrace."
"But sir, your father..."
"You fuckin' deaf or something?" Chad stands up, towering over the man, "I'm. Busy."
The servant scurries away, while Chad just flashes his signature, entitled smirk. And as he gets back to lounging, you feel disgust welling up inside you. This guy was an asshole. A totally self-obsessed douchebag. Even Brody seemed to quiet down, while Samir went on ranting about spoiled Americans.
"I just want to go back." You feel so lost, so hopeless, "I don't want to be this... I want to be me..."
But you're trapped. Trapped in your own mind with Brody and Samir. Trapped and forced to feel everything Chad did. Watch as Chad sends some shirtless selfies to a few blond bimbos. Made plans with an older married woman down the street to meet up when her husband leaves for the day. He messages his friends about using his father's private jet to travel to Tahoe for the weekend.
"Get what I want, when I want." He stretches his arms behind his head and sighs, basking in the sunlight reflecting off his greek god physique.
And that's when you feel it. The power. The musculature of his body. Each flex of his bicep. His massive pecs. You understand now. Understand just how easy his confidence comes to him. Understand why he deserves it. And it felt... good. Yeah... It felt real good. But as you got drunk on everything that was Chad, you were interrupted.
"Chad!" Chad's eyes widen as his father walks over- a man of similar build, height, but older, "You lazy piece of crap!"
"Dad, what... what're you talking about?"
His father's eyes narrow, "I told you before." He points at him, "You want to live like this? You want to use my money for trips to Europe, fuck any bimbo that moves, and lounge around." He frowns, "Then you got to get a degree. An education. Prove you can take over the family business."
"You can't be fucking..."
"Oh I am."
You can feel the anger boiling up in Chad's body. A degree? Having to go to school? With what? A bunch of stupid, poor, ugly freaks that have to work a 9-5 to experience just 1/1000 of Chad's lifestyle.
"That's... not fair." You whisper, as your mind is overwhelmed by Chad's emotions.
Chad stands up, eyes narrowed and pushes past his father. The older man couldn't be serious. Couldn't really be thinking of making him go to college. He stormed past a servant, who simply smiled.
"Would you like a chocolate?"
Chad freezes, "Yeah, sure, why the fuck not?" And plops it into his mouth.
The world around you shifts once more as the flavors of the chocolate hit your tongue - artificial sweetness, fruity candy, and a hint of energy drink. You can feel your muscles beginning to shrink and change, the bulk melting away.
"Whoa, what's happening to me?" Chad's voice whines.
The opulent halls of the mansion are closing in, shifting into that of a studio apartment. Clothes and empty energy drink cans litter the floor. The air smells stale and musty. You glance down at your changing body - the muscles thinning out, becoming leaner and more defined rather than bulky. Body hair recedes until your skin is smooth and hairless. Your face feels tight as it reshapes itself, cheekbones becoming more pronounced, jawline sharpening into an angular cuteness. Curly locks sprout from your head, styled in a trendy, slightly messy fashion. Your beard starts to fall away, leaving you clean-shaven.
This new form - young, attractive, and youthfully energetic - bounds over to the bed. Sitting cross-legged, and pulls out his phone. The lock screen displays a grid of selfies and short video clips, all carefully curated to showcase his best angles and moments.
"Okay, gotta up my game," He mutters, scrolling through TikTok trends. "More followers mean more clout, and clout means everything."
He spends hours creating and posting videos - dance challenges, skits, pranks, and thirst traps. Each upload is meticulously planned and executed to maximize engagement. Between posts, he constantly refreshes his feed, comparing likes and views to his peers.
"This is exhausting," the old you whispers weakly in the back of your mind. But the new you barely registers the complaint, too focused on growing your online presence.
"Hey there! Zac here!" He starts.
You watch helplessly as this new version of you, Zac, throws himself into the world of social media with reckless abandon. Hours blur together as he creates and posts video after video, thirst trap after thirst trap, desperate for that sweet validation of likes and comments.
"Ugh, this sucks," Zac grunts in frustration, deleting yet another failed attempt at a viral dance challenge. "Why isn't this working? I'm hot, I'm funny, I should be blowing up by now!"
The other voices in your head stir.
"Forget this noise, brah. Let's hit the gym, get jacked!" Brody chimes in enthusiastically.
"No way, man. This social media crap is beneath us." Samir scoffs, his accent thick with disdain.
"He's so fucking desperate." Chad chimes in, "He's never going to amount to shit. Just wishes he could have a sliver of what I got."
The voices swim in your head. Painfully. Overwhelmingly. You just want it to stop. Just want them to leave you be. To let you go back to... to what? You're realizing with increasing terror that you're having a hard time remembering just who you were. Someone in education? A teacher? Right? Or were you...
"Pl-please... just... stop." But your voice is crowded out by these other selves, all bickering internally.
"Fuck it," Zac mutters, tossing his phone aside in frustration. He flops back onto the unmade bed, surrounded by the musky scent of sweat-stained sheets and stale air. With a heavy sigh, he reaches for his phone again, navigating to his preferred porn site with practiced ease.
"Just need to blow off some steam," he mumbles, stroking himself through his thin sweatpants as the first video loads. The lewd sounds of moaning and flesh slapping against flesh fill the small room.
Zac's breathing quickens as he loses himself in porn, his toned muscles relaxing under his touch. The stench of his own arousal mingles with the aroma of the slovenly apartment. Sweat beads on his smooth, hairless chest as he pleasures himself. The sensations wash over you too, drowning out the cacophony of voices in your head. Your mind starts to feel hazy, thoughts growing sluggish and scattered. The world narrows down to the intense physical pleasure radiating from your core.
"Hnnngh⊠feels so goodâŠ" you groan, as rational thought slips away, replaced by base instinct and desire.
Brody, Samir, and Chad's voices fade to distant murmurs, easily ignored as you lose yourself in Zac's pleasure. All that matters is chasing this peak of ecstasy.
"F-fuck yeah⊠gonna cum so hardâŠ"
And in that moment⊠you're just Zac. Obsessed with social media. Obsessed with the latest trend. Obsessed with views and likes and getting famous. And when you're not chasing fame, you're jerking off. Endlessly. In your musky apartment. And it feels good. No worries. No cares. No more voices. Yeah⊠Zac⊠you're Zac⊠it makes sense⊠itâŠ
You blink, disoriented as the familiar sight of your classroom comes into focus. The musky stench and lewd sounds vanish, replaced by the sterile scent of chalk dust and the dull murmur of students. Your body feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else entirely.
"W-what⊠what happened?" you stammer, gripping the edge of your desk for support. The lingering echoes of Zac's obsession and pleasure slowly fade, but the memory of inhabiting that shallow, hedonistic existence lingers.
Around you, your students smile. The straight-laced jocks, the fame-hungry TikTokers, the entitled rich kids, and the cultural exchange students. They're staring at you.
"Learn your lesson, bro?"
"No, please! Leave me alone!" you cry out, clutching your head as the voices of Samir, Brody, Chad, and Zac continue to echo and taunt you. "I don't want to be any of you! I just want to be myself again!"
But even as you beg, you can feel the changes starting to take hold once more. Your muscles begin to swell and bulk up, taking on a chiseled, masculine form.
"You're built like a god now. Act like it." Chad's voice rings out, "Walk around like you own the place, 'cause you do. Entitlement is your birthright, remember that."
Your muscles ripple and grow, becoming impressively defined. The bulges of your biceps and pecs send pleasure straight to your heavy balls and thick cock. You stand taller, chest puffed out proudly.
"Fuck yeah, we gotta document this!" Zac squeals excitedly. "Get the camera out, bro! Show the world what we're working with. Hashtag blessed, hashtag gains, hashtag fitness goals! Gotta get them followers, man!"
You pull out your phone with a grin, snapping selfie after selfie from every angle. You look hot. You look good. And you know it. And so will everyone else.
"Look at you." Samir's voice echos in your brain. Dark, glossy hair springs from your scalp, curling slightly. A well-groomed beard spreads across your jawline and chin, "Embrace your heritage, yaar. You're a son of the Middle East now."
You feel warmth as your skin takes on a warm, healthy olive tone. You run a hand through your thick, black hair, admiring how it contrasts with your chiseled features. Your beard feels soft and stylish as you run your fingers along it. You feel a surge of pride in your Arab roots.
"Holy shit dude, we are ripped!" Brody exclaims gleefully, slurring his words slightly. "Time to hit the town and get fucked up! Gonna be the life of the party with these sick muscles, bro!"
You can feel the intelligence draining from your mind, replaced by a happy-go-lucky, dim-witted enthusiasm. Your tongue lolls out as you grin dopily. The voices blend together into a confusing chorus as your body and mind warp to accommodate all four personas simultaneously. You're left standing in the middle of your classroom, nothing more than a muscular, entitled, self-absorbed Arab party bro, with the combined traits and attitudes of Chad, Zac, Samir, and Brody.
"Yo, teach!" One of your students calls out, "You learn your lesson?"
You turn to face him, your muscular physique on full display as you cross your arms over your broad chest. A cocky smirk plays across your handsome, bearded face. You flash a brilliant, charismatic smile at the student, your teeth gleaming white against your olive skin.
Could you do a tf similar to the frat haunting story but where a gay stoner bro changes a reserved college student into a pierced up like stoner slob anything to do with socks shoes or clothing furthering the tf is awesome too and I don't get too see much of that
Alec always loved Halloween night with his frat bros. Always loved their sacred tradition. He remembered his first time as a new pledge. The first Halloween they brought him down to that dingy basement, where one of the older members summoned the ghosts of their predecessors. Sure, Alec had been scared at first, not really knowing what to expect. But very quickly, he felt that cold chill pass through him and found himself in the driver's seat of his own body.
"Oh shit, this feels nice." He had heard his own voice slur, "Thanks for the bod, bro."
Whoever this ghost had been certainly enjoyed the night. Alec found himself watching as his body took up space in a corner of the room, lighting a joint and getting high. And it felt good. Just vibing, smoking weed, and managing the munchies with the greasiest food available. For Alec, a star athlete and golden boy, it felt like a nice quick vacation from his usual life. And the next morning- all was back to normal. Alec woke up half-naked on the couch, joint lazily wedged between his fingers, and went back to his usual day-to-day. He had done it. He was now fully one of the bros.
---------------
Two years had passed since Alec's freshman Halloween party experience. And in those years, Alec worked hard. He hit the gym, practiced on the field daily, tanned in the sun, went to parties, and excelled academically. Confident, popular, and ready to face whatever challenges came his way.
On Halloween night, he stood in the dingy basement watching as another group of new frat bros prepared for the ritual. All was going just as it should. The lights flickered, the cold air settled throughout the room, and the spirits made their appearance. And as Alec laughed alongside his buddies, he felt something. A cold chill pass through him. His laughter stopped.
"Alec, you okay man?"
"Yeah... Yeah..." He frowned, "Did you, uh feel that?" His bros shook their heads, "Must be imagining things." He laughed halfheartedly.
Despite the lingering feeling something was off, Alec went back to welcoming the old frat bros back to the land of the living.
---------------
"Did you have fun at your little occult party?" She ran her fingers across Alec's muscular chest.
"Best party of the year." He smirked, pulling her close, "But I think... what's wrong?"
A look of disgust crossed her face, "That smell..." She frowned, "I didn't know you smoked weed."
Alec raised an eyebrow. Yeah, he'd smoked before. But not recently. And he'd certainly change if his clothes stunk of it. He hated the smell, and clearly his date did too. But as he took a whiff of his shirt, the smell of weed filled his nostrils. And it wasn't subtle. It was strong. Obnoxious. It wouldn't be possible to not notice it.
"Fuck... I don't know how..."
"Let's reschedule." She said quickly, "And next time, maybe don't pick me up smelling like that."
---------------
"Dude, Brit is telling everyone about..."
"I don't get it. So what? I smelled like weed." Alec frowned, shoving a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, "Probably washed my clothes with Derek's or John's by accident."
"Yeah, but like, how didn't you notice?" One of the other guys laughed, "Really blew your chance there. And doubt any chick from that sorority will give you the time of day."
"Whatever." Alec grumbled, chewing on another mouthful of Cheetos.
---------------
Alec woke up groggy, his head pounding from Saturday night's festivities. But he had a routine, hangovers be damned. He stumbled to his closet, reaching for his workout gear. But as he rifled through the hangers, he found nothing but a collection of faded, torn jeans and unwashed, sweat-stained t-shirts. But it was the stench of stale weed that made Alec's stomach churn. It clung to every piece of clothing and spread through his room like wildfire.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." With a sigh, he grudgingly slipped into the dirty attire, "Which one of those fuckers took my clothes?"
He left the room, initially planning to confront his bros. But with each step and each breath of the stale sweat and weed, Alec's thoughts became less focused. By the time he made it to the living room, the clothes felt like they had always been his.
---------------
"Hey, Alec," one of his frat brothers walked into the common area, "haven't seen you at the gym in weeks. Everything cool?"
Alec shrugged, lighting up a joint he'd scored from a buddy.
"Nah, just been busy." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, feeling the familiar buzz wash over him. Suddenly, a thought struck him, "Hey, you think it's possible for a spirit to possess someone more than once?"
His brother raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, man. Why?"
Alec took another drag, not really caring about the answer anymore, "Just curious." He muttered, already forgetting why he asked in the first place.
As he sat there, Alec couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed. This content. The weed, the grubby clothes, the lack of responsibilities - it all blended together perfectly. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, realizing he hadn't shaved in days. Maybe weeks. Didn't matter though.
---------------
Alec stared blankly at the failing grade scrawled across the crumpled exam paper. His stomach churned with disappointment, but the sensation was distant, muffled. He should care more, shouldn't he? This was supposed to matter.
Instead, he found himself more interested in the joint burning down to a nub between his fingers. He took a long drag, inhaling deeply as he leaned back in his chair. The thick, pungent smoke filled his lungs, calming his nerves. He nearly jumped at the icy cold sensation that tore through his body.
"What the fuck?" But the feeling dissipated quickly.
Alec sighed, absently scratching at the patchy chest hair sprouting from his softer, less defined pecs. His once sculpted physique had slowly dissipated over the past months. Not that he minded much these days. Comfortable was better than ripped anyway.
---------------
Alec leaned back against his bed, feet propped up on the mattress. Coach's words echoed in his mind, but they felt detached, irrelevant. Kicked off the team. That should hurt, right? He should be devastated.
Yet, all Alec could focus on was the comforting musk emanating from the holes in his socks. He'd discovered this damp, stained pair of socks festering in a heap of his dirty clothes a few days prior and had been wearing them ever since. The earthy scent, the slightly sticky texture â it was strangely soothing. But something moved in the corner of his eye, prompting him to spin in that direction.
"I could've sworn..." He frowned. What was that? It almost looked like a...
He absentmindedly scratched his stomach, recoiling for the briefest moment at the unfamiliar pudge that had settled on his midsection.
Under different circumstances, this would've sent him into a panic. But today, all he could muster was a fleeting thought of, "Should probably go jog or something," before dismissing the idea entirely.
---------------
Alec trudged through campus, ignoring the whispers from the other students. The stares, the snickers, the pitying glances. He should care, right? Because this wasn't him. He wasn't⊠A sudden, sharp ache shot through his earlobes. They feltâŠempty. Hollow. Alec's steps quickened, propelled by an urgent need he couldn't quite understand. And suddenly, he was standing inside a shop he never knew existed.
"Afternoon. What can I do for ya?" The body piercer said.
Without hesitation, Alec blurted out, "Ears. Both sides. Something big."
---------------
Weeks blurred together in a haze of smoke and the sound of the tattoo needle. They buzzed against Alec's skin, etching dark designs onto his chest, arms, neck, and face. Piercing guns punctured his ears, lips, nose, eyebrows. With each new addition, a flicker of terror sparking within him, his reflection was almost unrecognizable now. He had fallen so far. Had become someone else entirely.
"Why is this happening?" Alec whispered, staring in the mirror and feeling the gauges in his stretched earlobes, "Why am I doing this?"
He stood outside the tattoo parlor and shuddered at the icy cold sensation that coursed through him. His resistance crumbled as he caught a whiff of the comforting musk of his filthy clothes and heard the buzzing of the tattoo needle.
---------------
Alec sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes dull and half-lidded. The room reeked of stale smoke, body odor, and the faint hint of rotting food. His buddies avoided him, professors gave up on him, and for the first time Alec felt lost. He felt further from himself than ever before.
"I need to turn it around." He ran a hand through his greasy hair.
He sighed and took a long drag from his joint, blinking as he noticed a ghostly figure materializing before him. It solidified into the form of a man he vaguely recognized. The frat bro the night of his first ritual. The one who first possessed him.
"It's you." Alec slurred, "You... No, no, get away from me." The ghost floated closer, its eyes locking onto Alec's. "You ruined my life," Alec murmured, a flicker of clarity piercing through the fog in his brain. "Please⊠go away. Leave me alone!"
The spirit grinned lazily and surged forward. Right into Alec. The young man grunted as the spirit filled him. And in those moments, Alec realized something. Realized how weakened and disconnected he was with his true self. Realized how there wasn't much of him left in this slovenly, tatted, pierced form. Alec cried out, as the lines between Alec's original consciousness and the spirit blurred, until they disappeared entirely. He was Alec in name only, but his life... his very fate, were forever tied to the spirit's.
"Woah, that was intense." Alec slurred, "What a fuckin' trip."
Any semblance of Alec's former self, any hope for redemption or return to his previous life, vanished without a trace. There would be no questioning, no yearning for something more. The possession was absolute, and Alec was unaware of the extent of his loss. Forever trapped in a life he would've never wanted. Forevermore just another stoner slob.
Gather 'round, dear reader, for I have a tale to tell. One of tragedy and misfortune, let it be a warning for all who hear it. You might be thinking: "Isn't it a bit late for a story about werewolves? After all, Halloween has passed." But fear not, for this is no ordinary werewolf tale.
When I say the word "werewolf", what comes to your mind? Monstrous creatures cursed to transform under the full moon, driven by primal urges to hunt and kill? Nothing more than just a myth, right? Well, what if I told you these creatures really exist, although not in the way you might expect?
No one knows how it started, but a long time ago, a rare zoonotic virus emerged around the world infecting and spreading through the animals we now call wolves. Wolves, when infected with this virus, do not suffer any ill effects. In fact, they become stronger, faster, and more resilient. However, the real danger lies in what happens when this virus jumps to humans.
Yes, you heard that right. Humans. Somehow, the virus found a way to cross the species barrier and infect us, which is surprising given that its only vectors of transmission are blood and semen. Well, maybe not very unsurprisingly, as you know what happened with COVID-19. This virus, though, is different. Like with the wolves, it enhances the human host, but at a terrible cost. Can you imagine what it feels like to lose yourself to your carnal desires, to become a slave to your most primal instincts? To have your body change against your will, to become something you never wanted to be?
Well, that's exactly what happens to those infected with the werewolf virus. Scientifically known as Lycanthropus Hominis when transmitted to humans, but commonly designated Lycan-virus, it develops into Lycanthropy, the condition of being a werewolf, though not one like those furry beasts from old folklore.
So let me tell you the story of Chad, a failed influencer turned DoorDash driver, who thought he could handle anything that came his way. Little did he know that his life was about to change forever on a fateful Halloween night in downtown Los Angeles.
The music blasted through the cracked concrete walls of an abandoned warehouse during Halloween night. Chad, 22 and cocky as ever, flexed his pale gym-rat arms in a tight tank top, his Grindr notifications buzzing like flies. Failed influencer? Maybe. But tonight, he was hunting for more than likes.
It was a chilly night. The full moon was obscured by clouds, but an eerie glow remained over the place where Chad found himself at an underground Halloween rave party. He had ditched his job earlier that evening to attend the rave, hoping to let loose and have some fun. He didn't even have a costume on, just a basic white tank top and some jeans that he had worn to his shift.
Inside the warehouse, the air was thick with sweat from all the bodies grinding together on the dance floor. The music was very loud, nauseating even, but that didn't stop Chad from noticing every Grindr notification that buzzed on his phone - tonight, he would definitely score some holes. Heading straight to one of the bars, he downed a shot of something that made his throat burn. His eyes were scanning for his type: twinks with that hungry look. But the heat inside was suffocating, the air reeking of sweat and alcohol. He needed a breather, eventually.
At around 11 p.m. that night, Chad got fed up with the claustrophobic heat and the relentless pounding of the music. He slipped out of the warehouse, craving a smoke break and some fresh air. The cool night air was a relief, but as he leaned against the brick wall to light his cigarette, something caught his eye in the dimly lit car park.
He didn't notice it at first, but as he took a drag from his cigarette, he started hearing soft groans coming from the shadows. Squinting, he saw a figure slumped against the wall, blood seeping from a wound on his shoulder.
His name was Alex, though that doesn't matter much now for reasons soon to be clear. His skin was tan and smooth, and he was shivering, either from cold or shock. Wearing only some shorts, and having blood on his face, he looked like he had been through hell.
"What the fuck? Man, you okay?" Chad immediately said after noticing the wounded man. He crouched down, using his phone as a torch to cut through the dark. Alex's eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain, his breath ragged. Up close, he was kinda cute - twinkish, with messy black hair and full lips. Chad's heart raced a bit, though he was still concerned due to all the blood he saw. "Hey, dude, what happened? You look like shit." He reached out, his hand hovering near Alex's shoulder, the blood glistening under the phone's light.
Suddenly, Alex's hand shot out, gripping Chad's arm with a strength that belied his weakened state. "Run..." he rasped, his voice cracking like brittle glass. "Get away from here. It's not... it's not what you think." Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, staining his lips crimson. "He bit me. And now... fuck, it's..." Chad yanked back, confusion on his face. "Who bit you? Dude, you need a hospital." But Alex shook his head weakly, a guttural moan escaping his throat. "Too late. For m-me... For you t-too if you stay... J-just go!"
Chad froze, but his eyes darted to Alex, who was convulsing now. He couldn't tear his gaze away as Alex's body began to writhe, muscles bulging unnaturally beneath his skin, a low growl building in his throat that sent shivers down Chad's spine. "Dude, what the fuck is happening?" Chad exclaimed, but his voice was barely audible over the distant sound of the rave inside the warehouse.
In case I wasn't clear enough with my storytelling, Alex over here had been infected with the Lycan-virus, unbeknownst to our dear Chad. The virus effects started manifesting violently, which made Chad unable to look away, as Alex's form twisted and changed into something more suited to spreading the virus.
It started in his eyes: a burning itch that made him claw at them, tears streaming as his pupils narrowed, and his irises turned from common brown to a vivid yellow. Then his ears: a sickening crackle, like twigs snapping underfoot, as cartilage stretched and reshaped. They elongated upward, tips pointing subtly. Alex whimpered, hands flying to them, but the touch only amplified the sensation - a mix of agony and sensitivity that shot straight to his groin, stirring an unwelcome hardness in his now ripped shorts. "N-no... PLEASE" he begged, but his voice deepened mid-sentence, gravelly and raw, as his gums throbbed. Sharp teeth erupted next, growing and pushing with a wet grind, tearing tender flesh. Warm blood filled his mouth, his thickening tongue lapping at it instinctively, the taste igniting a feral hunger that made his growing cock twitch against the air.
He tried getting up, but his limbs felt heavy and sluggish, as if he were moving through thick mud. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he stumbled, catching himself against the rough brick wall. His heart raced wildly in his chest as he stared at Chad, his brain starting to lag behind, all while he was standing naked with a semi hard-on in front of him.
Now, Chad after witnessing what can only be described as a grotesque and terrifying transformation, stood frozen in shock and horror. His mind struggled to process the impossible scene before him. The rational part of his brain screamed that this couldn't be real, that he must be hallucinating from something he ingested at the rave. Yet the instinctive part of him knew with sickening certainty that what he was seeing was all too real to be a dream.
"R-run..." - the supernaturally attractive man in front of him managed to say with his last strength. "G-get away... before... he comes back..."
Before Chad could respond, a deep growl rumbled from the shadows behind him. He froze, a chill crawling up his spine as the air thickened with an oppressive heat reeking of musk and blood. Slowly, he turned, and there he was - another man, emerging from the darkness like a predator. Barefoot and totally naked, his Latino werewolf body was a sculpted horror, presenting one monstrous girthy penis. It was something else, like a mix of a human and dog's dick - long, veiny, and with a swollen knot at the base. But it was his eyes that terrified Chad - golden orbs glowing with hunger, fixed on Chad with predatory intent. His sharp teeth glinted in a savage grin, blocking any path back to the warehouse, trapping Chad in between these 2 sexy but monstrous men.
"No deberĂas estar aquĂ, cabrĂłn" comes out of the muscular hairy man staring at Chad. Chad backed up. "Who are you?! What the fuck is happening to him?"
The muscular werewolf's lips curl into a feral smile. "He's becoming like me. Like us."
"The fuck you mean 'like us'?"
The werewolf's grin widened. "What do you think, cabrĂłn?" He stepped closer, that obscene knotted cock swaying heavy between his bronze thighs, dripping clear pre that shined faintly on the concrete. "In ten minutes he'll be on his knees begging to spread it. And you..." His golden eyes eyed up Chad's body like a predator. "...you're next."
Before Chad could bolt, the man also known as Diego lunged inhumanly fast, grabbing his shoulders and yanking him close. Chad swung a fist, but it was futile; Diego's strength was superhuman. He could feel his hot breath on his neck, and then... agony, as sharp teeth sank into his shoulder. Blood welled hot and fast, the bite burning like acid injected straight into his veins. Chad's knees buckled, vision blurring, his strength draining as the werewolf's DNA coursed through him, sapping his will while igniting something inside of him.
Alex, still mid-shift, staggered up. The virus was rewriting him now, skin warming from olive to a deeper caramel, flushing outward from the bite like a bruise in reverse. Muscles twitched and swelled beneath, his slim frame thickening with painful pulses: biceps bulging, chest broadening, each fibre tearing and reforming stronger, sending jolts of ecstasy through his body all while Chad couldn't do anything but watch as Diego kept him close on his mouth, biting down harder to keep him subdued.
Alex slammed back against the hood of a random car, yanking some ragged cloth that covered it, spine arching as the pain increased. His breath came in ragged snarls, hips bucking against nothing while the virus tore through his groin. He threw his head back and howled, a raw, desperate sound that cracked into a moan when his tongue lolled thick and wet over his new fang-like teeth.
Dark wiry curls erupted across his chest, racing down sculpted abs, curling thick over swelling pecs and plunging into a dense treasure trail. His pits filled with coarse black hair, sweat-matted and reeking of musk. His ass rounded softly with a dark fuzz covering it in a forest of damp hair.
Between his legs his cock throbbed violently - lengthening, thickening, skin turning crimson. The head tapered to a sensitive point, until he felt his testicles fuse into the base and balloon into a fat, angry knot that slapped wetly against his new empty sheath. Pre gushed in thick ropes, splattering the car hood. Alex's clawed hands held onto the metal, nails screeching as he rutted the air, hips dry-humping helplessly. Another howl ripped from his throat - half pain, half obscene pleasure - while his golden eyes rolled back, lost to the pleasure in his mind.
Then, with inhuman speed, he slammed Chad face-first against a cold dumpster, pinning him with his newfound strength. A thick, knotted cock dragged up the groove of Chad's spine, smearing hot pre through the soaked tank.
"S-sorry, bro", Alex rasped, voice shredded to gravel, tongue hanging long and wet. "Can't... stop... feels too fuckin' good."
Chad thrashed. "Nngh, get offâfuckâ!" He struggled feebly, blood dripping onto the ground as it started raining, but Alex's grip was strong.
Diego then stepped forward, golden eyes blazing with lust. He ripped Chad's jeans down with one claw-like hand, exposing his pale skin to the night air. "You're gonna enjoy this, puto" - Diego growled low, his breath steaming against Chad's ear.
He thrust in raw, no prep.
"HRRNGHâ!!"
Chad's scream cracked into a choked grunt as Diego speared deep. Pain lanced through him, but the infection twisted it, blending it with waves of forbidden pleasure as Diego pounded his tight hole. Every slam dragged a new sound out of him:
"Ughâfuckâ!"
"Nnnghâtoo bigâ!"
"Hahâahhâ!"
The knot battered his rim.
"GrrâstopâpleaseâHRRAAHHâ!"
Then, it popped in.
Chad's eyes rolled. A low, broken "guhâguhâguhâ" punched out with every grind against his prostate, his hips jerking traitorously. Diego roared and flooded him. Chad's own cock spurted untouched against the dumpster, a pathetic "unghâunghâ!" ripping from his throat as the virus burned hot inside him.
Finally, the knot deflated enough for Diego to pull out, leaving Chad dazed and leaking, a sticky warmth trickling down his thighs. In a surge of adrenaline-fuelled panic, Chad shoved free and stumbled away, yanking up his pants, bolting back toward the warehouse door. Laughter echoed behind him - Diego and Alex, letting him go.
"Let him run. He's already ours."
They knew his time was ticking.
...
It was 11:15 p.m. when Chad burst back inside with his shoulder throbbing. The rave's chaos swallowed him - strobe lights stabbing his eyes, and bass pounding his head. He needed somewhere private. The restroom, down the hall with the door hanging crooked was the first thing that popped in his mind. He staggered in, slamming it shut, twisting the lock. Inside, the restroom was a mess, cracked glass everywhere and a smell of piss lingering in the air.
Chad leaned on the sink, staring at his reflection. His face was pale. The rain outside had washed his wound's blood away; the bite looked like nothing more than a faint pink scratch now, almost healed. "This isn't real" - he muttered in denial, but the sting started anyway. His eyes started burning as if embers pressed against them. He blinked hard, tears welling, but when he looked again, the world sharpened unnaturally: every crack in the tile, every drip from the tap, assaulting his senses. Terror gripped him, his eyes had shifted from blue to a glowing yellow that pierced the dim light.
The ears came next - a crackle like bones fracturing in his skull as cartilage elongated, tips pointing upward. He grabbed them, yelping as they stretched under his fingers, the new sensitivity sending shivers down his spine, straight to his groin, where an insistent ache began to build. "Stop... please." But it didn't. His mouth ached, canines lengthening with a grinding tear, nicking his swelling tongue. Blood hit his tongue and his brain lit up like a slot machine: TASTES GOOD. WANT MORE. He licked his lips slow, drooling.
The heat built under his skin. It was like he was being boiled alive. Skin prickled, warming from the inside out. In the mirror, he watched it happen - his pale white skin darkening to a warm bronze, starting at the bite mark and spreading like a plague: across his chest, down his arms, blooming over his abs in waves. It itched, burned like fire ants under the surface, but the change enhanced him, his gym-rat build taking on a richer, more alluring glow that stirred a vain, horrified arousal - he looked... better, stronger, even as the humanity slipped away.
Heat flooded his veins. Thoughts that used to be in his head, like his unpaid rent, his few followers, or tomorrow's shift, started melting in his mind. He blinked hard.
"F-fuck... what was I... thinking about?"
Thinking was getting hard. Too many syllables.
His muscles twitched next, fibres thickening with ripping agony. Chad doubled over as his biceps swelled, veins bulging like ropes. His thighs bulked, ass rounding fuller and firmer, each pulse a cocktail of pain and pleasure that arched his back, forcing a moan from his fanged mouth.
"M-make it stop!"
He pounded the sink, but the mirror showed a stranger: broader, more powerful. His body was betraying him with a growing erection that begged for release. Truth be told, he looked hot. Old Chad would've definitely taken a selfie of himself. New Chad however just drooled and humped the air.
Body hair erupted then, dense and black, like shadows claiming flesh. A happy trail snaked from his navel downward, thickening into a lush forest across his abs, pits sprouting damp curls that trapped his musky scent. Thighs and ass furred up, coarse and insistent, the growth tickling and itching in ways that heightened his arousal, making him grind against the sink edge despite the revulsion.
Worst - and most intoxicating - was his cock. It throbbed first, lengthening inch by agonizing inch, growing longer, tapering to a wicked point that dripped pre-cum. Balls migrated upward, fusing into a swollen knot at the base, the former scrotum loosening into a pouch-like sheath that pulsed with heat. Chad groaned, hand wrapping around it instinctively, the new shape alien yet exquisitely sensitive.
"G-gottaâNNNGHân-need toâNghâflush it out!" He jerked frantically, strokes building a frenzy of pleasure. His mind was fractured:
Stroke. Stop. Stroke. Can't stop.
"Gotta... gotta breed..." he slurred, voice deep and broken. Memories of Grindr, of likes, of being an "influencer" melted into one looping reel: HOLES. KNOT. CUM. BREED. REPEAT.
Minutes blurred under the flickering light. His changes peaked, every sense sharpening, like the smells of the rave seeping under the door, or the sounds that were now deafening to his sensitive ears. Chad was panting. Unable to cum by himself, he slowly calmed. His ears retracted, fangs shortened, eyes dimmed back to normal - shapeshifting back, hiding the wolf-boy within. All except his cock, which retracted into the hollow pouch that were his balls now, a hidden beast waiting. He looked almost like himself again, well except for the bronze skin, and the different facial features. No longer white, he looked like a sexy Latino man now.
His panic subsided, being replaced by a simmering calm. But the moon was rising.
He was calm now. Breathing slow, but his heart was still steady. The monster had sunk back inside, leaving him to stare at himself in the mirror. He stared at it, and all he could see was a hot Latino stranger, with bronze skin and built like a god. His bite scar was gone, no sign of it whatsoever. He even let out a laugh, soft and shaky:
"Okay... okay, it stopped. I'm good. Just... just good."
He splashed cold water on his face, and wiped his mouth. His cock slid fully into its sheath, knot soft and hidden. He leaned on the sink, smiling at the hot guy in the mirror.
"Maybe this ain't so badâ"
Midnight struck. The full moon was high on the sky, its light slicing through the clouds into a grimy window high on the wall of the restroom. Chad's mask suddenly shattered. A surge hit him - his senses exploded, and his libido skyrocketed. He arched, growling as the wolf-boy form came out again: ears pointed, eyes glowing yellow. Strength flooded him, rut-driven. Panic flared anew. "No, not again!" - but the hunger won, a feral need to rut, to infect, drowning out the human screams in his mind.
His last human thought flickered:
"no no noâ"
Then the rut hit him like a train. His knot ballooned inside the sheath, cock surging out hard and red, slapping his abs with a wet smack. Hips bucked the air, and claws gouged the sink. His brain melted to one word, loud and endless:
BREED BREED BREED BREED BREED
Chad's eyes rolled back, tongue lolling. A dumb, horny smile split his fanged mouth. Human Chad was gone. Only the rutting werewolf boy was left. He howled deep, and smashed straight through the bathroom door. The wolf-boy was loose, and the rave was full of holes...
He burst from the bathroom, cock bulging in his tattered jeans but dripping, knot already half-swollen. His nose locked on one scent: a sweet, needy twink in red devil horns, grinding alone under the strobe lights.
Going close to him, the twink turned, his pupils dilating the second their gazes met.
"H-hi... what's your naâ", he tried to say before being cut by the larger man.
"Javier" - Chad, or Javier as he called himself now, growled. "Come. Now."
Upon this sight of a man, the boy dropped his drink and followed like a puppet, whimpering already. Back in a filthy handicap stall, Javier slammed him chest-first against the tile, and kicked the stall door shut. The twink tried to turn around, with his lips parted to say something flirty.
Then he looked down.
Javier's cock jutted out crimson, thick, pointed, the knot already fattening at the base like a fist made of meat.
The twink's breath hitched, a sharp little "oh fuckâ" slipping out.
"That's... w-what the fuck is that", he whispered, backing up until his shoulders hit the wall. His voice cracked, half terror, half helpless lust. "P-please get away f-from m-me."
Javier just growled hungry, and closed the distance in one step. One clawed hand clamped the twink's jaw, tilting his face up. His golden eyes locked on brown ones. "You're taking it", Javier rumbled. "Every inch. Every drop."
The twink whimpered, trembling, but his own cock betrayed him, straining hard against the ruined shorts.
Javier shredded the fabric, spun him around, and pressed that slick, monstrous head against his hole.
"N-no, wait, it's tooâHRRNGHâ!!"
Javier drove in.
The twink screamed, high and broken, his nails clawing the tiles as the tapered shaft speared him open.
Javier didn't slow. Just fucked, hard, wet, and relentless. The knot battered his hole, stretching... stretching... until it popped past the ring with an obscene, wet sound.
The boy's cry turned into a sob-moan, his legs were shaking, tears ruining his red body paint. Javier leaned in, his chest hair rasping the twink's back. "Take it easy, cabrĂłn." Then, the knot swelled huge, locking them tight.
The twink's eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream as Javier unloaded: thick, burning ropes pumping deep, flooding him, bloating his belly slightly with the sheer volume. He came untouched, cock jerking, spurting against the wall in helpless ropes while the virus sank its claws in.
Javier slowed down, flooding the twink with the last thick ropes of his gift. The boy's whimpers turned to choked gasps, eyes fluttering gold, then rolling white. Javier felt the twink go limp, dead weight on his knot. A final shuddering spurt deep inside, then Javier yanked free with a wet, filthy pop.
The horny twink crumpled instantly, unconscious, his face planting the piss-wet tiles. Cum poured from his wrecked, gaping hole in heavy pulses, pooling beneath him.
Javier stood over him a second, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and dripping. He nudged the limp body with one foot, watched it flop bonelessly, then snorted, satisfied.
He didn't look back, already hungry for another hole to fill up next. He crashed out of the warehouse into the pouring rain. Diego and Alex were waiting for him under the floodlights, naked and soaked, their hard cocks dripping. "Te lo dije, cabrĂłn" - Diego grinned, eyes gleaming. "We were waiting for you, bro. Vamonos. Can't spend too much time in one place. These balls don't empty themselves, heh?" Then, they were gone - only blurs over the distance, with golden eyes cutting the through the darkness of the night.
...
An hour later into the night, the warehouse side door banged open again.
A soaked, trembling man stumbled out into the rain, his clothes ruined, but seemingly unbothered by that. His skin tanned a bit under the downpour, muscles twitching and swelling, new hairs sprouting dark across his chest. Eyes snapped open glowing like gold, ears stretching tall. His cock had grown, sporting veins that ran so hot the water from the rain evaporated on contact. While not fully transformed yet, a knot had already formed at the base, slapping wet against his thigh.
He threw his head back and howled. Then he vanished into the storm, hunting the scent of his maker with his cock dripping, and his mind blinded by the moonlight. However, a single word ran through his mind:
BREED
And so, dear reader, another lost soul was erased and reborn as a bronze, knotted beast whose only purpose now is to hunt warm holes under the next full moon.
By day, what was once Chad struts through the streets like a god: his thick pecs straining every shirt, with a heavy bulge coiled tight behind pants that can't quite hide the outline when he's hard (which is often). He smiles easy, and fucks slow and deep when he wants, leaving boys trembling and begging for seconds they'll never get again in their lives. Life feels like an endless paradise to him.
But when that moon bloats full and silver, the leash snaps. The only thought left is to breed. He'll hunt you down, and rip your clothes to shreds while his fat, pointed cock leaks rivers of pre down your thighs. You'll feel the knot swell, stretch you wide, lock you to him as he pumps load after thick, burning load straight into your body, claiming you, and changing you, until you're moaning his name in the same feral tongue he has.
So be careful dear reader, stay inside when the moon is round and bright. I've done my best to tell you what Lycantropy can actually do, but it's up to you to heed my warnings. After all this isn't just an Halloween story, it'sâ
ARGHHHâŠ!
...
...
...
HRKâGLRKâGLRKâGLRKâ
...
"Sweet dreams, putito... if you can still close your legs after this."
[end recording]
--------------
Subject 47-B, former Dr. Morrison, audio log terminated at 25:38.
Note: Outdoors narration experiment succeeded. Subject 47-A, 47-B both detained in quarantine. Level-5 quarantine enforced.
Alex woke up with a groan, his head fuzzy. At 35, he was used to his slim, soft body: pale skin, a neat trimmed beard at most. But as he rolled out of bed, his center of gravity felt all wrong. His gut hung heavy, his arms swung like pendulums of meat, and his thighs rubbed together with thick, hairy friction.
âFuckinâ hellâ he rumbled, the voice booming out low and gravelly, nothing like his old tenor. He lumbered to the bathroom, each step making the floor creak under his new weight. Flicking on the light, he confronted the mirror and stopped dead.
Staring back was a middle aged beast: bald head shining, a massive black beard cascading down over a barrel chest barely contained by a stained white wifebeater. Tattoos crawled over every inch of his arms, faded with age. His belly pushed out proudly, round and firm from years of beer and burgers, but his arms and shoulders were pure power, veins bulging under the ink. Dark work pants hung low, the belt straining against his waist, and a noticeable bulge strained the front of his crotch.
Alex reached up, fingers brushing the coarse beard, then trailing down over the hairy chest peeking from the tank top. âThis ainât meâ he muttered, but his cock was already stirring, thickening against his thigh as he took in the raw masculinity of the reflection.
He couldnât stop staring. His huge hand drifted down, unbuckling the belt with a clink, then shoving into his pants. His fingers wrapped around a fat, veiny cock that felt enormous in his rough palm, way bigger than before and already leaking pre-cum at the tip. âShit, look at you, ya big dirty bastardâ he growled to his reflection, stroking slow and deliberate.
He pumped harder, eyes locked on the mirror: watching his bearded face twist in pleasure, the gut jiggling slightly with each thrust of his hips into his fist, sweat beading on his bald scalp. The tattoos flexed as his forearm worked, the thick shaft sliding through his calloused grip, slick with pre-cum that dribbled over his knuckles.
With a roar, he came thick ropes of hot cum erupting from his cock, splattering the mirror, dripping down the glass in heavy streaks. His body convulsed, knees buckling as he milked every last drop, smearing the mess over his shaft before pulling his hand out and wiping it casually on his pants.
The orgasm crashed through him like a wave, and as it ebbed, the last remnants of old Alex vanished. Big Al grinned at the cum streaked mirror, giving his softening cock a lazy squeeze through his pants.
âAttaboy,â he rumbled, voice thick with satisfaction. He left the mess on the mirror and lumbered to the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with ice cold cans of cheap beer now. He cracked one open with a hiss and chugged it down, foam clinging to his beard, then let out a deep, rumbling belch that shook his gut.
Hand sliding back down the front of his pants to idly fondle himself, Al grabbed his keys. Time to head to the site, bark orders at the lazy pricks on the crew, maybe swing by the drive-thru for a couple burgers. No more weak-ass tea or salads. This was life now: beer, burgers, constant ball-adjusting, and owning every room he walked into.
Alex was gone, and Big Al was just getting started.
Ben had always played it safe. He was twenty, lean and bookish, with sharp cheekbones, a clean style, and an academic scholarship that kept his parents off his back. He was the type to keep his calendar color coded, to eat clean, to work out just enough to stay fit without bulking. Everything in his life was about balance. He wasnât out looking for anyone to take control of him. In fact, Ben liked to believe he was the one in charge. But some part of him, (the part he barely acknowledged) craved something heavier. He just didnât know what yet.
He downloaded a hookup app one night, not for anything serious, just to blow off steam. Thatâs where he matched with Jay. Jay was twenty-six and local, a shaved-headed gym lad with thick arms, heavy ink, and a profile full of grainy mirror selfies in Nike techs. No description, no bio, just a location and a smirk. It wasnât Benâs usual type. Still, something about the guy stuck. Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the way he looked like he didnât have to try.
They agreed to meet up. Ben dressed casual clean jeans, sneakers, a neutral tee. Nothing fancy. Jay opened the door shirtless, in grey tech fleece joggers and white TNs. A thick gold chain lay across his collarbone, and even from the doorway, Ben caught the smell of him sweat, weed, something musky and raw that hit like a slap. It wasnât gross. It was magnetic. It made Benâs thoughts go slow.
Jay didnât greet him with a smile or a hug. Just jerked his head toward the living room. Ben followed, already feeling like something had shifted. They hooked up, but it was calm, not aggressive. Jay was quiet but in control, hands firm, grip confident. He kept his sneakers on the whole time white TNs, spotless, heavy. They brushed against Benâs legs while they kissed, while they moved, and something about the weight and scent of them made Ben ache deeper than he expected.
When he left later that night, his own shirt still faintly smelled of Jay. He breathed it in on the train ride home, heart pounding for no clear reason.
They met again two days later. Jay hadnât asked him to come he just texted his address and a time. Ben didnât even think about saying no.
Jay had a pair of old Adidas trackies laid out on the bed, creased and worn. âPut these on,â he said, not even looking up from his phone. Ben blinked. âWhat, like now?â Jay glanced at him. âYeah. Youâre not wearinâ your posh little jeans âere.â Ben swallowed, then nodded. The fabric was rough, slightly damp. The waistband sagged low on his hips. Jay just grinned. âLooks better on you already.â
They didnât talk much that time. They didnât have to. Jay pressed Benâs face into his armpit at one point, laughing when he moaned. The smell was stronger now thick, heavy, and intoxicating. Ben left in the trackies.
The third meetup changed everything.
Ben arrived in a hoodie and jeans, but Jay took one look and shook his head. âNah. Strip. Wear this.â This time it was a full outfit, trackies, hoodie, cap, even socks and a knockoff gold chain. âGo on,â Jay said, voice low and calm. âJust for fun.â Ben didnât argue. He changed. Jay made him sit down in front of the TV. A video loop started. Loud grime music, flashing words: Obey. Submit. Scally. Chav. Dumb. At first, Ben chuckled, thinking it was some joke. Jay sat behind him, pressed his sneakers into Benâs lap, and leaned in close.
âRelax, mate. Just breathe it in.â
The scent hit Ben hard. Weed, sweat, old cologne, and something deeper. Masculine. Animal. It crawled into his brain, melted his thoughts. Jay kept whispering things. âYou like wearinâ that gear now, donât ya?â Ben nodded, not even thinking. His heart was racing. His cock was hard. His thoughts were gone.
From that night on, the changes stuck.
Ben stopped changing back into his usual clothes. The trackies felt better. His reflection looked more natural. The sharp cheekbones softened. His skin tanned slightly. He stopped trimming his brows. A faint patch of facial hair began to form, scruffy, unkempt, chavvy. Jay noticed. âGettinâ rough round the edges, yeah?â he grinned. âGood. Gotta look the part.â
Jay gave him a cap and told him to wear it everywhere. âHelps the mindset.â And it did. Every time Ben put it on, he felt himself slouch more, talk slower. His voice began to shift, the poshness replaced by a lazy, thicker accent. His workouts stopped being about leanness. Jay had him do bodyweight stuff, bulk up his arms. âScally lads donât skip chest day, bruv.â Ben's body responded fast. Shoulders broadened. Abs thickened. His ass filled out the trackies. His face grew plainer, but in a way that felt right. More real. More local. Jayâs scent still triggered him every time. A whiff of it made his dick twitch and his head fog over. It was a shortcut. The key that unlocked whatever Jay had started in his mind.
Soon, he stopped being Ben.
Jay started calling him Kyle. âBenâs dead, mate. Youâre Kyle now. Me dumb chav pup.â Kyle nodded, grinning. Heâd started wearing Air Max 95s everywhereâJayâs old pair, still warm from his feet. They stank. Kyle loved it. He sniffed them when he was alone. Sometimes he wore them to bed.
He stopped going to uni. Said it was âlongâ and âwaste of time.â He told his tutor to piss off. He didnât even remember why he cared about grades. He started showing up to Jayâs flat early, sometimes just to sit in his gear and smoke. Jay let him. Sometimes he made Kyle worship his socks while they played FIFA. Kyle would nuzzle up against his masterâs foot, eyes half-lidded, stoned and hard.
Jay started making him repeat things. âSay it. Out loud.â
âIâm a dumb scallyboy.â
âI live for me Masterâs sneakers.â
âI donât need brains, just gear and your scent.â
The more he said it, the truer it became.
By summer, there was no sign of Ben. Kyle was unshaven, thick-accented, unemployed, dumb and happy. He wore the same trackies for days. His room smelled like weed, sweat, and his masterâs trainers. He didnât read books anymore. He didnât need to. Jay had filled his head with something better. Simplicity. Pleasure. Obedience.
One evening, Jay came home to find Kyle shirtless on the couch, playing FIFA with one hand and sniffing his Air Max with the other, a mindless grin on his face.
Jay smirked and sat beside him. âYou happy like this, bruv?â
Kyle didnât even look up. Just nodded, eyes glazed.
âYeah, bruv. Donât wanna be no one else. Love beinâ your dumb chav pup.â
In the dim, flickering light of a rundown rest stop on Interstate 95, Harold, the promising young banker, pulled over his elegant Mercedes. His bladder screamed for relief after hours of conference calls and traffic jams. The place was a dumpâwalls full of graffiti, overflowing trash cans, and a floor sticky with God-knows-what. But desperation didn't care about five-star ratings.
He hurried into the men's restroom, where the stench of stale urine hit him like a wall. At the urinal, he unzipped and let it flow, staring blankly at the cracked tiles. To his right, a burly trucker in jeans and a leather vest positioned himself, his boots thudding on the dirty floor. The guy was huge, with a stubbly beard, long greasy hair, and tattoos snaking up his arms.
Mid-stream, Harold felt eyes on him. The trucker looked down, then up again with a crooked grin. "Hey, buddy," he grumbled in a rough voice, "that's a nice piece you've got there. Mind if I... blow it for you? I'll even throw in five bucks."
Harold blinked, his stream faltering. He was a strait-laced typeâsuit, tie, stock portfolios. But he was also young. And something about the absurdity, the isolation of the road, made him pause. Five bucks? Fuck it. "Uh, sure," he muttered, his cheeks reddening. "Why not?"
The trucker simply knelt down, without hesitation, and got to work. It was quick, efficient, almost mechanicalâlike pumping gas at a station. Harold's thoughts raced, a mix of shock and unexpected thrill. When it was over, the trucker stood up, wiped his mouth, and stuffed a crumpled five-dollar bill into Harold's pants. "Thanks, man. Safe travels."
Harold was petrified. He zipped up. As he pondered what had just happened, a strange feeling bubbled up inside him. His polished thoughts shattered; visions of endless highways, greasy diners, and CB radios flooded his mind. He felt... rougher. He needed a cigarette. There were some on the grimy shelf above the urinals. Actually disgusting. But there was a lighter too. And shit, his craving for a cigarette became huge.
He smoked. His tie suddenly choked him like a noose. He loosened it, then ripped it off entirely.
As he stepped out into the neon glow of the gas station, Harold rummaged in his pocket for his keys. He found the five-dollar bill. That wouldn't be enough. But it was a down payment. For a pack of Marlboros, a Zippo, and maybe a pack of chewing tobacco.
As he exhaled and watched the thundering semi-trucks pass by, Harold realized he wasn't going back to the office. The road called. He got into his car, but it felt wrongâtoo clean, too small. Maybe he'd trade it for a truck at the next exit. Yeah, that sounded right.
Max was 18 years old, just finished high school, and felt like he was in a cage. His parents had dragged him on this family vacation to TurkeyâAntalya, to be precise. "Education and culture!" they had said. But for Max, that meant endless hours in stuffy museums, standing in front of ancient statues wondering why he couldn't just chill on the beach. Or scrambling around ruins where the sun beat down mercilessly and his mother constantly took photos. "Look, Max, that's from the Byzantine era!" Yeah, great. He was bored to death.
On this one day, he had enough. The family was staying in a hotel on the outskirts of the city, with a pool and all the trimmings, but his parents were already planning the next excursion: some ancient city, hours away. Max woke up with a plan. "I don't feel well," he whined at breakfast. "Sunstroke, I think. Everything's spinning." His mother felt his forehead, his father grumbled something about too much phone time, but they bought it. "Rest up, we'll be back in the evening," they said and left.
As soon as they were gone, Max slipped out of the hotel room. He had money in his pocketâallowance he'd savedâand the city was waiting. Antalya pulsed: markets, street vendors, tourists in flip-flops. He wandered through the alleys, ate an ice cream, flirted half-heartedly with a few girls on the beach. But he wanted something lasting, something cool. In a side street, he found a small shop full of jewelry, clothes, and tourist stuff. Behind the counter stood an old man who eyed him.
"Nice chain there," Max said, pointing to a thick gold chain gleaming in the window. Fake gold, obviously, but it looked like something from a rap video. "How much?" The seller grinned. "For you, young man, 50 Lira." Max paid, took the chain in his hand. It was heavier than expected, with a strange shine that almost pulsed in the shop's light. He hung it around his neck, and immediately felt a tingling as the cold metal chain touched his skin. It was like an electric current shooting through his body, starting from his chest, up to his head and down to his limbs.
Suddenly, everything spun. The shop began to blur, the shelves with T-shirts and souvenirs merged into a swirling sea of colors. Max grabbed the counter for support, but his fingers felt numb. His memories flickered like old film strips tearing: The classroom in Germany, the rain in Berlin, his parents packing suitcases. "What...?" he muttered, but his voice sounded foreign, deeper, with a hint of accent. His head throbbed as if someone was stirring inside it. Images flooded himânot his own. A market in Antalya, laughter with friends, the smell of doner and sea. Germany? The word felt distant, like a fading dream. His muscles tensed, as if his body was growing, changing. He felt his arms getting thicker, his chest broader, his skin darker in tone. The mullet haircut he never had suddenly fell into his forehead. The chain glowed hot, almost burning, and with every heartbeat, a piece of Max dissolved. Panic rose in him, but it was drowned by a wave of euphoriaâfreedom, adventure, the pulse of the city. "No, wait..." he whispered, but the words turned into laughter, a confident, Turkish laughter.
When he blinked, everything was different. He was now called Emir. No more Max. Emir, 19, a Turkish tough guy with a mullet haircut that always sat perfectly. His parentsânot the German ones, no, his real parentsâowned this shop. The small store in the old town where they sold tourist stuff: chains, T-shirts, souvenirs. Mom was in the back sorting goods, Dad sat at the counter smoking a cigarette. "Emir, help with the flyers!" Dad called. Emir nodded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
His daily life? During the day, he distributed flyers for his big brother, who had a bar on the waterfront promenade. "Karaoke Night! Cheap Drinks! Come to 'Beach Breeze'!" it said. Emir jogged through the streets, pressed them into the hands of laughing tourists, winked at the pretty ones. He was fit, muscular from weightlifting in the backyardâno wonder, with that life. In the evenings, he helped out in the bar: washing glasses, tapping beer, watching the crowd. But the best part? Checking out the tourists. The sexiest ones who came in with their bikinis and sunglasses, looking for adventure.
There was this blonde Swede yesterdayâor was it the day before? She had laughed when he bought her a drink. "You look like a model," she said. Later, in the dark alley behind the bar, they did it, wild and fast. Or the Frenchman last weekend, who had devoured him with looks. Emir was flexibleâfuck or get fucked, as long as it was fun. No strings attached, just the kick of the night. His chain dangled, the fake gold that brought him luck. Or was it a curse? Whatever, it felt right.
Emir posed in front of the mirror in the shop, flexed his biceps, took a selfie. The city outside hummed, palms swayed in the wind. No more museums, no more boredom. This was his life nowâfree, wild, Turkish through and through. And deep inside, in a forgotten corner of his mind, a distant voice whispered: "Max... what happened?" But Emir just laughed and went out to distribute the next flyer.
The faint sounds of car engine and honking from above seeped through the thick layer of concrete. It had been a while since the last time Liam set foot on Cowper Streetâ or under it. Which was not that unusual: some parts of the city hadnât been friendly to pedestrians since forever, and they would continue to be that way for years to come. Liam wouldâve also gone some other route if his car didnât break down that morning and circling around this subway to reach the tram stop would cost him another 15 minutes.
Dim outdoor light slowly gave in to a moodier one. Fixtures hanging where each wall met the ceiling illuminated the path, while patches of darkness sat broodingly in the corner. In a volatile and uncertain world, itâs lovely and delightful in a way to see that some things hadnât changed much. This tunnel was one of those.
Smelly, dirty, full of graffiti, walkable.
A statistical breakdown of the areaâs recent notable events would indicate that thereâs nothing objectively dangerous about this place, and the worst thing that could happen would be an occasional encounter with a benign yob. Still, to Liam, there existed a riskâ one of hygienic nature. A man strutting in a spotless navy-blue suit and highly-polished pair of black Oxfords, were mishap to befall him, would expose himself to certain odours that any business-minded people awaiting him at his destination will scoff at upon sensing even the slightest hint of their presence. In the best-case scenario, Liam just needed to stay away from any suspicious puddle or unidentified mass. But what if that misfortune manifested in the form of a stinky local delinquent?
Thankfully for Liam, it was a gloomy day, and, tried as he might, he could not spot any human figure within his line of sight.
As his footsteps echoed through the walkway, he had the feeling that he was being watched.
âOi, ladâ, an energetic voice boomed somewhere to his left. Â
A sigh escaped his mouth. Thatâs his signal to keep going. That intonation, in this kind of place, built up in his mind a certain image, and struck his psyche with a certain feeling.
Not the best kind.
Liam liked to rely on stereotypes and put people into boxes, and this had often earned him uninvited snide remarks about his moral standing amongst friends. Habitually he would just reassure himself, just like in this very moment, that there was nothing questionable about his character if the people to whom he mentally assigned unpleasant descriptions all turned out to be unpleasant. And he was sure for whomever that just uttered those two syllables, that would be true as well.
He kept on walking. Or to be precise, he kept on maintaining the façade that he was walking. To any bystander, the speed at which he was lifting up and stomping down his glossy shoes resembled more that of an exhausted jogger about to finish his run. His number one rule in dealing with these types of interaction was to reduce the number of encounters to zero. And that meant getting away from this place as soon as possible. Â
And then, he stopped.
Strange ⊠where did that come from? He thought.
When he entered the tunnel, there was nobody there. Up until the point when he heard that voice, his feet were the only source of all possible sounds. Of course, there was the occasional rustling of a kebab wrapper that someone had probably left behind after devouring the content inside an hour ago. But still, that didnât explain Liamâs befuddlement.
He looked back.
No one was behind him, and no one was in front of him, either. Discreet was not what Liam would usually describe this type of people.
âOiâ. That annoying voice again, this time right to his left â almost like its source was standing next to him. As morbid curiosity claimed victory over his avoidance tendency, he turned his head, ready to be greeted by whatever surprise that awaited him. Â Â
⊠A painting?
Caught in the centre of Liamâs vision, on the graffiti-filled wall that had seen better days, was a man. A painting of one. Heâs probably the same age as Liam, albeit taller and not as formally dressed. His body was covered in grey. Grey hoodie, grey sweatpants, grey Nike Air Max. The lighting and the rust on the wall had also made the off-white colour of the Stella Artois can held in his hand turn a darker grey, leaving the tiny, barely-visible red part of the emblem the only object of this painting that was not something in between black and white.
Wow, he really does look like what Iâve expected him to be. Bemused Liam.
He must admit, whoever had made this piece deserved all of his admiration. The painting looked almost like a real person. The grey colour buried amongst thousands of other vibrant, eye-catching blobs and lines nearby hid it away from his perception â the reason why he didnât notice it right away. Every detail was immaculate, from the texture of his clothes, the contour of his bulging muscles, the toothy grin to the veins on his hands and even faint shadow showcasing whatâs he got to show down under.
He stepped closer to the wall and, instinctively, looked around the painting for any camera, any teeny tiny devices that someone probably had planted to spook him and film his reaction. Maybe a whole content-creating team had tinkered with this part of the subway in hope of capturing a viral moment where a clueless corporate bloke screamed upon sighting a hyper-realistic painting of a beefy yob. It was the most plausible explanation Liam could think of. Â
He looked up, down, left, right, front, back.
Nothing was found, neither had nobody jumped out to say that he had been pranked.
Weird.
Now that he'd spent some more effort to put his brain to use, the situation appeared even more unusual. Heâd never considered himself a connoisseur in street arts, but enough exposure to it had acquainted him with its most typical expressions â ugly tags, political messages sometimes sprinkled with a touch of racism and football references from the obscure to the obvious. The conspiracy theorist part of him would say that this was definitely an ad, either for the shoes or the beer, but that begged the question, why the bloke in the middle? He didn't look like any famous person that Liam knew, and Liam knew quite a few. This was not some high-traffic touristy city, surely even pranksters would find no pleasure giving this third-rate hellhole their attention. Â Â
He reached out his hand to feel the painting, right where the ladâs chest was. Not exactly flat, warm to the touch, and slightly smelly. The smell of cheap beer and body odour. Liam felt vindicated. Someone really was here just a moment ago.
The moment Liamâs fingers stopped at the tracksuitâs sleeve, an invisible force pulled him in, sealing his arm shut. The stench of stale sweat and alcohol wafted up his nose, and he heard an impish laugh bellowing out of the surface inches away from him â the painting came to life, and on the other side of the wall, Liam could feel his hand being held tightly in the beefy ladâs grip.
âOi, calm it, yeah? Itâs not gonna hurt.â
Liamâs head was racing. The situation left him no clue on how to react. If he had had a first thought, it would have been to blurt out âwhat the fuckâ, and then scream for help as loud as possible. But there was no thought in his head, and his body acted like on autopilot. Reflexively, he tried to break free, but his effort was in vain. The mismatch between his strength and his captorâs aside, whatever substance surrounding his arm seemed to be semi-liquidâ a very dense one that voided any chance of him manoeuvring around to put his body in a better counterattack position. He raised one leg in attempt to kick the other man in the balls, or just simply to get himself off and out of this sticky situation. But his opponent was quicker, grasping Liamâs foot in a split second, and pulled it into the wall with lightning speed.
âSound move, posh lad. Why didnât ya answer when I called?â, said the voice from inside the wall. The concrete and paint next to Liam turned semi-translucent, then a round lump started to bulge out from it. The surface broke up, and the other maleâs head emerged out of it to let out a loud, cheeky laugh. The substance coating his head receded back into the wall shortly after.
With both hand and leg trapped, the well-built man quickly pulled Liam in, and, with remarkable strength, pulled the latter hard to his right side, thereby turning Liam around to face the opposite wall. Liamâs lower body had been almost subsumed into the painting, with only the tips of his shoes still jugging out. His upper half was suspended in an odd angle, where his hands were still stuck behind but chest, and stomach were free to lean forward, leaving his head slightly farther away from the wall than his torso. Â
âLet me out. Please. I havenât done anything to youâ, Liam begged frantically.
âáŽáŽê±Ê, ÊáŽáŽ .â
Liamâs body shuddered. The word reached his ears with such deafening intensity that limbs went into panic mode, the kind that shut them all down instead of jolting them all up with electrical craze to go all-in for a fight-or-flight response. Not the kind of loud sound that blasted by some giant speaker to make you deaf, but echoing, reverberating, first to his ears, then to his psyche. He felt as though the weight of all the concrete around and above him had condensed together to lend power to that thundering command. It clapped his eardrums and struck down his psychological resistance into pieces. His mind went blank, and his movements enfeebled.
The ladâs head sticked out some more, so that it was on the same level as Liamâs. For the first time, the latter had a close look at the young man. Patchy moustache, face flushed, thick neck, prominent Adamâs apple. Emanating from him was an aura of caricatural masculinity â strapping, simple-minded, but in an endearing way. There was not even a crumb of malice coming from him, likely the consequence of being airheaded.
âDonât get shy now, pretty lad. Youâll like it in a sec!â, the lad said while looked at him with beaming eyes. The other manâs hot breath laced with of alcohol glided on his face and assaulted his nostril. Liam couldnât help but to breathe it in. The sloshedness was contagious, and seconds later, Liamâs mind was already in a new state. Liam looked into his glinting eyes, and the infectious fervour flowed back into him, soon also reflected in his eyes.
ÊáŽÊáŽxáŽáŽ .
âYâalright there, posh lad?â, boasted the lad enthusiastically, wrapping his big sweaty arm around Liam. His tipsy breath continued to invade Liamâs nose, but it was enhanced by another smell â the stench of the lad rank, sweaty armpit. Bare and pure, undeodorized, accumulated from years of toiling labour, gruelling work-out and dirt-cheap fast food, suffocating Liam with testosterone. As Liam drew in his concentrated signature scent, his mind had lost its last battle against the foreign dominant personality that was breaching into his head. His brain had turned into mush, and his innermost self was now nothing but a malleable mass, ready to be reshaped into something better.
He let out a dopey grin not so different from the hunky lad.
âSoundâ. Â
His words were already slurring.
âFucking soundâ, he repeated.
âAye, thatâs more like it.â
The lad pulled Liam forward into a kiss. The bigger man made quick work of Liamâs tops, and in a matter of seconds his torso was already bare for the wind to caress. Once again, the strange material swelled and budged, and Liam could feel dampness and heat inches away right behind him. Soon, the gap was closed as wall of sweat and muscles slowly pressed against him, and Liam could feel the formerâs growing member sliding along his ass crack. Massive, oozing.
Hand in hand, Liamâs arm was dragged out of the wall to the front, laying gently on his navel. The lad pressed hard against it, and his flesh sank into Liamâs own. His tiny office-worker hand was being consumed by the heftier, stronger one. For a short while, Liam felt like that hand was his. He felt his own digits getting bigger, rougher, tougher, burlier. He felt the itchiness on the back of his hand as a lotus tattoo slowly appeared on it. But that sensation soon stopped, and he was disappointed. He wanted more. He pressed hand arm back against the ladâs, and was rewarded with that hit of ecstasy again. His forearm thickened up with muscle, and hair started to sprout on across its length. His bicep soon followed through, ballooning to a size that far surpassed that of his puny neck. And the high, just as it came, shortly disappeared. His hand and arm were moving on its own. They had become the ladâs hand and arm, which had just begun to fondle his belly. It felt good, but not as good as before. He would give anything to reach that state again.
The ladâs other arm shot out of the wall, in its grip the beer can from earlier. He quickly transferred it to his left hand. The cold spread from the lad bulky arm up to Liamâs shoulder.
âDown itâ, the lad said, patting Liamâs belly. He then promptly raised the beer can to Liamâs mouth.
Yes. He needed to gulp down his dissatisfaction. It didnât register to him that he was being commanded. How could that be a command, if he himself had already think of it just a moment ago? It was as if he had just reunited with his best friend whom he hadnât met for years, and they were on the same wavelength again. His friend understood exactly what he really needed.
In synergy with the ladâs hand movement, Liam guzzled half the content of the can. The cold froze his brain, and he hung his mouth agape, only for the lad to lean up and charge in with his tongue. Their hairy merged hand explored his body. Calluses reigned over his chest, stomach, and meaty palm caressed his growing bulge. The other hand unfastened his belt, then unbuttoned his trouser, and slid his pants down. As his clothing came into contact with the substance inside the wall, Liam felt every tiny inch of them being pulled away from his skin, as though the wall had disintegrated them, until nothing could be felt around his legs and ankles anymore.
The lad pulled Liamâs other hand out of the wall along with his, and began to feel up Liamâs package.
âHeh⊠decent cock, thatâ, said the lad playfully.
As the ladâs fingers interlocked with Liamâs, the latter once again descended into mania. Giving upâ no, sharing his hand and arm with the lad, feeling them explode with muscle and imbued with his intoxicating scent, until the numbness settled, as the lad took control of his remaining arm. Now two mighty hands connected to his shoulders were touching every part of his body, and he was in heaven.
The lad held up the beer can again, and downed the rest of its content. A clanking sound reverberated through the tunnel as he hurled the empty can away. They kissed. Some amount of beer still left in the ladâs mouth sloshed into Liamâs. Itâs lukewarm now, and mixed with his spit. Liam swallowed all of it, moaning softly as more of the ladâs essence penetrated his throat. The ladâs cock had reached full mast, and was dripping profusely on Liamâs rear, enough to form a puddle on the ground had they not been half-contained inside a wall.
One of the ladâs hands had moved behind Liam, smearing and spreading the natural lube into his hole, working it up for a grand entrance. With his other hand, he put two fingers inside Liamâs mouth. The latter eagerly suckled on them, and the lad promptly placed his digits, wetted with saliva, inside Liamâs cavity. It was a bizarre feeling. He was aware that he exerted no control over the hands that were tinkering with his pucker and spreading his cheeks, except that were connected to his shoulders, and from that angle it did look like he was playing and fingering his own bum. Every time their merged limbs touched his body, there was a brief moment where he could also sense them, as if they were still his own, and it made his brain go crazy, but soon the sensation would stop. And his mind would be screaming for more.
âYeah, our arseâs gonna look mintâ, exclaimed the lad. Liam could only reply with a loud, needy moan.
And the lad went all in.
Pleasure coursed through Liamâs veins. His body was opening up, literally and metaphorically. The lad was pouring into him, and he was becoming the lad. He was drunk. Drunk from pleasure, from cans of cheap beer, from undiluted masculinity, from the courage he had just gained to give up, and from the bliss of giving up itself â his life, his worries, his thoughts, his very own identity. Everything that was his, would soon belong the ladâs. They would share everything in this word together.
The two men moaned loudly in tandem, voices practically indistinguishable from each other. There was no delay between vocalisations, as if all regulated by one source. Each man spotted a dumb, blissful grin on their face. Their combined hands stroked the man in the frontâs cock, cupping and fondling his balls.
As the lad pushed in more and more, that feeling came to Liam again. More intense. More spread out. More rapid. His chest had turned into two hairy mounds of muscles, and once more an itch spread across one pec as a tattoo of a scorpion emerged on its surface.
the lad hastened his pace, ramming up Liamâs rear with increasing speed and strength. He dug his giant, stinky feet into Liamâs petite soles, and the latter felt his own body stretching out and up to accommodate its new mass and height.
The ladâs voice was no longer behind him, but all around him and inside. It had become his own voice, booming out of his expanded voice box, bumping up and down his giant Adamâs apple every time they moaned.
Only Liamâs head and pelvis remained unfused. And he was so desperate for it. He could feel, against all physical possibilities, the ladâs cock reaching closer and closer to his cock, and the ladâs face somewhere next to his face. Not behind, not in front, just ⊠there. Ready to share and be shared.
Then the lad became him. He screamed. And came.
His limbs were set free. His balls were churning hard. They drooped and swelled, unfazed by the amount of sperm exiting his body, as though ready to resupply him with billions more. They kept tugging at his crotch while euphoria was seizing his body.
Ropes of cum shot out of his cock that was growing with no sign of stopping. He continued to stroke it. His glorious, colossal cock, hefty and heavy in his meaty hands coated the ground with his essence.
âLiamâ stood in front of an oddly-shaped patch of wall, sweaty and breathing heavily.
Beneath him, a thick puddle of cum glistened in the light.
His hand dipped into the wall, and pulled out a pair of grey trackies, dirty from grime and stained, possibly from a combination of potent bodily fluids. âHeh⊠gonna need a proper clean after thisâ. He quickly donned the pair, struggling somewhat to properly place his dripping monster cock and jumbo balls inside them, as, the lack of undies aside, the article of clothing obviously wasnât made to accommodate his size.
Next came a pair of supposedly white socks. Their soles were nigh blackened, and a funky stench emitted from the cloth. His trainers, in contrast, looked relatively new.
Liam was about to reach for something else, when a loud, long and obnoxious burp escaped his mouth.
âFuck me, whyâs it boiling in here?â
He darted his eyes around, then grinned mischievously.
Trackies pulled down, his cock, hard and wet with both pre and cum, let out a stream of yellow liquid onto the strange wall.
âFuckinâ rightâ, he said with an exaggerated moaning.
It took a long while for his bladder to finish the alcohol-induced number one. By then his cock had gone semi-soft. He gave it a nice shake, and pulled it back inside. The oversized member left behind a tiny wet spot on the already dirty article of clothing.
He departed, leaving behind the thoroughly desecrated tunnel with its graffiti wall.
Some days later, the city maintenance workers came over to clean up the place. The sun had evaporated the most noticeable parts of the battlefield, only a distinctive smell remained. A worker bent over to pick up an empty beer can.
On the wall in front of him, a peculiar image stood out. The area untouched by paint and dirt seemed to take the shape of a man ...
... at whose feet lied a crumpled pile of clothes.
Hey there. I've been teaching my introduction to theatre class for about 10 years now, however this semester has to be the worst. They've stuck me with the absolute worst group of students. Listen, I love being able to teach students and help them better connect to the wonders of performing, but this Gen Ed class of freshman couldn't care less. It's full of straight jocks, guys who think they'll get famous on TikTok, exchange students from the middle east and a bunch of stuck up religious homophobic nepo babies who write slurs on the chalkboard. I can't stand it. I'm ready to quit. But this Friday, I found a box of chocolate on my desk with a typed note saying that it was time I learned a lesson. I have no idea which one of these assholes gave it to me and I'm sure they are laced with something but I can't help but want to try one of the chocolates....
You knew you should just throw it away. Put the small box of stupid chocolates in the nearest garbage and forget about it. The box itself looked like it was handcrafted with cardboard and tape. The chocolates inside? Probably made in one of your student's kitchens. Sloppy, made hastily- being homemade alone didn't make something good. As a teacher, you did get gifts on occasion. But in all of your years of teaching, this one was certainly the absolute worst.
"Alright, alright." You mutter, "I'm a teacher, not a food critic."
You relent and grab one of the small truffles, inspecting it closely. It was obviously coated in milk chocolate, a few red, white, and blue sprinkles garnished the top.
"CJ." You think, "Yeah, bet it was him."
Loud, obnoxious, patriotic- the ultimate stupid all-American jock who probably spent the same amount of time drinking beers as he did in the gym. With a sigh, you plop the truffle into your mouth and start to chew. You taste the milk chocolate and get a few notes of peanuts and apple pie. Not the worst thing you've ever eaten, but definitely not...
"Oh fuck..." You grunt and catch yourself on the nearest table, "Oh fuck it hurts." You grab your stomach and wince, "Wh...?"
Your eyes widen as you watch your dress shirt start to shred into pieces, unveiling more and more of your average frame. You let out another yelp as your dress pants start to come undone, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.
"What the fuck?" You grunt as the room begins to spin around you.
The humble walls of your classroom give way to a raucous tailgate. The smell of brats, burgers, and beers fill your nose. The sound of boisterous laughter, cheering, and shit talk fill your ears. But as you stumble in confusion amidst the new setting, you gasp as you look down at your hand.
"Brody, bro!" One of the jocks yells out, "You good man?"
You watch in terror as your hand thickens and becomes calloused from all those lifting sessions with your bros at the gym. You watch as the muscle expands rapidly in your forearms, before your biceps explode with it. Your triceps aren't spared either as your previous twigs-for-arms thicken from all the lifting, creatine, and protein powder you've been using. But you quickly found out your arms were just the start. The air was knocked out of you as your pecs swelled rapidly, back cracking and widening. You stumble, still trying to get used to your increasing bulk.
"Woah, bro..." You mutter, giving your swollen pecs a squeeze, "All right..." You shake your head, "No... no what am I saying?" You can feel a weed sprouting in your head- another voice, another being.
"Yeah this is the shit." It says using your mouth, "Grow baby, grow."
You laugh, deep and dumb. And as you do, your gut packs on more weight and muscle, pushing out with the firmness of extra bulk. Your abs covered by a soft layer of fat brought to you by all the late night snacking and beers you've downed with your bros.
"Check this, bros." Your voice is slower, dumber, and clearly tipsy from the alcohol. But you don't have time to consider that as you let out a massive fart, "Bro! You hear that? Fuckin' legend, dude!"
You grunt as your ass beefs up, swelling with muscle and fat. Jiggling with each step you take. Your thighs and legs bulk up, as your feet crack and expand into wide, size 15" monsters.
"Alright bros!" Brody says, pumping his fists, "Let's fuckin' go!"
You can't do much as Brody has the best fucking time of his life. You do a keg stand, make-out with some blond cheerleader, wrestle with your bros, and bounce your muscle tits while your dick chubs up. To Brody, its the fucking life. But to you- trapped in this smelly, brutish frat bro- you're in hell. Was this the lesson? Was this what your asshole students wanted to teach you? To...
"Yo what're those?" Brody drunkenly makes his way over to a small box of chocolates, "Don't mind if I do." He guffaws and grabs one.
He plops it into his mouth and you can taste it. Cardamom, cinnamon, and dates. Brody wrinkles his nose as he chews it.
"The fuck kinda flavor is that?" But he doesn't have much time to think more on it as the world around him starts to spin, "Oh fuck, too many beers..."
You can feel it too. The world spinning. Its disorienting, terrifying. And you can feel a burning and itching sensation across your chest. You watch in horror as a patch of coarse black hair sprouts from Brody's chest, spreading rapidly like wildfire. It itches intensely as it grows thicker and longer, soon covering his entire torso in a dark pelt. Brody lets out a grunt, rubbing his hands over his new fur.
"Wh-what's going on, bro? I'm so fuckin' hairy."
Meanwhile, the burning sensation spreads to your face. Black stubble erupts on your jawline, quickly forming a thick, unkempt beard. Your once fair skin blotches with an olive tint.
"Dude, I'm American. Why do I look⊠fuckâŠ"
Every inch of your skin is now olive tinted. There's a grunt as you pack on a little more extra weight and muscle to your previous jock-bro frame. A wave of vertigo hits you hard as reality warps and shifts yet again. The tailgate scene dissolves into a sleek sports car interior. This new man grips the steering wheel tightly, weaving through traffic at dangerous speeds. His bulks grows more, as do his muscles.
"Yallah, move it bitch!" he yells, honking aggressively at a minivan.
"Samir, chill bro." The other Arab man in the passenger seat says.
"Chill? We got places to be, yaar." Samir replies, revving the engine.
You can only watch as this new version of you pulls up to a hookah bar. And as Samir enters, you can smell it too- the air is thick with fragrant smoke and the sound of Arabic music pulses through the speakers. Samir struts in confidently, his broad shoulders, hairy chest, and musculature on full display.
"Marhaba, habibi," he greets the hostess, flashing her a charming smile. She giggles and leads them to a plush booth in the back.
As they settle in, Samir leans back and lights up a large hookah pipe. His arms stretched behind his head. The smell of his musky pits invading your sense.
"Ahhh, perfect," he sighs contentedly. He takes a long drag, holding the sweet smoke in his lungs before exhaling slowly. His friend nods in agreement. "This is the life, yaar. No worries, just good times with the boys."
And as Samir takes another drag, you can feel your mind swimming. The smell of hookah, the laughter, the pride in your middle-eastern heritage. It hurts your head as your identities mix. Teacher? Frat bro? Prideful Arab man? Who are you? What are...
"I... Please, I want this to..."
"Yo who're you?" You freeze. Brody was still here. In your head. Talking to you, "Brah, this whole shits fucked. I got a party to get back to."
You find yourself nodding slowly, "Yeah... a party..." Makes sense, right? You should be partying... at the tailgate... But... you're a teacher, you're a...
Samir takes another long drag from the hookah, blowing the smoke out slowly. "These Americans, they don't know how to live," he says, shaking his head, "Americans, they're weak. Greedy and self indulgent. But us? We're real men, yaar. Strong, proud." He takes another drag, "Inshallah, may Allah bless us with more days like this."
And as the hookah invades his lungs, you too feel it invade your mind. The smell, the camaraderie. The sight of your olive skin, the scraggliness of your beard. And as your buddies pat Samir on the back, you feel like you're part of something more. Something greater.
"Feels nice." You think, "This... this is living... how it should be..."
And as your mind swims with your newfound appreciation for Samir's culture, Samir's attention is captured by a box of chocolates. He smirks and grabs one of the truffles plopping it into his mouth. And almost immediately you can taste it. The bourbon. The hint of vanilla. Maybe even some lavender.
"Wha-" he starts to say, but the words dissolve on his tongue.
You can feel it again. The world spinning around you. Faster and faster. And with it comes the changes. You can feel the heftiness around your midsection starts to dissolve, while the abs underneath are molded perfectly, leaving you with an impressive six-pack. You can hear Samir yelp as his pecs start to puff out further with dense muscle, the hairs starting to dissolve away, leaving behind clean shaven, smooth skin.
"Ugh so pathetic." He groans, running his increasingly meatier hand against his smooth skin, "What is this?"
His skin suddenly begins to lighten once again. His dark eyes become blue, and narrow as a new attitude starts to swell up in your increasingly more crowded mental space.
"This is disgusting."
"Brah, check these muscles."
Your head is spinning with all these different voices. Your body aches as the bulk continues, giving you the body of a greek adonis. Arms swollen, chest solid, abs proudly displayed. The hookah bar finally vanishes, replaced by the glittering expanse of a private pool. Sunlight glints off the water. And you find yourself coming up for air, water falling from your brunette, styled hair.
A girl in a skimpy bikini approaches, carrying a tray of drinks. "Here you go, Mr. Westley," she says, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. This new man takes a drink without even looking at her, already bored. Just another servant. Just another pretty face.
"Get me another one while you're at it." He calls out. He watches her walk away, smirking as he stares at her ass.
He takes a swig of the martini and sighs. Everything looks so bright and crisp. Like the world had been put through a filter. The sky is bluer, the grass greener. Even the water sparkles. And his physique? Toned, tanned, and dripping wet. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"Yeah... I can... I can get used to this..." You mumble as if in a trance.
"Same brah." Brody joins in.
"Fuck that." Samir lashes out, "Spoiled white boy."
The new man exits the pool, tousling his hair, and finding the nearest lounge chair. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, basking in the sun.
"Chad?" He turns towards a man in business attire, "Your father would like a word."
"Tell dear old dad I'm busy." Chad replied dismissively, "And while you're at it, find the groundskeeper and tell him to get this place cleaned up, its a fucking disgrace."
"But sir, your father..."
"You fuckin' deaf or something?" Chad stands up, towering over the man, "I'm. Busy."
The servant scurries away, while Chad just flashes his signature, entitled smirk. And as he gets back to lounging, you feel disgust welling up inside you. This guy was an asshole. A totally self-obsessed douchebag. Even Brody seemed to quiet down, while Samir went on ranting about spoiled Americans.
"I just want to go back." You feel so lost, so hopeless, "I don't want to be this... I want to be me..."
But you're trapped. Trapped in your own mind with Brody and Samir. Trapped and forced to feel everything Chad did. Watch as Chad sends some shirtless selfies to a few blond bimbos. Made plans with an older married woman down the street to meet up when her husband leaves for the day. He messages his friends about using his father's private jet to travel to Tahoe for the weekend.
"Get what I want, when I want." He stretches his arms behind his head and sighs, basking in the sunlight reflecting off his greek god physique.
And that's when you feel it. The power. The musculature of his body. Each flex of his bicep. His massive pecs. You understand now. Understand just how easy his confidence comes to him. Understand why he deserves it. And it felt... good. Yeah... It felt real good. But as you got drunk on everything that was Chad, you were interrupted.
"Chad!" Chad's eyes widen as his father walks over- a man of similar build, height, but older, "You lazy piece of crap!"
"Dad, what... what're you talking about?"
His father's eyes narrow, "I told you before." He points at him, "You want to live like this? You want to use my money for trips to Europe, fuck any bimbo that moves, and lounge around." He frowns, "Then you got to get a degree. An education. Prove you can take over the family business."
"You can't be fucking..."
"Oh I am."
You can feel the anger boiling up in Chad's body. A degree? Having to go to school? With what? A bunch of stupid, poor, ugly freaks that have to work a 9-5 to experience just 1/1000 of Chad's lifestyle.
"That's... not fair." You whisper, as your mind is overwhelmed by Chad's emotions.
Chad stands up, eyes narrowed and pushes past his father. The older man couldn't be serious. Couldn't really be thinking of making him go to college. He stormed past a servant, who simply smiled.
"Would you like a chocolate?"
Chad freezes, "Yeah, sure, why the fuck not?" And plops it into his mouth.
The world around you shifts once more as the flavors of the chocolate hit your tongue - artificial sweetness, fruity candy, and a hint of energy drink. You can feel your muscles beginning to shrink and change, the bulk melting away.
"Whoa, what's happening to me?" Chad's voice whines.
The opulent halls of the mansion are closing in, shifting into that of a studio apartment. Clothes and empty energy drink cans litter the floor. The air smells stale and musty. You glance down at your changing body - the muscles thinning out, becoming leaner and more defined rather than bulky. Body hair recedes until your skin is smooth and hairless. Your face feels tight as it reshapes itself, cheekbones becoming more pronounced, jawline sharpening into an angular cuteness. Curly locks sprout from your head, styled in a trendy, slightly messy fashion. Your beard starts to fall away, leaving you clean-shaven.
This new form - young, attractive, and youthfully energetic - bounds over to the bed. Sitting cross-legged, and pulls out his phone. The lock screen displays a grid of selfies and short video clips, all carefully curated to showcase his best angles and moments.
"Okay, gotta up my game," He mutters, scrolling through TikTok trends. "More followers mean more clout, and clout means everything."
He spends hours creating and posting videos - dance challenges, skits, pranks, and thirst traps. Each upload is meticulously planned and executed to maximize engagement. Between posts, he constantly refreshes his feed, comparing likes and views to his peers.
"This is exhausting," the old you whispers weakly in the back of your mind. But the new you barely registers the complaint, too focused on growing your online presence.
"Hey there! Zac here!" He starts.
You watch helplessly as this new version of you, Zac, throws himself into the world of social media with reckless abandon. Hours blur together as he creates and posts video after video, thirst trap after thirst trap, desperate for that sweet validation of likes and comments.
"Ugh, this sucks," Zac grunts in frustration, deleting yet another failed attempt at a viral dance challenge. "Why isn't this working? I'm hot, I'm funny, I should be blowing up by now!"
The other voices in your head stir.
"Forget this noise, brah. Let's hit the gym, get jacked!" Brody chimes in enthusiastically.
"No way, man. This social media crap is beneath us." Samir scoffs, his accent thick with disdain.
"He's so fucking desperate." Chad chimes in, "He's never going to amount to shit. Just wishes he could have a sliver of what I got."
The voices swim in your head. Painfully. Overwhelmingly. You just want it to stop. Just want them to leave you be. To let you go back to... to what? You're realizing with increasing terror that you're having a hard time remembering just who you were. Someone in education? A teacher? Right? Or were you...
"Pl-please... just... stop." But your voice is crowded out by these other selves, all bickering internally.
"Fuck it," Zac mutters, tossing his phone aside in frustration. He flops back onto the unmade bed, surrounded by the musky scent of sweat-stained sheets and stale air. With a heavy sigh, he reaches for his phone again, navigating to his preferred porn site with practiced ease.
"Just need to blow off some steam," he mumbles, stroking himself through his thin sweatpants as the first video loads. The lewd sounds of moaning and flesh slapping against flesh fill the small room.
Zac's breathing quickens as he loses himself in porn, his toned muscles relaxing under his touch. The stench of his own arousal mingles with the aroma of the slovenly apartment. Sweat beads on his smooth, hairless chest as he pleasures himself. The sensations wash over you too, drowning out the cacophony of voices in your head. Your mind starts to feel hazy, thoughts growing sluggish and scattered. The world narrows down to the intense physical pleasure radiating from your core.
"Hnnngh⊠feels so goodâŠ" you groan, as rational thought slips away, replaced by base instinct and desire.
Brody, Samir, and Chad's voices fade to distant murmurs, easily ignored as you lose yourself in Zac's pleasure. All that matters is chasing this peak of ecstasy.
"F-fuck yeah⊠gonna cum so hardâŠ"
And in that moment⊠you're just Zac. Obsessed with social media. Obsessed with the latest trend. Obsessed with views and likes and getting famous. And when you're not chasing fame, you're jerking off. Endlessly. In your musky apartment. And it feels good. No worries. No cares. No more voices. Yeah⊠Zac⊠you're Zac⊠it makes sense⊠itâŠ
You blink, disoriented as the familiar sight of your classroom comes into focus. The musky stench and lewd sounds vanish, replaced by the sterile scent of chalk dust and the dull murmur of students. Your body feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else entirely.
"W-what⊠what happened?" you stammer, gripping the edge of your desk for support. The lingering echoes of Zac's obsession and pleasure slowly fade, but the memory of inhabiting that shallow, hedonistic existence lingers.
Around you, your students smile. The straight-laced jocks, the fame-hungry TikTokers, the entitled rich kids, and the cultural exchange students. They're staring at you.
"Learn your lesson, bro?"
"No, please! Leave me alone!" you cry out, clutching your head as the voices of Samir, Brody, Chad, and Zac continue to echo and taunt you. "I don't want to be any of you! I just want to be myself again!"
But even as you beg, you can feel the changes starting to take hold once more. Your muscles begin to swell and bulk up, taking on a chiseled, masculine form.
"You're built like a god now. Act like it." Chad's voice rings out, "Walk around like you own the place, 'cause you do. Entitlement is your birthright, remember that."
Your muscles ripple and grow, becoming impressively defined. The bulges of your biceps and pecs send pleasure straight to your heavy balls and thick cock. You stand taller, chest puffed out proudly.
"Fuck yeah, we gotta document this!" Zac squeals excitedly. "Get the camera out, bro! Show the world what we're working with. Hashtag blessed, hashtag gains, hashtag fitness goals! Gotta get them followers, man!"
You pull out your phone with a grin, snapping selfie after selfie from every angle. You look hot. You look good. And you know it. And so will everyone else.
"Look at you." Samir's voice echos in your brain. Dark, glossy hair springs from your scalp, curling slightly. A well-groomed beard spreads across your jawline and chin, "Embrace your heritage, yaar. You're a son of the Middle East now."
You feel warmth as your skin takes on a warm, healthy olive tone. You run a hand through your thick, black hair, admiring how it contrasts with your chiseled features. Your beard feels soft and stylish as you run your fingers along it. You feel a surge of pride in your Arab roots.
"Holy shit dude, we are ripped!" Brody exclaims gleefully, slurring his words slightly. "Time to hit the town and get fucked up! Gonna be the life of the party with these sick muscles, bro!"
You can feel the intelligence draining from your mind, replaced by a happy-go-lucky, dim-witted enthusiasm. Your tongue lolls out as you grin dopily. The voices blend together into a confusing chorus as your body and mind warp to accommodate all four personas simultaneously. You're left standing in the middle of your classroom, nothing more than a muscular, entitled, self-absorbed Arab party bro, with the combined traits and attitudes of Chad, Zac, Samir, and Brody.
"Yo, teach!" One of your students calls out, "You learn your lesson?"
You turn to face him, your muscular physique on full display as you cross your arms over your broad chest. A cocky smirk plays across your handsome, bearded face. You flash a brilliant, charismatic smile at the student, your teeth gleaming white against your olive skin.
Need a huff. A nice deep huff of me own sneax. Get ready for when me fam pop round. Need it so badly. Reinforcing that I'm a Chav lad now. Such a horny thought. not that I does much thinking now, mind. Just about me Adidas Chilie, me fam, their sneax...
Jasper was used to getting what he wanted. With fiery red hair, a slim sculpted frame, perfect freckles, and a smile that could disarm anyone, heâd long been the object of desire wherever he went. In the world of clubs, private lounges, and curated hook-up apps, Jasper was a twink in high demandâspoiled, praised, pampered. And he loved it.
He never had to try too hard. Men doted on him, from older daddies to cocky jocks, all eager to take care of their "sweet ginger prince." Jasper ate up the attention, enjoyed being delicate, pretty, the one being worshipped.
That all changed on a Saturday night.
He was out, slightly tipsy, shirt open, laughing with a friend when an Indian man approached him. Strong-looking, masculine, wearing a tight black tee and sleek glasses that only made him look more confident. He smelled goodâmusk, sweat, spice. His chest hair peeked from his collar.
"Youâre stunning," the man said with a gentle smile. "Let me buy you a drink?"
Jasper scoffed. âNot interested.â
The man didnât press. He just nodded and walked away, calm and collected. But Jasper kept going.
âTo think he really thought Iâd be into that,â he said to his friend, loud enough for the man to hear. âSo hairy. So⊠earthy.â
The man paused in the crowd and turned. His smile never broke. âCareful with your words,â he said. âSome things you say stay with you. Some things⊠change you.â
And with that, he vanished.
---
That night, Jasperâs dreams were strangeâhumid, sticky dreams where he was sweating, panting, growing. He awoke with a start, his groin aching. His cock felt... off.
Pulling down the sheets, he stared in disbelief.
His cock was darker. Not just slightly tannedâdeep brown, thickened. His balls had dropped lower, heavier, and a new scent hovered around themâspicy, unfamiliar. He gasped. âWhat the fuckâŠâ
By the next morning, his pubes had thickened into coarse black curls. A trail of hair ran up his smooth stomach. His armpits were dense now, his chest beginning to itch.
He panicked.
He tried shaving. The hair grew back within hoursâdarker, thicker. He scrubbed and scrubbed but the scent never faded. He tried makeup to hide his deepening tan. Useless. It only got darker, warmer, richer. His freckled complexion gave way to smooth, tawny skin.
By day three, he was unrecognizable.
Jasper stood in the gym bathroom, staring into the mirror. His shoulders were broader, chest thicker, now covered in a lush forest of black chest hair. A deep treasure trail ran down from his pecs, disappearing into tight black shorts. His beard had come in fast and preciseâdark and sharp. His eyebrows had thickened, his eyes now framed with eyeglasses and intensity.
He looked⊠like the kind of man he used to mock.
And worse, he felt it.
He took a photo with trembling fingers, not even knowing why. Just to document the end of his old self. This hairy, sweaty, intoxicatingly masculine body was his now. The curse had sealed in. His voice dropped into a deep baritone when he tried to speak. Every move felt heavier, thicker, like he carried a new gravity. His cock was huge nowâand always throbbing. And his scent⊠it turned heads, both male and female.
He hadnât even gone home since the change completed. There was nowhere to return to. His old life was gone. Men didnât want to pamper him nowâthey wanted to submit to him. He reeked of power, testosterone, and hair.
But he didnât want it. He missed his slim form, his delicate charm. He wasnât meant to be this man.
He stared into the mirror, eyes heavy with regret. âPlease,â he whispered, hoping the one who cursed him might hear. âI take it back. Iâm sorry. Iâll never mock again. Just⊠let me go back. PleaseâŠâ
Waiting for my fam to arrive. I've organised it so that there's a decent interval between each arrival. I need the time to help each of them understand what I've become. What they will become. They will love their new latex skin as much as I already do. They'll love the feeling of their rubber sliding against their body when they move, just I as I do.
When we are all complete, we'll put our Nike trackies on, and head down JDs. The bro's down there deserve to be happy too. We'll begin with the staff...
A light elbow to the chest woke Tyson from his sleep. He quickly opened his eyes, looking around at his surroundings in alarm until he realized that he was in lecture hall. He must have fallen asleep in class again. He glanced over at his friend Matthew, who gave him a little smirk.
âHow long was I asleep for?â Tyson muttered under his breath.
âOnly a couple of minutes. I wouldâve woken you sooner, but you look so cute when you sleep,â Matthew replied with a wink.
Lecture had just ended, and both Tyson and Matthew rose from their seats and packed their bags.
âTyson? Can I have a word with you?â Professor Duncan called from the front of the lecture hall.
âIâll wait for you outside. Good luck,â Matthew whispered, heading towards the exit with the other students.
Tyson let out a sigh as he approached Professor Duncan. The man was in his early fifties, with short gray hair and a well weathered face that indicated he had been through much in his life. He looked on at Tyson disapprovingly with his steely gaze, packing his own supplies into his satchel as he did so.
âDid you have a good rest?â Duncan asked snidely with no trace of amusement.
âProfessor, I -â Tyson started.
âIâm sure you have a good excuse, just as you did the last half a dozen times I caught you sleeping in my class. I am not interested in your personal issues. What I am interested in is why you choose to take up a spot in my class when there is a waitlist of students that actually want to learn what I am teaching,â Duncan lectured, sliding off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
âItâs just-â Tyson tried again.
âEvery single person in this class has personal issues going on, Tyson. The difference between them and you is that they find a way to manage their problems so they can contribute meaningfully to this class, not sleep through it. At this point, you are going to need to ace the midterm next week just to scrape by with a passing grade, and based on your academic history, I find that highly doubtful,â Duncan slung his satchel up his arm and started heading for the lecture exit, walking past Tyson as he did so.
âAre you saying youâre kicking me out of the class?â Tyson asked in shock.
Duncan glanced over his shoulder at Tyson, a trace of pity in his dark blue eyes. âIâm saying that you need to get your priorities in check. Must I remind you that failing my class means you will get cut from all extracurricular activities?â Before Tyson could respond, Professor Duncan swiftly exited out into the hallway, leaving him along with his thoughts.
âSo how bad did that go?â Matthew asked once Tyson emerged from the classroom. Matthew was the same age as Tyson, and the two had been good friends since meeting as freshmen in college. While Tyson was the athletic type, Matthew was more academic oriented. Despite being heavily dedicated to his studies, Matthew was in good physique, with his daily morning runs allowing him to maintain a slim frame. He had curly blonde hair and bright green eyes with a charming smile that gave him the perfect boy-next-door appearance.
âI donât want to talk about it,â Tyson replied sullenly, falling in step with Matthew as they made their way through the campus towards the parking lot.
âNot great then,â Matthew surmised.
âHeâs saying Iâm going to fail the course. And if I fail the course, that means Iâm off the team,â Tyson explained through gritted teeth, clenching his fists.
âIt sounds like you could really use study group then. Iâm meeting some friends in the library to prep for next weekâs midterm; you should come,â Matthew offered.
âNothing would make me happier, but Iâve got to get to work,â Tyson declined reluctantly. He could really use the extra help studying, but there was no way he could afford not to go into work. He was barely keeping up with his tuition payments and Kyle kept bothering him about getting caught up in his rent.
âSorry, I forgot. Well, if you get off early, weâll likely be studying late tonight. Text me!â Matthew shouted as he hurried away, heading towards the campus library.
---
Tyson wiped a thick layer of grease off the deep fryers with a damp cloth, hard rock music pounding through his headphones. Luckily, it had been a slower night at work so far, and Leon had agreed to maintain the counter so that Tyson could focus on cleaning up the kitchen.
âTyson!â Leon shouted so that Leon could hear him over the music blaring through his ears. Tyson looked up from the fryer and took out his headphones, turning to face Leon.
Leon was in his early thirties, with a dark black baseball cap covering his bright cotton candy pink hair. He also had on a long-sleeved black shirt to cover the sleeves of tattoos he had on both his arms. The only hint of his rebellious nature noticeable in his work attire was the metal spike running through his right eyebrow. Tyson and Leon had been flirting with each other since they had started working together months ago, but with Tysonâs busy schedule he didnât have time to even think about pursuing relationships.
âIâm heading out for a smoke break. Can you watch the counter?â Leon asked. Tyson nodded in agreement, rising from his knees and taking off the grease-stained apron he was wearing before heading out front to the counter area.
The bell rung, and Tyson looked to see his teammate and rival Travis entering. Travis was wearing his varsity lettermanâs jacket with a skin-tight V-neck shirt on underneath, showing off his pecs and abs. Tyson and Travis had briefly been friends when they joined the football team at the same time, but Travis quickly grew to resent Tyson after Tyson had been made starting quarterback by their coach.
âOh hey, Tyson,â Travis laughed, giving Tyson a quick once over in his unflattering work uniform, âI forgot you worked at this shithole.â Travis ran his hand through his spiky jet-black hair, his dark brown eyes sparkling with joy at torturing Tyson.
âWhat do you want, Travis?â Tyson asked, rolling his eyes.
âMissed you at football practice tonight. Not really, because it gave me another chance to show coach how wrong he was to make you part of our starting line,â Travis continued.
âI had to work. Coach was okay with me missing practice,â Tyson explained, feeling the rage seething inside of him.
âStill,â Travis smirked, âYouâve been missing a lot of practices lately. How long do you think Coach realizes youâre dead weight and just drops you from the team completely?â
Tyson wanted to leap over the counter and punch Travis, but he knew that would do him no good. Instead he calmly steadied his breathing and maintained a stony expression while facing Travis. âAre you going to order something?â
âNah, I think Iâve lost my appetite. The smell wafting off you is rancid,â Travis chuckled, turning to exit.
After their shift, Leon offered to take Tyson out for a drink, but Tyson had to politely decline. As much as he loved the idea of having some downtime, he needed to get some sleep to be ready for football practice tomorrow. After his run in with Travis, Tyson needed to be sure to bring his A game.
---
Tyson slowly crept into the small apartment he was renting out, trying not to awaken his roommate Kyle. It was well after midnight, and he didnât want another noise complaint. As he was making a quick dinner before bed, he noticed a note left on the fridge.
'Tyson, I wanted to talk to you about this in person but youâre never home these days. You are still two months behind in rent. You know I like you and I donât mind covering for you now and again, but this is getting out of hand. I canât keep paying both your rent and mine. If you canât get caught up by the end of the month, Iâm going to have to start looking for another roommate.
-Kyleâ
Tyson shook his head in frustration, feeling completely overwhelmed and unsure of how to proceed. He just didnât have enough time to do everything he needed to do; it was impossible to juggle a full-time job, college courses and varsity football. Some days he wished he could split himself in two; it felt like the only way he could ever get ahead in life.
Tysonâs cellphone chimed, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see that heâd just received an email. He opened his inbox to see that it was just another spam mail; he was about to delete it when the email heading caught his interest.
âClone machine?â He read aloud, arching his eyebrows.
---
Tyson woke up early the next morning to the sound of the doorbell. Jumping out of bed, he quickly slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a muscle shirt and hurried towards the front door. Kyle was still asleep, as was to be expected; Kyle worked from home in the software industry and usually didnât start his day until around 10.
Tyson unlocked the apartment door and pulled it open to find there was no one in the hallway. He leaned out and did a quick look both ways, but there was no sign of movement. Glancing downwards, Tyson noticed a small nondescript cardboard box sitting in front of the apartment doorway; he picked it up before closing and relocking the door.
After returning to his bedroom, Tyson tore open the box to find what looked like a smartwatch inside. It took him a moment to remember that he had clicked on the ad for the Clone Machine late last night; this must have been related to that.
âThat was fast delivery,â He muttered to himself, slipping the device around his wrist and hitting the power button on the side. When he had read the advertisement for a Clone Machine, this had certainly not been what heâd been expecting. The screen lit up with text: âScanning, please waitâŠâ
A 3D model of Tysonâs body was projected from the device, showing him naked and erect. Tyson was surprised at the high quality; when he had ordered the device, he had been more or less confident that it was some kind of scam. Looking at the deviceâs detailed model of his body, Tyson started to feel like it might actually be legitimate.
âPlease confirm subject: Tyson Rogers. Yes/Noâ Tyson selected yes on the screen, and the 3D model of himself vanished. âPlease select target.â
---
After football practice, Coach called Tyson and Travis to his office. Tyson still had the device wrapped around his wrist; it had seemed like a great idea when heâd make the order last night, but now that he actually had the machine in his hands he was having second thoughts. Could he really overwrite somebody elseâs life with his own? Making someone into his unwilling clone didnât seem right, no matter how much easier his own life would be with the ability to split his burdens. Heâd been lost in his thoughts all morning, struggling with the dilemma, and knew he hadnât performed well during practice.
âSo hereâs the situation, boys,â Coach explained, gesturing for Tyson and Travis to take a seat across his desk from him, âYouâre both good. Really good. And I know that itâs common for rivalries to form, but I donât want that for you two; weâre all on the same team, with the same goal.â
âI couldnât agree more, Coach,â Travis nodded, a sly smirk on his lips, âWhich is why I think itâs so important for the team to show up to every practice. How are we supposed to work effectively if our starting quarterback only shows up half of the time?â
Tyson opened his mouth to object, but Coach but his hands up to silence both of them. âTyson has already discussed his circumstances with me, Travis, and I donât want to hear anymore on the matter. Thatâs not why I called you in here.â
âWhy did you call us in here?â Tyson asked, a sense of dread rising in him.
âI have given it a lot of thought, and I have decided that you both should share the roll of leading the team. That means that both of you will be our starting quarterback, alternating games.â
Tyson felt the ground drop out from under him; it was just as Travis had predicted. Coach was punishing him with a demotion because he wasnât able to commit 100% to practice.
âI think thatâs a great idea, Coach,â Travis said, looking at Tyson with a smug sneer of triumph.
âCoach, IâŠâ Tyson started.
âI realize this may seem unfair, Tyson, but itâs my job to do whatâs best for the team. This is not up for discussion; Travis will be starting quarterback for the game on Friday, and then you will for the game next week,â Coach stood up from his desk, indicating that the conversation was over. âNow hit the showers.â
Still feeling shell-shocked, Tyson followed Travis into the locker room. Most of the team had already showered and headed out while theyâd been in the meeting with Coach, leaving the changeroom practically empty.
âI tried to warn you,â Travis laughed, starting to slip off his football uniform, âIt was only a matter of time before Coach realized Iâm the better player.â
âFuck off, Travis,â Tyson responded angrily, pulling his jersey and shoulder pads up over his head.
âGood comeback,â Travis chuckled. He slammed his fist into the locker, leaning in menacingly. âEnjoy the games you have left, because Iâm coming for you.â
Travis pulled down his underwear and headed for the shower room, a towel slung over his shoulder. Without stopping to think about it, Tyson raised his wrist and pointed the device towards Travis, pressing the screen to select him as a target. âScanning, please waitâŠâ
A 3D model of Travis was projected from the device. âPlease confirm target: Travis Smith. Yes/No.â Tyson didnât give himself the chance to hesitate, selecting yes as soon as the option was displayed.
âCloning in progressâŠ0%â
__
After stripping down fully, Tyson grabbed a towel and headed into the showers. Travis was already at one of the showers, lathering himself up; Tyson went to the shower a few away from the other man.
Travis looked over at Tyson as he entered the shower and grinned. âLike what you see, faggot?â
Tyson blushed bright red as he looked down; heâd been so excited in using the Clone Machine he hadnât noticed heâd grown a boner. Tyson looked back over at Travis and grinned.
âYouâre one to talk,â Tyson mocked, gesturing down at Travisâ member. Travis had been soft when Tyson had entered the showers, but his dick was starting to fill with blood and harden. Travis quickly covered his erection with his hands and turned away from Tyson, clearly flustered.
As Tyson watched on, Travis was slowly starting to grow a bit shorter. Travis has been a few inches taller than Tyson, but he was rapidly losing his height advantage as his limbs shortened until the two men were eye level. Next, Travisâ frame started to broaden, his shoulders widening as he took on a stockier build. Tyson looked down at the device on his wrist. âCloning in progressâŠ30%â.
âCould you pass the soap?â Tyson called out to Travis, trying to get the other man to turn around so he could better watch the changes as they happened. He expected to get a snarky reply, but Travis wordlessly turned back towards Tyson and handed him the bar of soap.
Travisâ pecs seemed to be swelling larger with each breath he took. As they bulked up, the pecs lost a little definition, growing round and beefy. Travisâ six pack abs started to flatten, vanishing as his stomach bulged outwards into a hard muscle gut. Hairs started to grow in a line up Travisâ stomach towards his navel; the patch of hair around his crotch was also growing thicker, starting off as dark brown before lightening to a blonde. The hairs along Travisâ shins and forearms also lightened, growing longer. Curly blonde hairs sprouted from Travisâ chest surrounding his newly hardened nipples.
âI never noticed how hot your body was,â Travis commented, breaking the silence between the two men. Tyson noticed that Travisâ voice was a little less rough and gutteral than usual, sounding softer and more friendly. Travis had taken his own cock in hand, slowly stroking it as he gawked at Tysonâs wet body.
âI didnât think you were into guys,â Tyson replied, still finding the changes he was seeing right before his eyes unbelievable. As Travis continued to jerk himself, his dick grew slightly shorter but thickened considerably, his balls expanding and hanging lower.
âI wasnâtâŠIâm notâŠIâm not sure,â Travis frowned, pausing midstroke to stare off into space and frown. His personality was obviously starting to change, and Travis seemed to be caught in between the new memories from Tyson of being gay and his original memories of being straight.
âYou certainly seem to be into guys,â Tyson smirked confidently, taking a step toward Travis and running his hands down his now hairy chest. Travis moaned out as Tyson slid his hand around Travisâ dick, beginning to jerk him.
âFuck, dude,â Travis panted, wrapping his arms around Tyson and pulling him in closer. Their mouths met for an extended kiss, massaging each otherâs tongues. Tyson could feel the muscles in Travisâ arms expand around him as his upper body continued to bulk up.
The two men eventually broke their kiss, and Travis slowly lowered himself down to his knees, taking Tysonâs cock in his hand. Travisâ lean legs had bulked up into two thick, sculpted thighs, the blonde hairs from his shins spreading upwards to cover his entire lower body. Travisâ tight, flat ass was also bulking up, inflating into a round bubble butt as a thin dusting of hairs grew along it.
Tyson glanced down at the device on his wrist. âCloning in progressâŠ80%â. It now appeared that Tyson and Travis were pretty much identical from the neck down, except for a few small minor changes that were still taking place on Travisâ body. Travis licked his tongue along Tysonâs shaft, causing Tyson to moan out and lean against the shower wall. Travis slid the tip of Tysonâs cock into his mouth, flicking his tongue along the head of the cock. Travis slowly took a few more inches of Tysonâs cock into his mouth, sliding back and forth along the shaft. Tyson was running his hands through Travisâ wet black hair, which was growing lighter and slightly longer.
Tyson could feel his balls starting to tighten and knew he was close. Travisâ facial features were quickly readjusting into a facsimile of his own; his dark brown eyes lightened to a soft blue, his eyebrows and nose thickened. Travis had delicate, âpretty-boyâ like features, but those were quickly shifting into Tysonâs more masculine face. Travisâ jaw grew more square, as his thick, well groomed beared receded back into his face to leave a light stubble.
âFuck dude, Iâm going to cum.â Travis pulled Tysonâs dick out of his mouth to get a thick rope of cum right in his face.
He heard the device on his wrist beep, and he looked down at it. âCloning process complete.â He looked down at where Travis had been to find an exact replica of himself kneeling down, face covered in cum. He noticed that his new clone had also blown his load, having been jerking off during the blowjob.
âTravis?â Tyson asked apprehensively, reaching his arm down to help his clone back up to his feet.
âI still have some of Travisâ memories, but theyâre quickly fading,â the new Tyson replied, dunking his head under the shower to rinse off his face. âIt worked; Iâm now you. Well, Iâm me, who is also you.â
âShit. So Travis is gone for good?â Tyson asked, feeling a small pang of guilt. Travis had been a jerk, but did he really deserve what Tyson had done to him?
âWe did what we had to do,â The other Tyson replied reassuringly, âTravis was going to ruin everything for us.â
âYeah, youâre probably right. I canât believe that actually worked.â Tyson and his clone stood face to face; it was like looking in a mirror.
âOne of us needs to get dressed and head to class soon. Itâd be really bad if thereâs two of us and we still miss our lecture,â The other Tyson suggested, grabbing a towel and starting to dry himself off.
âWe still have some time. FirstâŠâ Tyson said, grabbing his clone and pushing him up against the wall.
âFirst?â His clone grinned back at him, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
âIâve always wondered what I taste like,â Tyson smirked, sliding down to his knees.
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