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[aardvarkia]

The Aardchive

All the stories posted on this blog, in alphabetical order by title.

111,121

The Aairport: Alex & Eric Connor Absolute Power Bad Cop The Bearapist

The Bear Cap: Keaton Dakota Backseat Grandpa Johnathan (fully illustrated!)

The Board: 1, 2 A Body Built Boosted The Ballad of Clay & Owen The Broadcast The Broadcast Boys Buff Businessman Bureau Building Security Built Himself Up Business Development Campus Visit The Car Lot: Copped The Chief The Clifton Jocks: Fletcher and Winston Knight Nick Clothes Make The Man Czech Yourself Deeper Double D Dress For Success The Evolution of Corbin Brantley First Responder Flash Before Your Eyes Head Rush The House Always Wins Ironclad Jason Love Klutz La Petite Mort Lawyer Up Learning To Lead Luke of Stripland Made Man Major Mayor A Mall and the Night Visitors The Marine Corps Builds Men The Master of Magic A Matter of Time Meat Market: 1, 2, 3, 4 M-U-S-C-L-E Name Recognition

New York Fucking City: New York Fucking City New York Fitness City Greenpoint

The North Pole Experience Old Dog, New Tricks Old Man Cravitz Old School Men: The Cowboy

The Photo Booth: Chuck Dustin Eric George Liam Mikey Plaything A Recommendation from Dr. Rupert D. Westinghouse Recruiting: Ethan Donovan Repair Costs Reset The Romans, and the Greeks Room Sweep Standing Together The Stud in the Studio Stuffed Shirt Style Scout Tattoo* Under New Management Upgraded Wet

Wishing Room: Morning Wood Beefing Up Security Hot for Teacher The Dance Lifelong Lesson

The Wonder Realms

[biggerchanger]

One of Us - Prologue

Synopsis: Ten young, homophobic adults gather for Halloween. At 10 PM, lights shut off, phones fry up, game starts and none can leave. What’s more, it seems there is one imposter among them. Can they make it out until morning? What is this “game” all about anyway?

Keep reading

[fatisthenewshape]

The Taste of Summer

male weight gain - tf by food

The July sun beat down on the quiet suburban streets as Nathan jogged through the neighborhood park. At twenty-six, he had built his entire life around routine. Every weekday looked almost identical.

Wake up at six. Run five kilometers. Protein shake. Gym. Work. Healthy dinner. Sleep.

His lean, athletic frame reflected years of discipline. Defined abs. Firm chest. Powerful legs. Every meal was carefully measured, every calorie counted.

As he finished his run, sweat rolled down his smooth torso. He slowed to catch his breath, expecting to head straight home.

Instead, something unusual caught his attention. A cheerful melody drifted through the warm air.

"Da da da... da-da-da..."

An old-fashioned ice cream truck slowly rolled into the parking lot beside the park. Nathan smiled to himself.

"I haven't seen one of those in years."

Children immediately ran toward it, laughing excitedly. Parents followed at a slower pace. Nathan almost continued walking. Almost. Then he noticed the man inside the truck.

He was impossible to ignore. The vendor looked to be in his late fifties, easily over six feet tall and astonishingly large. Not muscular. Simply... enormous.

His stained white tank top clung tightly to an immense round belly that rested comfortably against the serving counter. Beneath it hung a pair of massive, heavy pectorals that bounced gently whenever he moved.

His broad hips filled the tiny workspace inside the truck, while thick, powerful thighs barely fit beneath the counter.

Even standing still, sweat glistened across his tanned skin. Tiny droplets rolled from his bald scalp, disappeared into his thick gray beard, then continued down his neck before soaking the front of his shirt.

Yet the man looked completely comfortable. Happy, even. His booming laugh echoed through the parking lot as he handed colorful ice creams to smiling children.

Nathan couldn't help staring.

"How can someone sweat that much without even moving?" he wondered.

The vendor suddenly looked directly at him. A wide smile spread beneath his beard.

"You've been staring at my truck for a while, son."

Nathan laughed awkwardly.

"I guess I have."

"You planning on buying something?"

Nathan shrugged.

"I usually don't eat ice cream."

"Oh?"

The giant leaned farther out of the window, his massive belly pressing firmly against the counter.

"You look like one of those gym boys."

Nathan chuckled.

"Guilty. I count calories."

The vendor laughed loudly.

"So did I."

Nathan raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Oh yes."

The older man patted his tremendous belly proudly.

"Best decision I ever made was stopping."

Nathan couldn't help smiling. There was something oddly comforting about the man's confidence. No embarrassment. No self-consciousness. Just genuine happiness. The vendor reached into a freezer.

"Tell you what."

He produced a large vanilla cone coated in thick golden caramel.

"First one's free."

Nathan instinctively shook his head.

"I really shouldn't."

"Come on. No strings attached. You've just finished exercising. You've earned it."

Nathan hesitated. One ice cream wouldn't ruin months of training. Besides... It smelled incredible. Rich vanilla. Warm caramel. A hint of something he couldn't quite identify. He accepted the cone.

"Thanks."

The vendor smiled knowingly.

"My pleasure."

Nathan took a cautious lick. The world seemed to stop. His eyes widened.

"...Wow."

The flavor was unlike anything he had ever tasted. The vanilla was unbelievably rich, almost buttery, yet somehow light at the same time. The caramel melted instantly on his tongue. There was another flavor hidden beneath them. Something warm. Comforting. Familiar.

It reminded him of childhood summers, fresh cream, warm skin after a sunny afternoon, and something impossible to describe. It wasn't merely delicious. It felt... Addictive.

Without realizing it, he took another bite. Then another. Within seconds the cone had disappeared. Nathan blinked.

"I already finished it?"

The vendor chuckled.

"Happens every time."

"I've never tasted anything like that."

"I know."

"What's your secret?"

The older man simply smiled.

"If I told you...you'd never coming back."

Nathan laughed.

"I don't know... I might come back tomorrow."

"Oh."

The vendor's smile somehow became even wider.

"I think you will."

Nathan thanked him once more before beginning the walk home. He expected to feel guilty. Instead... He felt strangely satisfied. As though his body had been craving something it had never experienced before.

That evening, Nathan prepared his usual grilled chicken, rice and vegetables. Halfway through dinner, he paused. It tasted... Bland. He added salt. Pepper. Hot sauce. Nothing helped.

The memory of the vanilla ice cream kept returning. Its creamy sweetness. Its warmth. Its unbelievably smooth texture. He shook his head.

"Get a grip," he muttered. It's just ice cream."

The next morning, Nathan woke up before his alarm. The first thought that crossed his mind wasn't his morning run. It wasn't work. It wasn't the gym. It was the ice cream truck.

"I wonder if he's there again today..."

Nathan frowned at himself.

"Seriously?"

He laughed softly.

"Guess one more won't hurt."

He grabbed his running shoes and headed toward the park. Without consciously deciding to... He took the exact same route that passed by the empty parking lot where the truck had been yesterday. He told himself it was only coincidence.

Deep down... He was already hoping to hear that cheerful melody once again.

Nathan told himself it was temporary. One indulgence had become two. Two had become a daily ritual.

Every morning he finished his run by taking the same route through the park. He pretended it was the shortest way home, but deep down he knew exactly what he was hoping to hear.

"Da da da... da-da-da..."

The familiar melody. The old ice cream truck was already waiting beneath the shade of the trees. The enormous vendor spotted him immediately. His face lit up with genuine delight.

"There he is!"

Nathan laughed as he approached.

"You always seem so happy to see me."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

The vendor rested his huge forearms on the counter, his heavy belly flattening comfortably against it.

"My favorite customer."

Nathan smiled despite himself.

"I've only been here a few times."

The giant shook his head.

"No."

"You've been here exactly eight days in a row."

Nathan blinked.

"You've been counting?"

"I remember people who appreciate good ice cream."

Nathan laughed awkwardly.

"I guess that makes me memorable."

"Oh..."

The vendor's eyes slowly wandered over Nathan's body.

"You certainly are."

Nathan instinctively looked down. Nothing seemed different. At least... Nothing obvious.

That afternoon, after showering at the gym, Nathan stood before the locker room mirror. He flexed automatically. His abs were still visible. His arms still looked defined.

Yet... Something felt... Different. He turned sideways. His stomach no longer looked perfectly flat. There was the slightest curve beneath his navel. Barely noticeable. He poked it with one finger. Soft. He frowned.

"Impossible."

He flexed harder. The definition returned. Almost.

"Probably just bloating."

He shrugged and finished getting dressed. Over the following week, the changes became impossible to ignore. Nathan's appetite exploded. His carefully portioned meals no longer satisfied him.

He found himself snacking between meals. Craving sweets. Craving cream. Most of all... Craving the ice cream. One cone no longer felt like enough.

The vendor never seemed surprised.

"The usual?"

Nathan hesitated.

"...Two today."

The vendor chuckled.

"I was wondering when you'd admit it."

Nathan laughed.

"I worked legs this morning."

"I earned it."

"Of course you did."

The giant handed him two oversized vanilla cones dripping with thick caramel. Nathan devoured both before reaching his car. His workouts slowly began changing. Running felt heavier. Not difficult. Just... Different. His thighs brushed together for the first time in his life.

Only slightly. Enough for him to notice. His gym shorts felt tighter around his hips. His compression shirts stretched a little farther across his chest.

One evening, while changing clothes, he caught himself examining his reflection again.

His pectorals looked... Rounder. Not weaker. Simply fuller. His waist appeared less sharply defined. His butt filled the back of his shorts more than before. He grabbed the waistband.

"Maybe they're shrinking."

The thought sounded ridiculous even as he said it aloud.

Then came something even stranger. After an intense workout, Nathan collapsed onto a bench outside the gym. Sweat poured from his forehead. His neck. His chest. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. A single drop landed on his lips. Without thinking...He licked it away. He froze.

"...What?"

It was sweet. Not salty. Sweet. Vanilla.

He frowned.

"No..."

Curious, he wiped another bead of sweat from his forearm. Then cautiously tasted it.

His heartbeat quickened. It tasted exactly like melted vanilla ice cream.Rich. Creamy. With the same comforting flavor he'd been craving all week. Nathan looked around to make sure nobody had seen him.

"This doesn't make any sense..."

He laughed nervously.

"I'm dehydrated."

"That's all."

But before standing up... He discreetly licked one more drop from the back of his hand. It was delicious.

The following afternoon, he returned to the truck. Before Nathan could even order, the vendor smiled knowingly.

"You've noticed it."

Nathan stared.

"...Noticed what?"

The older man's grin widened.

"The sweetness."

Nathan's expression immediately changed. His stomach tightened.

"What did you just say?"

The vendor leaned comfortably against the counter.

"Your sweat."

Nathan felt every muscle in his body tense.

"...How do you know about that?"

The giant simply shrugged.

"It happens."

Nathan stepped closer.

"What happens?"

The vendor's eyes sparkled with amusement.

"You've got excellent taste now."

Nathan's voice became firmer.

"What did you put in that ice cream?"

The vendor remained completely calm.

"The same thing that's always been in it."

"Which is?"

He smiled.

"Why ruin the surprise?"

Nathan stood there in silence. Part of him wanted answers. Part of him wanted to walk away forever. Instead... He pointed toward the freezer.

"...I'll have two."

The vendor laughed loudly, his heavy chest bouncing with every chuckle.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

As Nathan accepted the cones, the older man looked him up and down once more. His smile softened into something almost fatherly.

"You're filling out nicely."

Nathan instinctively looked down at his waist. He wanted to deny it. Instead... For the first time... He wondered how much bigger he might already have become.

Nathan became obsessed with proving that nothing was wrong. The ice cream wasn't magical. His body wasn't changing. There had to be a rational explanation. He doubled his workouts. Morning runs became longer. He added an extra evening session at the gym. His meals returned to their usual strict routine. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. Protein shakes. No desserts. No snacks. No excuses.

For three days, he avoided the ice cream truck entirely.

At first, he felt proud.

"See? I can stop whenever I want."

But as the hours passed, something else took its place.

The melody.

"Da da da... da-da-da..."

At first, he thought someone nearby was playing it. He looked out his apartment window. Nothing. The sound faded. Then it returned while he was driving. Again, there was no truck. By the second evening, he heard it while brushing his teeth. Soft. Distant. As if carried by the wind. Nathan covered his ears. The music continued. Not outside. Inside his head.

The cravings became almost physical. While lifting weights, he imagined the taste of the vanilla ice cream. Every sip of water reminded him of sweet cream. Every meal felt dry and disappointing.

One afternoon, his coworker noticed him staring blankly at his lunch.

"You okay?"

Nathan looked up.

"Huh?"

"You've been looking at that chicken for five minutes."

Nathan forced a smile.

"Just tired."

"You sure?"

"...Yeah."

But he wasn't. The melody started again. Quietly. Relentlessly.

"Da da da... da-da-da..."

The following Saturday morning, Nathan stood in front of his bathroom mirror with shaving cream covering his face. His beard had grown longer than usual. He slowly ran the razor across his cheek. Then beneath his jaw.

He paused. His fingers remained under his chin. He turned his head slightly. A fold appeared. Nathan frowned. He straightened his neck. It disappeared. He turned again. This time... Two soft folds formed beneath his jaw. His breathing stopped.

"No..."

He lifted his chin higher. The skin gathered again. He pressed his fingers against it. It was soft. Real. He stepped back from the mirror.

His fitted pajama shirt suddenly felt snug across his chest. He pulled it off. Standing in only his boxer briefs, he stared silently. His belly no longer looked like temporary bloating. It rounded naturally outward. His once-firm pectorals had become noticeably heavier, resting lower than before. His waist had thickened. His hips looked broader. His thighs brushed together with every step.

He turned sideways. His backside projected farther than he remembered.

"...How?"

He weighed himself. Seven kilograms. Seven. He had gained seven kilograms in barely three weeks.

"That's impossible."

Nathan drove straight to the park. The cheerful melody grew louder as he approached. The truck stood exactly where it always had. The enormous vendor was already smiling before Nathan even got out of the car.

"There you are!"

Nathan marched to the counter.

"What did you do to me?"

The vendor looked him up and down slowly. His smile widened.

"My... You've grown."

Nathan slammed both hands onto the counter.

"I'm serious!"

"So am I."

The older man leaned comfortably against his massive belly.

"You wear it well."

Nathan pointed angrily at his own chin.

"I have a double chin!"

The vendor burst into booming laughter. A laugh so deep that his own heavy chest bounced with every breath.

"I noticed! It's adorable."

Nathan stared at him in disbelief.

"Adorable?"

"You should hear yourself."

"I'm getting fat!"

The vendor tilted his head.

"No. You're becoming comfortable."

Nathan stepped back.

"I'm never eating another one of your ice creams."

The vendor nodded calmly.

"If that's what you want."

"It is."

"I believe you."

Nathan turned toward his car. Then stopped. The sweet aroma drifted from the serving window. Rich vanilla. Warm caramel. His stomach growled loudly. The vendor didn't say a word. He simply waited.

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut.

"No."

Another step.

The melody echoed inside his head again.

"Da da da... da-da-da..."

His mouth filled with saliva.

His palms became sweaty.

He slowly turned back around.

The vendor's smile never faded.

"...Just one."

The older man chuckled.

"Of course."

He reached into the freezer. Then placed not one... But two enormous cones on the counter. Nathan stared at them.

"I said one."

"I know."

A long silence followed. Finally...

Nathan picked up both. He sat alone on a nearby park bench. The first cone disappeared in less than a minute.

The second followed just as quickly. As the last bite melted on his tongue... Relief washed over him. The melody stopped. The tension in his body faded. For the first time in days... He felt at peace.

Across the parking lot, the vendor watched through the truck's serving window. He folded his thick arms across his broad chest and smiled proudly.

"There you are... That's my boy."

Nathan looked down at the empty cones in his hands. He knew he had failed. Yet somewhere beneath the guilt... A tiny part of him wondered what the vendor would say when he came back tomorrow.

Nathan left the park determined that it would be the last time. The empty cones lay on the passenger seat beside him like evidence of a crime. He gripped the steering wheel.

"No more."

He repeated the words all the way home.

"No more ice cream."

The following morning, he returned to his old routine with renewed determination. He woke before sunrise. Five-kilometer run. Healthy breakfast. Two hours in the gym. Everything felt familiar... Except his body.

His breathing became heavier much sooner than usual. His thighs rubbed together with every stride, producing a faint swishing sound that had never existed before. His belly bounced gently beneath his compression shirt. Not enough to stop him. Enough to annoy him. Back in the locker room, he stripped off his soaked shirt.

The mirror offered no comfort. His stomach had grown again. Instead of a firm athletic abdomen, a rounded belly now pushed proudly forward, even while he stood as straight as possible. His once-defined pectorals had softened further.

They no longer stayed perfectly still when he moved. They shifted naturally with every breath. Nathan grabbed the sides of his waist.

"There has to be a limit..."

Over the next three days, he refused to go anywhere near the park. He took different streets. Different jogging routes. He even drove the long way to work to avoid seeing the truck. For a while... It worked. Then the melody returned.

"Da da da... da-da-da..."

Not faint this time. Crystal clear. While brushing his teeth. While lifting weights. While sitting in meetings. While trying to sleep. It repeated endlessly. Sometimes slow. Sometimes cheerful. Always impossible to ignore. Nathan pressed his palms against his ears.

"Stop..."

The music continued inside his head. His cravings became unbearable. He dreamed about vanilla every night. He imagined the rich sweetness melting across his tongue. His mouth watered whenever he smelled milk. His concentration disappeared completely.

One afternoon, while shopping for groceries, he found himself standing motionless in front of the freezer aisle.

He hadn't even realized he'd walked there. His cart contained nothing but healthy food. Chicken. Rice. Eggs. Vegetables. His hand reached toward the ice cream without thinking.

He stopped himself.

"No."

He walked away. Ten seconds later...He turned around. The freezer door opened. He stared silently at dozens of flavors. None of them looked right. None of them smelled right. He left without buying anything. The craving only became stronger.

By Friday afternoon, Nathan could barely focus during his workout. Sweat poured from every part of his body. His gray shirt clung tightly to his chest and stomach. As he finished his final set, another drop of sweat rolled across his upper lip.

Without thinking... He tasted it. Vanilla. Sweeter than before. He closed his eyes. For one brief moment... It almost satisfied him. Almost. But only made him crave the truck even more.

He lasted until Saturday morning.

Then he gave up. The moment he heard the familiar melody drifting through the open window... His body moved before his mind had decided. He grabbed his keys. Twenty minutes later, he was parking beside the truck.

The enormous vendor was already waiting outside. As though he had known exactly when Nathan would arrive. A huge grin spread across his bearded face.

"There he is!"

Nathan lowered his eyes.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it."

"I know."

"I tried."

"I know."

"I even changed my running route."

"I know."

Nathan looked up sharply.

"How do you keep knowing everything?"

The vendor simply laughed.

"I know my regulars."

Nathan stepped closer. His shirt stretched tightly across his broadening torso. The hem rode higher than usual, exposing a narrow strip of soft belly above his shorts whenever he reached for his wallet.

The vendor noticed immediately.

His eyes sparkled.

"Oh..."

He leaned forward over his massive stomach.

"Someone's growing."

Nathan instinctively tugged his shirt downward.

"It shrank."

The older man laughed so hard that his heavy chest bounced.

"No, son. You grew."

Nathan looked away, embarrassed. The vendor reached through the serving window and handed him an extra-large vanilla cone before Nathan had even ordered.

"No charge."

Nathan hesitated.

"I didn't ask for—"

"I know."

"You were always going to."

Nathan stared at the cone for several seconds. The sweet aroma filled the air. His stomach growled loudly. The vendor folded his thick arms across his broad chest.

"Go ahead."

Nathan took the first bite. His shoulders relaxed instantly. The melody vanished. The tension disappeared. His breathing slowed. A smile spread across his face before he even realized it. The vendor watched proudly.

"There. That's better."

Nathan looked down at his melting cone.

"...It really is."

Before leaving, the vendor studied him one last time. His eyes traveled slowly from Nathan's fuller cheeks... ...to the small folds beneath his chin... ...to the rounded chest stretching against his shirt... ...to the belly pressing gently against the waistband of his shorts... ...and finally to his broadening hips. He nodded with quiet satisfaction.

"Tomorrow... You'll be even bigger."

Nathan should have laughed. Should have argued. Should have driven away forever.

Instead...

As he climbed into his car, he caught himself wondering whether the old man might actually be right.

Sunday arrived with the familiar melody already echoing in Nathan's mind. This time, it didn't feel like an obsession. It felt like an invitation. He smiled as he drove toward the park. For the first time since discovering the truck, he wasn't thinking about the ice cream.

He was looking forward to seeing the vendor. The truck was already there. So were the customers. A long line stretched across the sidewalk. Children laughed impatiently. Parents chatted beneath the summer sun.

Everyone waited. Nathan frowned. The serving window was open. The music still played. But... No one was behind the counter. He looked around the park. Nothing. No enormous man in the white tank top. No booming laughter. No familiar smile.

"Hello?"

Silence. The customers began looking around nervously.

"Is anyone working today?"

"I've been waiting ten minutes."

Nathan hesitated. Then slowly stepped toward the open service window. Inside, everything looked exactly as it always had. The freezers hummed quietly. Rows of cones stood neatly arranged. The vanilla machine was already running. As if someone had only stepped away for a moment. Without really thinking about it, Nathan climbed inside. The interior felt... Familiar. Comfortable.

He knew exactly where everything was. His eyes wandered toward a small wooden hook on the wall. Hanging there... Was a clean white tank top. Beside it rested a striped vendor's apron. Folded carefully. Waiting. Nathan stared at them for several long seconds. Then smiled.

"I guess someone has to serve them."

He removed his stretched gray T-shirt. His broad chest settled heavily above his rounded stomach. His thick waist flowed naturally into his wide hips. He slipped on the white tank top.

The fabric hugged his large pectorals and stretched gently across his enormous belly. It fit perfectly. Not tight. Not loose. Perfect. He tied the apron around his broad waist. The strings reached comfortably around his back. As though they had always been made for him. Nathan looked up. A small mirror hung beside the serving window.

He froze.

The reflection smiling back at him was unmistakable. The same warm eyes. The same thick beard. The same broad shoulders. The same powerful chest. The same immense belly beneath a white tank top. The same welcoming smile. Only... Younger. Much younger. Nathan slowly touched his own cheek.

Then his beard. Then the soft curve of his stomach. He laughed quietly.

"So that's why..."

He no longer saw himself becoming the old vendor. He realized he had always been destined to become the next one. The older man hadn't disappeared. He had simply finished his turn.

A little girl stepped up to the window.

"Excuse me?"

Nathan looked up immediately. She smiled.

"Can I have vanilla, please?"

Without thinking... His hands moved on their own. Cone. Lever. Perfect swirl. Exactly the same graceful motion the older vendor had used. He handed it to her.

"There you go."

The girl smiled brightly.

"Thank you!"

Nathan felt something warm spread through his chest. Not hunger. Not craving. Pride. The next customer stepped forward. Then another. Soon, the line began moving again. Nathan greeted each person with the same easy smile. He found himself complimenting them almost without realizing it.

"Good choice."

"That flavor suits you."

"You'll enjoy this one."

Every sentence sounded strangely familiar. Almost inherited. As the afternoon wore on, the summer heat intensified. Nathan's forehead glistened. Sweat rolled down his thick neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tank top. His broad chest shimmered. His rounded belly glowed beneath the sunlight. He wiped his brow with a clean towel.

A few clear drops collected inside a stainless-steel mixing bowl beside the ice cream machine. Nathan paused. He watched the liquid gather. Then, without surprise... He poured it into the machine. The soft whirring deepened. A moment later... The fragrance of rich vanilla filled the truck. He smiled. It worked exactly as he somehow knew it would.

As evening settled over the park, the final customers waved goodbye. Nathan closed the serving window. The familiar melody faded into silence. He untied his apron. Then stopped. Instead...

He tied it back on. It didn't feel like a costume anymore.It felt like his uniform. He stepped outside the truck. The polished metal reflected him once more. A broad, cheerful man in a white tank top and apron. Heavy pectorals resting naturally above an immense belly. Wide hips. Powerful thighs. A full, friendly face framed by a thick beard.

He smiled at his reflection. Not because he remembered the athlete he had once been. But because he finally recognized the man looking back. He climbed into the driver's seat. The old keys were already in the ignition.

As though they had always belonged to him. The engine rumbled to life. The familiar melody began playing once again.

Nathan rested one hand comfortably on the warm curve of his stomach and looked ahead with a contented grin.

Somewhere in the distance, another young athlete turned his head at the sound of the music.

Nathan smiled.

His next customer was already waiting.

[megaglatze84]

Monitor yourself

Cold-Blooded

Juan ended a three-year relationship in less than four minutes.

No argument. No apology. No visible emotion.

He stood in the kitchen with his arms folded across his broad chest while Mateo stared at the overnight bag waiting beside the door.

“That’s it?” Mateo asked. “You already packed my things?”

“Most of them.”

“Most?”

“There are a few boxes in the storage room. You can arrange to collect them later.”

Mateo looked at the man he had loved—the powerful shoulders, handsome face and dark curls Juan maintained with almost obsessive care. Even now, Juan appeared perfectly composed, as though he were dismissing an employee rather than abandoning his partner.

“Was there someone else?”

“No.”

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Juan exhaled impatiently.

“Because I don’t feel what I used to feel.”

Mateo’s expression crumpled.

Juan glanced toward the door.

“You should go before this becomes embarrassing.”

The cruelty of the sentence silenced them both.

Mateo slowly picked up his bag.

“You really feel nothing, do you?”

Juan did not answer.

Mateo’s grief hardened into anger.

“You’re cold, Juan.”

“That’s enough.”

“No. You’re cold like a reptile. You lie in the sun, looking beautiful, taking whatever warmth people give you—and the second they stop being useful, you crawl away.”

Juan opened the door.

“Goodbye, Mateo.”

Mateo paused on the threshold.

For one strange moment, the lights dimmed. The gold pendant around Juan’s neck became painfully hot against his chest.

Mateo looked directly into his eyes.

“I hope you learn what it means to be as cold-blooded as you act.”

Then he left.

The First Shed

Juan slept badly.

He told himself it was because the apartment felt unusually quiet. Not because Mateo’s words had disturbed him.

At three in the morning, he woke drenched in sweat.

His scalp itched.

Juan went into the bathroom and switched on the light. His reflection looked normal: dark curls, trimmed goatee, powerful torso.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered.

He splashed water over his face.

Several dark hairs landed in the sink.

Juan froze.

He ran a hand through his curls.

More strands came loose.

Then more.

Within seconds, hair was falling over his shoulders and sticking to his damp chest. He seized his head with both hands, staring as the thick curls thinned before his eyes.

“No. No, no—”

He pulled the remaining hair aside.

His hairline had retreated dramatically. The crown was already visible, shiny beneath scattered strands. As he watched, the exposed area widened from the top of his head toward his forehead.

Juan’s mouth fell open.

Another handful detached.

The shedding spread to his chest. Dark body hair loosened and drifted down his torso. The neat goatee vanished from his chin in uneven patches.

He leaned closer to the mirror.

His eyebrows were thinning.

His eyelashes followed.

“Mateo.”

The name emerged as a whisper.

The last strands on top released their grip. The remaining hair around the sides shrivelled against his scalp and fell away.

Within minutes, Juan was completely bald.

Not shaved.

Hairless.

His goatee, brows, lashes and body hair had disappeared with it.

He touched the smooth crown in disbelief.

His skin felt strangely dry.

Something Beneath

The dryness intensified.

Juan rubbed his forearm. The skin there appeared darker than before, patterned with tiny overlapping lines.

At first he assumed it was a rash.

Then one of the lines lifted.

A small brown scale had formed on his wrist.

Juan scraped at it with a fingernail.

It did not come away.

More scales emerged beside it, spreading across the back of his hand like cracks moving through clay. They were bronze-brown, glossy under the bathroom light and hard beneath his fingertips.

His breathing quickened.

The pattern climbed his forearms.

“Stop.”

The scales ignored him.

They multiplied over his shoulders, collarbones and chest, replacing smooth human skin with a dense reptilian armour. His reflection became mottled and unfamiliar.

Juan gripped the sink.

His fingernails darkened.

They thickened, curving outward into black claws.

He recoiled and struck the soap dispenser. The new talons sliced through the plastic casing.

Juan stared at his hands.

His fingers had lengthened. The joints bulged, becoming knotted and powerful. The palms roughened into leathery pads.

He screamed.

The sound came out deeper than expected, ending in an involuntary hiss.

The Face in the Mirror

The transformation spread over his neck.

Scales crawled upward beneath his jaw and across his cheeks. His facial structure seemed to tighten under the pressure. His nose flattened slightly, nostrils widening. His ears drew closer to his skull.

Juan pressed both hands against his bald head.

The scales reached his forehead.

They covered it completely.

His eyes changed next.

The whites darkened to a muddy cream. His pupils narrowed into vertical slits before widening again, struggling to adjust to the harsh bathroom light.

Every movement became painfully vivid.

He could hear water shifting inside the pipes.

He could smell dust behind the mirror.

He could detect Mateo’s scent lingering on a towel across the room.

That nearly broke him.

“Mateo,” he called again.

His tongue moved strangely.

It felt too long.

When he opened his mouth, it slid forward—thin, dark and forked at the tip.

Juan stumbled backward and hit the wall.

His pendant still hung around his neck, absurdly delicate against the spreading scales.

“What am I?”

A cracking sensation ran through his spine.

The Tail

Juan fell to his knees.

Pressure gathered at the base of his back, deep and unbearable. His shorts stretched as something pushed against the fabric from within.

He clawed at the waistband.

The seam tore.

A thick, scaled extension forced its way outward.

Juan twisted around.

A tail emerged behind him, short at first, then growing rapidly across the bathroom floor. It lengthened until it struck the bathtub, knocking bottles from the edge.

The appendage was enormous at its base and tapered gradually toward a muscular point. It moved without permission, lashing against the tiles as Juan tried to understand the new muscles controlling it.

His thighs cramped.

The shape of his legs began to change.

His knees angled outward. His feet widened, toes spreading as the nails became claws. The arches flattened until standing upright became difficult.

Juan crawled from the bathroom.

Each movement became easier on all fours.

That realisation terrified him more than the pain.

The Last Human Shape

He reached the living room and forced himself upright.

For a moment, he resembled a man covered in scales: bald, massively muscular, clawed and tailed, but still recognisably Juan.

He staggered toward the window.

His reflection floated in the dark glass.

The face was still partly his.

The eyes were not.

Then his shoulders rolled forward.

His arms lengthened and thickened, knuckles dropping closer to the floor. His spine stretched horizontally. His ribcage expanded while his waist broadened, pulling him into a lower, heavier posture.

Juan fought to remain standing.

“No!”

His legs shortened relative to his torso. His hips rotated. The tail grew heavier, dragging behind him and forcing his body forward.

He collapsed onto all fours.

The change accelerated.

His neck thickened into a powerful column. His jaw projected, pushing his face into a blunt reptilian muzzle. Human lips receded around rows of sharp, curved teeth.

His ears disappeared entirely.

Scales closed over the final soft places on his skin.

Juan attempted to scream Mateo’s name.

Only a harsh reptilian bellow emerged.

He scrambled toward the sliding doors.

The claws of his forelimbs scratched deep furrows into the wooden floor.

He no longer had human hands.

Outside

Juan struck the glass door with his shoulder.

It opened just enough for him to force himself through.

Cool night air washed over his scales.

Instantly, his body slowed.

The cold sank through him with terrifying speed. His muscles became sluggish, his thoughts fogged, and his limbs trembled beneath his weight.

Cold-blooded.

Mateo’s words returned with awful clarity.

Juan dragged himself across the lawn, seeking the residual warmth stored in the stones beside the house. He pressed his belly against them.

The heat revived him slightly.

His tongue flicked instinctively, tasting the air.

Insects.

Wet soil.

A neighbour’s dog.

Car exhaust from the distant road.

And beneath it all, Mateo’s fading scent.

Juan turned his huge head toward the gate.

Some remaining human part of him understood that Mateo would not be coming back.

The Morning Park

Just before dawn, Juan left the garden.

He moved through the silent streets on four massive limbs, hiding whenever headlights appeared. His tail swept across pavements and struck rubbish bins. Every noise sent panic through him.

By sunrise, he reached a park beside a lake.

The first warmth of morning touched his back.

Juan stopped beneath a tree.

His scales absorbed the sunlight greedily. Strength returned to his body. The terror inside him loosened as his new instincts took control.

Water drew him forward.

He approached the shore and saw his reflection.

A gigantic monitor lizard stared back.

Its body was broader and more muscular than any natural animal’s. Bronze-black scales covered it from the heavy head to the end of the long tail. Its forelegs retained a disturbing echo of human power.

The eyes remained Juan’s.

Wide.

Conscious.

Ashamed.

He lowered his head toward the water.

The reptile in the reflection did the same.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say.

His forked tongue passed between his jaws.

Only a low hiss disturbed the lake.

Mateo’s Return

A week later, Mateo came back for the remaining boxes.

He found the apartment abandoned.

The bathroom was filled with fallen hair. The living room floor was scarred by claws. The sliding door stood open.

On the table lay Juan’s phone and a single sheet of paper.

There was only one sentence written across it, the handwriting jagged and hurried:

I understand now.

Mateo carried the note to the park.

He did not know why.

Near the lake, he noticed a huge reptile lying beneath the morning sun. People kept their distance, assuming it was an elaborate sculpture or some promotional stunt.

Mateo knew immediately.

The creature lifted its head.

Its tongue tasted the air.

Then it crawled toward him.

People shouted and fled.

Mateo remained still.

The monster stopped several metres away. Its enormous body trembled, not from cold but fear.

“Juan?”

The reptile lowered its head.

Mateo stepped closer.

“You hurt me.”

Juan closed his eyes.

“You treated me like I meant nothing.”

The animal pressed its chest against the ground.

Mateo saw no arrogance remaining in those eyes. Only horror, regret and a desperate hope that he might still be recognised as something more than a monster.

Mateo placed one hand against the warm scales above Juan’s eye.

“I didn’t do this to you,” he whispered. “I was angry. I said cruel things, but I never meant them as a curse.”

Juan opened his eyes.

That was when both of them understood.

The magic had not come from Mateo.

It had come from Juan himself—from every emotion he had suppressed, every kindness he had rejected and every part of himself he had frozen until nothing warm remained.

Mateo withdrew his hand.

“I can’t promise to take you back.”

Juan released a quiet, wounded rumble.

“But I won’t leave you here alone.”

Mateo sat beside him on the grass.

As the sun rose higher, the enormous reptile rested his head near Mateo’s feet.

For the first time in years, Juan did not ask what someone could give him.

He was simply grateful that someone had stayed.

[rowdy317]

Disclaimer: First I want to say that this is my first time making an original story so it is heavily influenced by AI.

Story Muscle: The Power of The Open Road 

Martin Vale had been a CEO for so long that even driving felt like a board meeting. He sat stiffly behind the wheel of his luxury sedan, his dark suit tight around his heavy frame, his tie pulled high against his soft neck. The highway stretched ahead, ordinary and gray, but something about the road felt wrong. The traffic behind him blurred. The radio crackled, and a low country guitar drifted through the speakers. He began to listen to the song and wonder what country life was about about the slower pace of life in the country. Who knows what started the change,  whether it was the hypnotic pull of the open road or the power of music but something changed Martin. 

At first, the change was subtle. The deep creases around his eyes softened. His cheeks firmed slightly, and his gray hair grew fuller along the sides. His hands tightened around the steering wheel with a little more strength than before. He was still heavyset, still serious, still unmistakably an older executive—but now he looked closer to sixty, like five stressful years had simply slipped off him somewhere between mile markers.

The road outside began to open up. Suburban lanes gave way to wider stretches of green, and Martin noticed fewer buildings, more trees, more fences. His tie loosened on its own, the knot dropping a few inches from his collar. He pulled in a sharp breath as his shoulders pressed harder against his suit jacket.

His face grew younger again. The sag beneath his jaw tightened, his eyes looked clearer, and his hair thickened into a salt-and-pepper executive wave. He still carried the weight of wealth and power, but his body was changing from soft to solid. His chest broadened beneath the suit, and the fabric pulled at the seams as if it no longer fit the man he was becoming.

By fifty, the transformation could no longer be ignored. Martin’s suit jacket slipped off one shoulder and bunched behind him like an abandoned skin. His white dress shirt opened at the collar, and his loosened tie hung crookedly down his chest. His face sharpened into something more rugged, less polished, more alive.

His gray hair darkened into salt-and-pepper waves, thicker and messier than any boardroom would have allowed. His belly shrank while his arms grew stronger, filling the sleeves with a heavy, working strength. The sedan changed too. The smooth leather and glossy trim dulled. Dust appeared along the dashboard. The car began to feel older, less luxurious, like the road itself was stripping away everything corporate.

At forty-five, Martin looked like a businessman who had wandered too far from the city and started becoming someone else. His skin took on the first signs of a tan, warmed by sunlight pouring through the windshield. His cheeks leaned out, his jaw grew firmer, and a faint thin mustache appeared above his lip. A small chin goatee darkened beneath his mouth.

His shirt shifted into a pale blue button-up, stretched across a broader, more muscular chest. The last traces of his suit faded into the seat behind him. Around him, the luxury sedan became rougher: cracked trim, dusty glass, worn panels, metal showing through where polish had once been. Outside, the road was fully rural now, with fields, fences, and open sky rolling past the windows.

By forty, he no longer looked like a CEO at all. He looked like a strong country man with some forgotten business life still clinging to his expression. His hair turned medium brown and thickened at the back, beginning to curl into a wavy mullet. The thin mustache and chin goatee became clearer, giving his face a rugged, confident edge.

His body surged with power. His shoulders widened, his arms thickened, and his chest pressed hard against the fitted work shirt. The steering wheel beneath his hands changed into something old and worn, rust creeping along the metal around him. The vehicle was no longer pretending to be a sedan. It had become the cab of a beat-up pickup truck, dusty, cracked, and honest.

At thirty-five, the transformation took on a new rhythm. The man behind the wheel sat looser now, less stiff, more natural. His face was younger, handsome, sun-kissed, and calm. His wavy brown mullet brushed the back of his collar, and the thin goatee and mustache framed a mouth that looked like it was learning how to smile again.

His physique grew much larger. Thick arms filled his sleeves, his shoulders became huge, and his chest stretched the gray work shirt across him. The truck rattled beneath him like it had always belonged to him. Rust, dust, cracked trim, and an old steering wheel surrounded him, while the road outside became a dirt-edged country lane lined with fields and fence posts.

By thirty, almost nothing of Martin Vale remained. The old CEO’s memories felt distant, like paperwork left in another man’s office. His skin deepened into a rich tan, his eyes brightened, and his expression shifted into a relaxed, confident grin. His mullet was thick and wavy now, wild in the heat and sunlight.

His body became extreme, powerful, and hypermuscular. His arms swelled into oversized masses of muscle, his shoulders filled the cab, and his neck thickened above a torn, sleeveless gray work shirt. His hands gripped the old steering wheel with easy control. He looked less like he was transforming and more like he was remembering who he was supposed to be.

The final five years vanished in a rush of sunlight, dust, and country music. His face smoothed into youthful rugged beauty, handsome and tan, with a confident smile that belonged to open roads and summer fields. The thin mustache and chin goatee settled perfectly on his face. His thick wavy brown mullet framed him like the finishing touch on a completely rewritten life.

At twenty-five, he was no longer Martin and Martin didn’t sound right but the name Colt sounded right, Colt Martin. He was a hypermuscular country boy in a dirty white tank top, dusty jeans, and a simple chain necklace, driving a beat-up old pickup truck down a rural road. His massive shoulders and arms crowded the cab, his broad chest pressed against the seatbelt, and the old truck seemed built around him. The luxury sedan, the CEO title, the boardrooms, the age—all of it was gone.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the young man staring back, and smiled.

For one strange second, he almost remembered being old.

Then the radio turned up, the road opened wide, and he drove on like he had been this way forever.

[mystrangetfs]

A new team - Weight gain ai sequence

Clint was warming up and stretching when he heard the first shout of his name, glancing over his shoulder Clint could see the football coach and Clint couldn't help but roll his eyes. He had heard the football team had lost a few of its members to injury and that the coach was looking to replace them and Clint could not think of anything worse. Clint was a track star, he had been sprinting the 400m for years and had won several national competitions. That's how he managed to get a scholarship to a top university along with a generous donation from his parents. There was no way he was going to lower himself and become a 'bulldog' and be around the other lumps of dumb muscle. Clint heard his name being called again and still he pretended like he didn't hear, once he was stretched out he would start running and there would be no way the dumpy little coach would catch up to him. However, if Clint had bothered to acknowledge the coach then he would have seen the already out of breath middle aged man jogging over to before standing in front of the sneering Clint.

"Clint Simmons? Yeah I thought it was you. I was calling ya champ, did you not hear me?" the coach said red-faced.

"I guess not" Clint said barely even looking at the coach as he continued to stretch.

"Oh... errr well, I needed to talk to you. You are the fastest guy we've got here and I am in desperate need of a wide receiver, there would be no way anyone would catch you. Have you ever played footba-" The coach said with ethusiasm until he was cut off by Clint.

"I'm going to stop you there coach. Hell would have to freeze over before I joined your team. My body is a trained, discipline and a refined machine and it isn't going to be jumped on, slammed in and headbutted by your gang of glorified thugs. While those apes you train are out there grunting and concussing, I’m breaking records with actual grace, skill and talent." Clint said and turned to the coach smugly "I run alone but if you want to keep chatting, try to keep up"

Clint then started running with a satisifed smile on his face, leaving the coach red with either anger or embarassement, Clint didn't really care although he swore he heard the coach mutter under his breathe "You will be on my team you arrogant prick"

Clint just smiled as he start running at pace, the joy he felt as everything rushed passed him, the wind in his hair, the adrenaline of his muscles surging as he sped around the track, it was exhilarating. However, what was not so joyous was the heat coming from Clint's body and the vast amount of sweat he was expelling from nearly every part of his body.

Clint tried to run it off but the more he ran the more he sweated. Heavy droplets ran down his face and soaked his hair, his top and shorts were more than damp they were sopping wet and now every part of him glistened with moisture. Clint felt disgusting, he had never produced this much sweat not even after the longest, hardest training session let alone within a minute of him starting to run. Clint grimaced as the sweat ran into his right eye causing it to sting and for him to slow down. Without much of a choice Clint removed his top just to wipe away the sweat from his eyes so he could see and run straight.

Clint had now done a full circuit of the track and was soaked through, drops of sweat rained from him with every powerful step he took, he wanted to stop but then he saw the coach still waiting and forced himself to keep going. The last thing he needed was a lecture from some fat football coach. So even though it looked like he had taken a dip in a pool and was leaving a trail of sweat behind him Clint kept running, much to the coach's delight. As Clint ran he found himself feeling unbalanced, his stride suddenly felt off and he found it harder to keep his pace up. Maybe he was getting sick? But as he ran he felt as if his body was moving more, like parts of him were jiggling and wobbling. His pecs didn't feel as controlled and his arms didn't feel as toned as he pumped them, it was almost as if they were larger, heavier, fatter.

Clint didn't like the feeling but the last thing he wanted to do was give up in front of the coach, he could only imagine how smug he would be if he had to stop, so still Clint powered on through the sweat, heat and the horrible sluggish feeling. Clint was barely a quarter way around the track when he found himself slowing down even further, his stomach no longer felt right as if it was sloshing and bouncing around, his chest hurt as his pectorals now felt like they were flopping up and down with every step and suddenly Clint felt like his thighs were chafing which they had never done. Clint let a groan as his legs started to hurt and his body got even harder to move.

After another 100m Clint was almost on the verge of collapse, sweat was pouring down his body like a waterfall and a nasty smell was now hitting his nostrils every time he pumped his arms and unleashed his pits. Every part of him felt tired and now Clint could tell something was very wrong as his body wobbled like jelly with every step. He felt exhausted, he felt tired and worse of all he felt slow.

Clint let out a gasp of pain as his legs burned and somehow the ground felt like it was further away, now every step felt ginormous and labourous, like he was lifting tree trunks instead of his slim, toned runners legs. Clint felt himself slowing down as he could no longer keep his pace, his breathing was rapid and every muscle in his body screamed for him to stop, his body felt heavier, softer and foreign to him as he slowed to a cumbersome jog. Clint knew he had to stop, something was very, very wrong.

Clint finally let himself stop and when he did and finally looked down at his body, his arms, his chest, his legs, his belly, and he screamed. Clint grabbed at his new giant, obese body as if to check it was really his own. "No no no no no" was all Clint could mutter as he grabbed at his once muscular legs, the parts of his body he had spent so long training to perfection were now buried in layers and layers of fat which now awkwardly pushed his legs apart making running forever uncomfortable. Clint also felt like a giant, he must of grown at least a foot in height as he now felt off balance and everything seemed further away. Clint grabbed his face and felt the fullness in his cheeks and the bloated double chin he permanently sported and almost cried. His chest was no longer perky pectorals but instead chubby tits that now sat on a round, sagging belly. Clint grabbed at the gut that he now sported and whimpered as his hands sunk into the soft flesh, this was all him! He had gained nearly 150 pounds of fat in a few minutes, his track career was over! What was he going to do? How was this possible?! It was then that the football coach waddled over to him smiling.

The coach grinned before saying "Oh I forgot to mention the team is also looking for a new defensive lineman, I wonder if you could help us out with that?" At first Clint was shocked at what the coach was asking but soon he pieced everything together and who was responsible for his new size and weight. "You did this to me!" Clint screamed pointing at the coach

Clint's face flushed with anger "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! How dare you, you fat little fuck! Nobody touches me! I am the fucking star here, I own this track and look what you've done to me all to be on your loser team! My parents donate more money to this pathetic college in a year than your whole salary for life! One phone call from my dad and your ass is FIRED, coach! FIRED! No not just fired, in prison. You'll be behind bars by fucking lunch. I'M CALLING THE POLICE RIGHT NOW! You hear me?! My family has the BEST lawyers in the state on speed dial! They're gonna bury you! You'll never work again! This is ASSAULT! This an assault on my FUTURE! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! You're fucking DONE!" Clint finished red faced and was about to go grab his phone.

However, before Clint could take a step the coach just sighed. "I had hoped you would join willingly but I see you leave me with no other choice, that means a lot of paperwork for me." The coach then let out a deep breath before putting his hands on his hips and saying "I thought you would be happy to join my team, I mean a guy of your size is built for football?" Clint was about to start yelling again when suddenly his brain felt foggy, his anger dwindled and the question echoed in his head as he felt confused.

Clint tried to think clearly, he was angry and mad but why was that? Being so tall and overweight had been hard for him, he had been bullied and called names and everyone picked a fight with him, that was until he started playing football and he finally found something he was good at. He had never been good at anything and school was hard until he started tackling and practising after school. Clint then shook his head violently, "No, no that's not true" Clint said to himself as he tried to grasp onto his old reality, the one where he was popular and beloved but instead he had hurtful memories of being called butter ball and guys twisting his nipples on his huge fat man boobs. Clint's mind slowed down as memories of acing classes disappeared and instead low grades and barely scraping by replaced them, he wasn't dumb was he?

Coach then continued "I would think you would be calling your parents, they will be so proud you made the team. I am sure its what they dreamed off when the immigrated here, you are going to be living the American dream son!" Clint hit his head as if to try and squish the memories that were invading his mind while his skin started to darken and his hair started to curl. Clint's memory of his wealthy parents was replaced with his new mama and papa who travelled over from Ghana nearly 20 years ago. Clint wanted to scream as his rich privileged life was rewritten into that of a working class struggle, his parents held no power, had little money but still were so proud of their son playing football at college on a scholarship.

Clint knew it was wasn't true but his old life, his old friends, old family, his old memories, running track, training relentlessly, all of it seemed to be fading away and instead new memories were taking there place. Clint found it harder to think, harder to remember his old self and found it hard to stay in control, like something or someone else was begininng to take over. Clint's skin had now darkened to a deep rich brown, his lifes were larger and his hair was jet black and was tightly curled. Coach could see that his newest player was nearly done "I hope you are happy too Kofi, its a big step being put on the first team but you have shown that you can stop almost anyone with your size and bulk, I'd be a fool not to have you on my team." Coach then placed his hand on his new defensive lineman.

Clint wailed internally as the last of him was rewritten and the little voice that was Clint was pushed to the back of his mind as a passenger in Kofi's body. The giant athlete took deep laboured breaths as he felt a mixture of happiness and confusion. Kofi was proud to have made his coach happy but something at the back of his mind was telling him something was wrong, but what could it be?

"You ok champ? You in a bit of shock from the news? Ah I know what it is, you can't see yourself as bulldog without being dressed like one." While Kofi was too stunned or too dumb to care, Clint watched as his body was suddenly covered by his new uniform and gear, his new number on his back, his new life ahead of him as the defensive lineman for the bulldogs, crashing and bashing into any poor soul that dared to pass him. While his old life was nothing but a memory that only he could recall.

The coach grinned happily "Now let's get you over to the field so we can practise some drills." Coach said leading Kofi over to the football field a place prevoiusly foreign to Clint but now a place Kofi spent most of his life.

In the middle of the field Kofi turned to the coach and let out a dumb laugh and smile "Thank you for this opportunity coach, it's like a dream come true. I don't know what I would have done with me life if it wasn't for football!" Kofi then turned and started walking down the field to begin training, his huge bulk imposing, cumbersome and slow.

Coach laughed hard as he imagined Clint's screaming little voice at the back of Kofi's mind. The coach then watched his new player walk away and muttered "Another 20 pounds couldn't help, don't want you to get any ideas about running again" The coach then chuckled as he watched Kofi's ass swell as each cheek became the size of a wobbling, fat beach ball making Kofi's legs even more powerful but making it look and feel ridiculous for him to run anything but a short distance.

Kofi adjusted his stance as his enromous butt jiggled and gave him a deep wedgie, while Clint sobbed helplessly never able to do they thing he loved most ever again and trapped in a body and life he never wanted.

[hairy-bothered]

A Stranger’s Face

Chris had only ducked into the alley to get away from the noise for a minute. The music from the mix of gay and straight bars still thudded through the brick walls, and laughter spilled out every time a door opened at the end of the block. After finishing college in the Spring, Chris had felt detached and out of his element - finding it difficult to adjust to a new life with more rigid rules and timelines. Sometimes he longed for the days when people would just tell him how to live his life.

He loosened his collar, checked his reflection in the dark phone screen, and smiled to himself. Despite his current listlessness in life he looked exactly the way he liked to look—young, polished, blond, untouchable.

Then he noticed a man leaning against a nearby wall staring the way a lion watches a zebra… He was older, thick through the torso in a way that suggested strength, his open leather vest showing a dense spread of chest hair under the glow of the streetlamp. A cigar rested between his fingers, and his heavy mustache gave his half-smile a strange authority. He looked like he belonged to the night in a way Chris suddenly felt he did not.

“You look lost,” the older man said. “My name’s Jeff. Maybe there’s something we can do to help each other.”

Chris opened his mouth ready to interject with some quick, sharp reply - but the older man had already stepped closer - pinning Chris to the alley wall.

The cigar slipped from Jeff’s fingers and hissed out on the damp pavement. He drew Chris close with startling ease, one hand settling against his shoulder, and kissed him. It was not tentative. It was deliberate. The kind of kiss that made the rest of the alley seem to fall away into the darkness and puddles.

Chris stiffened at first, startled by the force of the moment—but before he could even decide what to do, heat ran through his face and down his throat. His heart pounded so hard it made his vision shake. He broke away just enough to stare at Jeff, breathing fast, one hand flying to his mouth.

“Why did you do that!?” Chris shouted.

“I’m doing you a favor kid. You have the air of a man looking for something more. Someone to guide you.” Jeff smiled beneath that thick mustache.

Just then Chris felt a surge of heat course through his body. His muscles all began to cramp and his skin began to crawl. He doubled over in pain briefly before regaining his composure.

Chris staggered toward a darkened shop window and froze at the stranger looking back. His neat blonde side-part was breaking apart, the hair at his temples pulling backward as if erased by an invisible hand. A shadow had appeared over his lip — thicker by the second, darkening into the beginnings of a broad mustache. His jaw looked heavier. Older. His shoulders strained strangely against his blazer, as though his frame had decided it wanted to occupy more space than it had a moment ago. Even his clothes were changing - fleece and denim being replaced with black leather. The smell and touch both intoxicating and arousing to Chris’s shifting mind.

“No,” he whispered, then louder: “No.”

He clawed at his fading hairline, felt the changed shape of his own face, the roughness gathering where his skin had been smooth and young. Beneath his sleeves, new hair prickled down his forearms. His breath came fast and shallow. He looked over at Jeff, who watched him not with surprise, but with knowing satisfaction.

“You’re fighting it,” Jeff said taking a drag of his newly lit cigar and blowing the smoke towards Chris and chuckling. “That’ll only make it worse.”

Chris backed away, but even his posture was changing - his panic caught inside a body that was already learning a different way to stand - a different way to exist.

The next wave was quieter. That terrified him more. The panic was still there in Chris’s eyes, but it had begun to fray at the edges, interrupted by flashes of something else - familiarity, confidence, a low simmering pride that did not belong to him and yet somehow did. A growing heat in his groin at the thought of men, leather, cigars.

His clothes had continued to change with him: the soft sweater gone, replaced by leather that creaked when he moved and fit as though it had always been tailored for him. His chest felt warmer, heavier, hairier, rougher beneath the vest. His arms looked thicker. His hands looked older.

His hand rose to his lip. The mustache was full now—broad, dark, authoritative. Perfectly at home on his face - as if it had always been there. “Hadn’t it always been there,” Chris briefly thought. “I’ve had it since my late 20s at least…”

He looked at Jeff, and for one strange second it was like looking forward in time and into a mirror at once. Their hairlines matched. Their builds matched. The set of their shoulders, the angle of their mouths, even the cool, assessing look in their eyes — everything was converging.

Memories began to blur at the edges. The bar. The frat brothers. His old laugh. His own name. They all seemed suddenly thin, flimsy, unimportant.

“Who am…” he started, but the question died halfway out. Instead a wide cocky smile formed across his mustached face.

Jeff reached up and adjusted the front of Chris’s vest with almost affectionate precision.

“There you are, Geoffrey” Jeff said. “I was hoping to catch you here in the alley - alone…” But before Jeff could finish the sentence the formerly young Geoffrey pulled him in for a deep kiss with the intensity of a man in the desert being led to an oasis.

Geoffrey’s hands roamed up and down Jeff’s body - relishing the feel of the leather and the scent of tobacco and bourbon on Jeff’s breath. He knew exactly what he was doing when he unzipped Jeff’s pants and reached a newly hairy paw into his underwear - releasing the man’s cock from its leather prison.

Between smoky kisses and tongues deep in each other’s mouths Jeff gave a soft smile - relishing his handiwork at creating a doppelgänger that would know how to satisfy him exactly like he wanted. Exactly as he would do.

Jeff reached into Geoffrey’s pants and pulled out an exact copy of his dick on the formerly young man. He then ran a thumb around the head, already peaking out from the heavy foreskin covered with precum. He reached in and pulled out two round testicles and let them rest free against the leather pants.

Jeff then pushed Geoffrey against the wall looking him up and down and said “Who’s the hottest fucker around?”

“We are” was the response.

“What do we do for fun?”

“Put on our leather and fuck in the alley.”

“Good answer,” Jeff smirked as he turned Geoffrey around and pressed his face against the cool damp brick wall - while simultaneously grabbing Geoffrey’s pants and lowering them just enough for his hairy ass cheeks to spread apart. He then spit on his hand and shoved three fingers deep into the former frat boy - who moaned and jumped like it was the first time he’d been penetrated - now in a body that was clearly more accustomed to giving than receiving.

Jeff then spit on his dick and shoved it deep into his doppelgänger’s tight ass. He put his cigar back into his mouth and took a deep drag while beginning to pump into “himself.”

“Do you like daddy’s dick” he whispered in Geoffrey’s ear while exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Yes, daddy” Geoffrey replied.

“Would you like some of daddy’s cigar?” Jeff asked.

“Yes, sir” Geoffrey moaned between thrusts. Jeff took another drag and offered one to the former frat boy - who relished the opportunity.

Jeff’s pace quickened as Geoffrey reached a hand down to his own engorged dick and started jerking it. Just as Jeff reached climax and shot his load deep into the mirror image of his ass, Geoffrey followed suit - spewing rope after rope of cum on the alley wall.

After Jeff came down from his climax, he took another drag of his cigar and pulled out - replacing his cock and balls into their leather confines. He slapped Geoffrey on the ass spun the man back around and said “Good job, boy. I think I’ll keep you like this for a while. Daddy will have further use for your services.”

Geoffrey pulled up his pants, keeping Jeff’s load inside like a warm souvenir of some both special and simultaneously common-place event. He rolled his shoulders and felt the easy weight of his body settle into place, solid and undeniable. He reached up, smoothing a hand over his mustache with a gesture so natural it required no thought. Somewhere deep down, there was a fading impression that he had once been someone younger, softer, easier to impress. A man named Chris. But that life had the texture of a dream forgotten by noon.

When they stepped out of the alley together, the city seemed to welcome them differently.

What remained was certainty. He took the cigar Jeff offered him, fitted it between his fingers, and smiled when he caught his reflection in a passing window. The face that looked back at him was rugged, self-possessed, and undeniably handsome. More than that - it was right.

Jeff gave him a knowing glance. “You remember now?”

He did. Not the life he had lost. That had already dissolved into the night. He remembered who he was now.

Jeff and Geoffrey walked toward the glow of the bars, matching stride for matching stride, like they had been leaving alleys together for years.

And by the time the door opened and the music spilled over them again, there was no trace of Chris left at all.

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

I want you to turn me from a cub into a hunky-ish bear after stealing the clothing of a bear

You know that wording is up to lots of interpretations. Especially me. As soon as you made your wish you realized the mistake but it was too late to take it back. You held the clothes close to your nose and smelled the musk and sweat of a truely handsome man.

You couldn’t help but wish to be him as you held onto his sweaty smelly clothes. You rushed to put them on just so you could feel his essence on you before someone came. But then you made your wish and realized too late how wrong you were when the man of your dreams walked into the locker room. You managed to run outside before the pain forced your on all fours on the ground. Moaning in agony as you look at your hands and seem developing liver spots and ground hair on the backs of them. Grey hair. Grey hair that was traveling up your thickening arms. Your forearms tripled in since and led up to your upper arms but no muscle was seen. Only thickness that comes with age. Your stomach gurgled and twisted and soon began to expand. You riled over on your expanding hurt and was greasy if by a massive rock hard beach ball size gut that protruding from your abdomen. You try to suck it in it’s not use. You inches further and further outward till the sweaty shirt your wearing rises up past your belly button. Which shoes to be covered in thick great hair. And you realize your entire chest is covered in the same grey hair rush arms and hands are. It travels down to your your legs that thicken and become massive with hidden muscle while your feet widen and becomes so hair people would thick they are hobbit feet. All while your face e ages as a white beard wraps around your thickening face. As it rounds out your hair falls out into heavy male pattern baldness. You struggle to stand. What happened to you ! You hold a phone up and scream as you see the old man that worked out at the gym. You were now a perfect replica of this bear. But you got what you asked for. You are definitely Hunkish now. I wonder if you’ll be able to find someone to try your clothes on.

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

I’m a short skinny dude. I was wishing you can turn macho latin young hunk who grows into an older silver fox (of some sort).

I think I have something in mind. What I’ll do is this. Put you in a gene pool that hit the lottery.

Your skin begins to darken as you get taller. Your hair becomes show as your feet explode to a size 15. You own cock snakes down your leg becoming larger and larger while your balls hang lower and lower. Abs poke out of your stomach and your pecs become a shaft while your arms bloom with huge mass packed under the skin. Now at the age of 25 and in the body Pedro. A young borny as hell man always wanting to plant his seeds. Always giving his family grief of possible children that may be floating around out there. But all in all you really do have it made.

But you did say you wanted to grow into a silver fox. Well. Pedro has a really attractive father. So. I only see fit that Pedro , son of his own father go through a particular change guaranteed to set Pedro up for life. Or rather his father’s. You see, the change I’ve made is that Pedro will slowly over time become his dad. Forced to walk in his dad’s shoes. Fight as he might, his body will always turn to one direction. His dad. And he’s going to be 100% like him. Even on a dna level. So for a couple years you enjoy the time you have only to see your body slowly beginning to change. A hair here or there. Then by age 33 you hair begins to fall out of your head as it appears to grow on other parts of your body. Your muscles begin to sag slightly with age around 37 and by this time you have a noticeable bald spot that is quickly meeting the receding hairline that you have started to develop. At age 45 you hair is grey and your stomach slightly bulges. But now at age 50. Your wish is almost complete. At 99% you father. You look exactly like him. You’re hairy. Muscular. And extremely dominating. You sound like him. Walk like. Everything you do is just like him. But that 1% you need that too. Your balls swell instantly. You feel as if someone is squeezing them. And then. Just like that. Your own father sees now churns in your own sac. Leaking like a faucet and fertile for days. You sit on the chair and smile at the one man across from you reading about alll of your changes. You flex your massive frame and hair toes at him. And smile. You know that that man is wishing he could share your genes too.

[wetbears]

[bugbear-emporium]

Spring Cleaning 1

I've been trying to find inspiration for stories, and I've always enjoyed pictures of men in showers soaping up and getting clean. Just an excuse to get dirty again of you ask me ;)

Going to try some captions this spring around that theme, just to spur creativity within a little restriction. Hope you enjoy!

Mitchell was out camping with some buddies in the middle of a warm week in May. When they first got there, Mitchell found it strange how many of the other campsites were taken up by rowdy groups of big, hairy, old men. Maybe there was some kind of event going on?

As they walked around the campsite looking for a spot to put up their tent, Mitchell saw a few rainbow flags and shirts with "Daddy" spread across the chests of the other campers. There was obviously some kind of gay dude event happening at the campsite. Nothing wrong with that, Mitchell thought to himself, he'd leave them alone if they left him and his friends alone.

They set up camp far away from the main collection of tents, and the afternoon drifted into evening and then night. Mitchell was having a great time with his buddies as they cooked out and told stories about college, where most of them met a few years ago. Occasionally, they would hear a laugh from the larger group in the center of camp, but they were otherwise undesturbed during the night.

The next month, Mitchell decided to get up a bit early to get a shower in. He walked into the facilities building back near the campsite's entrance and found it to be much nicer than expected. It had many individual shower stalls, a small gym, a sauna, communal showers, and complimentary soaps. He passed several old men coming in and out, a few of whom were not wearing any clothes at all, and quickly walked to one of the individual stalls.

The shower was much more spacious than it had any right to be for a campsite shower. There was a bench on the back wall and a closed section before the shower where you could change. Mitchell set his bag down, stripped off his clothes, and started the gentle cascade of water down onto his body.

As he grabbed the body wash, he didn't notice the thick body hair that grew in under the lather of soap, and when he wiped it away, he was enjoying the warm water so much that he just didn't notice the change. He worked shampoo into his long wavy hair, and it began to turn gray and shorten. When he rinsed out the second round of shampoo, the hair disappeared with the suds down the drain, leaving the top of his head bare and smooth. Mitchell finished by washing his face, wrinkles forming as he rubbed his skin and a white beard bristled up on his previously cleanshaven jaw.

As he soaked in the water, a sense of bliss washed over him. His body thickened with muscle and heft, and he gained several inches, both in height and length. Mitchell looked several decades older and his brain adjusted itself to match. Instead of the average 27 year old guy who walked into the shower, Mitchell had the mind and body of a 63 year old powerlifter. As Mitchell finished his shower and looked at his reflection in the changing both, he finally saw that he looked much different. He was startled by the transformation, but he oddly felt as though this was how he should look. Strong, hairy, and sexy. A real daddy of a man.

His mind processed the new thoughts, realizing he found his new body to be very hot, and thinking back to the men he passed earlier, he found many of them attractive as well. Without putting on any clothes, he left the single shower and walked over to the locker room where he found a group of sexy men sitting around and talking to each other. The men were all older like he was now, and all were some combination of big, hairy, bald, and bearded.

Mitchell stood nearby listening for a moment, but one of the men called him over. The men each introduced themselves to him and asked if he was new since none of them recognized him. They gave a hearty laugh when Mitchell confirmed that yes, it was his first time. He felt like asking why he looked different now and why he wasn't all that concerned, but one of the men, a shorter, chubbier brown-skinned man with a big gray beard, answered his question before he asked it.

"Oh, you must be one of those boys we saw walk across camp last night, right?" Mitchell nodded and the man continued, "I'm Dinesh. It is a pleasure to meet you and welcome you to our secret little brotherhood at this campsite. You see, the water here is magical. It transforms anyone who drinks or bathes in it into a bear of a man, just like you are now. The water tends to make a fella look and act much older, seems to prefer the daddy types, though it doesn't take any actual years off your life. You still have many years to enjoy that sexy fucking body, my friend!"

Mitchell was still confused, but any interested in finding out more or trying to undo the change was outweighed by a hunger he had been feeling since he left that shower. He hadn't ever found a man attractive before, but the men around him were just so hot that his dick couldn't help but get hard. He tried to hide it, but Dinesh, who was still sitting next to him, just asked if Mitchell would like him to take care of that. Mitchell just nodded his head to agree as the man swallowed his now massive cock with no trouble. Seeing that it was time for a little fun, the other men began playing with each other. Two big hairy daddies straddled Mitchell, making out with him and touching all over his body, as Dinesh kept working his shaft and balls. In a few minutes, it was too much to take, and Mitchell exploded in the mouth of the man greedily bobbing up and down on his dick.

Mitchell gave a big sigh of gratification as Dinesh eventually made his way up and straddled the larger man he had just blown. Mitchell, Dinesh, and the other two men all made out for a while, rubbing their beards together while firmly caressing each other. When the action started to calm down, Mitchell remembered he had left his bag back in the shower and also needed to wash off again. He invited the other three men to join him, and they gladly went with him.

On the way to the shower, Mitchell noticed one the friends he came camping with walking into the facilities building and nervously making his way into one of the showers. As Mitchell looked completely different, his friend didn't recognize him, and he quickly averting his eyes away from the massive exposed cock between the hairy daddy's legs. Mitchell smiled, realizing that he and his camping buddies were about to get much closer.

[toobig2move2dumbtocare-deactiva]

[offthetop]

Nice

[rawtextsdev]

One-Second of Eternity

Mark was well past the point of return, phone screen blurry in the dark, thumb scrolling mindlessly through the infinite feed of muscle, sweat, and morphs. He was sweaty, desperate, and edging dangerously close to the precipice.

Then he saw it.

It wasn’t a story or a caption. Just a GIF. One single, looping second. A tanned, oiled-up monstrous stud of a jock, teeth gritted in a feral grin, biceps flexing so hard the skin looked like it was about to tear. He was mid-thrust, burying himself into some hot bottom, caught in that precise, earth-shattering millisecond right before eruption.

Thrust. Flex. Grin.
Thrust. Flex. Grin.

Mark’s breath hitched. The raw power radiating off the screen was intoxicating. The guy was a god. A brainless jock, a muscular fucking machine. Mark’s hand jacked faster, matching the frantic loop of the image.

“Fuck,” Mark groaned, his brain melting into the pixelated haze. “I wish… fuck, I wish I was him. Right now.”

The screen flickered…

There was no pain, no slow growth of muscle. Just a violent, electric yank behind his navel. The darkness of his bedroom vanished, replaced by blinding studio lights and the smell of hot lube, sweat and musk.

Mark gasped, but it wasn’t his voice. It was a deep, guttural grunt.

Suddenly, he felt heavy. Unbelievably heavy. His arms weren’t his skinny, pale twigs anymore; they were massive, pumped slabs of meat, locked in a double-bicep flex that felt like iron bands tightening around bone. He looked down… not at a phone, but at a wall of tanned, oiled pectorals and a chiselled six-pack that was currently crunching tight.

He felt the heat below. He was buried deep inside someone, the friction incredible, the tightness overwhelming. The pleasure was a physical blow, a sledgehammer to his new, primitive brain. His balls were churning, aching, drawn up tight against his body. He was right there. He was over the edge. He was about to blow his load in the most powerful orgasm of his life.

“I’m gonna… !”

Blink.

Mark’s eyes snapped open. His lungs filled with air.

He was back. Not in his room, but back at the start of the motion.

His biceps flexed. Hard. The veins popped like garden hoses. The rush of blood was deafening. He thrust his hips forward, feeling that incredible, mind-numbing friction again. The pleasure spiked, zero to one hundred in an instant. His brain fogged over with pure lust. The orgasm rushed up his spine, inevitable, unstoppable.

Blink.

Air in lungs. Muscles tight.

Thrust. Flex. Grin.

Panic flared in the back of Mark’s mind, but it was drowned out instantly by the overwhelming chemical dump of testosterone and lust. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t scream. He could only do.

He slammed his hips forward. The bottom gripped him. His biceps peaked, harder than rock. The cum was right at the tip, burning, demanding release. He needed it. He needed to empty these massive blue-balls.

Blink.

Reset.

He was trapped in the loop. No past, no future. Just one second of infinite, agonizing, ecstatic edging. He was a prisoner in the pixelated muscle, doomed to chase a climax that would never, ever come.

And somewhere, in a dark room, on a glowing screen, the GIF kept playing.

Thrust. Flex. Grin.

[abstractvanity32]

Barnbound Bulk

Bonnie wandered the rustic grounds of the farm style hotel, the kind of place where guests paid extra for “authentic” country experiences like feeding goats or hayrides under the stars. The air smelled of fresh manure and cut grass, the barns and fences giving it all a charming, weathered vibe. She had come here on a whim, needing a break from the usual grind, her small frame bundled in a loose flannel and jeans that hung baggy on her narrow hips. Her light brown hair was tied back in a simple braid, freckles dusting her nose from the sun, and she felt that restless energy bubbling up, the kind that made her want to do something hands on. Spotting a shovel leaning against a barn wall, half buried in a pile of hay that needed shifting for the evening chores, she grabbed it with both hands. “Might as well help out a bit,” she muttered, planting her feet and heaving. The handle felt oddly warm, vibrating faintly against her palms, but she shrugged it off as static from the dry air. The shovel didn’t budge at first, stuck firm, and she pulled harder, muscles straining in her arms and back.

A strange itch bloomed on her chin then, sharp and insistent, like a rash flaring up overnight. Bonnie paused, dropping the shovel with a clang, her free hand scratching at the spot. “What the heck, bug bite?” she grumbled, but the itch deepened, follicles awakening under her skin as coarse hairs pushed out, darkening from invisible stubble to thick strands that curled and lengthened. The growth spread across her jaw, filling in dense and black, framing her chin in a full beard that scratched against her fingers, the mustache thickening above her lip in a bushy wave that tickled her nose. “No way, this can’t be hair, I’m shaving… wait, I don’t even have…” she trailed off, voice catching as the beard filled out fuller, coarse and unkempt, the kind that shadowed a face after days without care, merging into sideburns that crept up her cheeks.

The warmth from the shovel handle seemed to seep into her bloodstream now, radiating upward from her grip, her neck thickening beneath the new growth as cords bulged out, Adam’s apple swelling like a lump pushing forward. “Get off me,” she whispered hoarsely, clawing at the beard, but the hairs only thickened under her nails, the itch traveling inward to her throat, vocal cords stretching with a deep rumble that made her next words emerge gravelly, laced with a thick New England twang she didn’t recognize. “What in the hell is goin’ on?” The accent mangled her panic into something folksy and resigned, startling her further as she stumbled back against the barn wall, the shovel forgotten in the hay.

The changes accelerated from there, her jaw squaring off beneath the beard, bones grinding wider with a dull ache that made her wince, chin jutting stronger under the coarse mat. Cheeks rounded fuller, puffing out with emerging fat that softened the lines, a double chin forming as flesh layered beneath the growth. Her nose broadened at the bridge, nostrils flaring slightly, lips thickening amid the mustache, eyebrows bushying dark and unruly over eyes that shifted to a muddy brown, lashes shortening as faint crow’s feet etched at the corners from thirty four years of squinting at horizons. Her light brown braid darkened and retracted, shortening into greasy curls cropped close, the roots thickening with natural oil, scalp visible in thinning patches at the crown.

The warmth dove into her shoulders then, broadening them with pops that echoed in the quiet barn, deltoids rounding fuller but buried under emerging softness, traps lost in neck fat that rolled downward. Her arms sagged next, the slim tone melting into plush layers, biceps vanishing under jiggling fat that hung heavy, forearms thickening with rolls that folded as she flexed in confusion, hands enlarging to pudgy mitts with stubby fingers and bitten nails, palms roughening with calluses from phantom labors. “This ain’t right, I feel so… big,” she rasped in that thick accent, the words tumbling out slow and drawling, “feels like I been haulin’ hay all day.”

Her torso swelled in waves, ribs expanding with labored breaths as her chest softened further, modest breasts sagging and spreading wide, the mounds bloating heavier with fat that pulled them downward into moobs that rested on her emerging belly, nipples enlarging and darkening amid sprouting hairs that exploded across the expanse in thick, curly waves, black and dense, merging into a forest that trailed down her sternum. The flannel strained open, buttons popping one by one as her stomach pushed outward, a soft paunch forming first, then bloating into a massive gut that hung low and heavy, rolls folding over themselves in deep creases, the skin stretching with faint marks as fat poured in relentlessly, the navel burying deep in the overhang. Hairs coated the vast belly in wiry patterns, connecting chest to groin in an unbroken mat, the weight pulling her posture forward into a slight slouch.

Lower down, her hips widened dramatically, bones creaking apart as fat layered thick, the jeans splitting at the seams with rips that exposed pale flesh turning ruddy. Her ass ballooned behind, cheeks sagging into heavy shelves that jiggled with each shift, hairs sprouting along the cleft in unruly tufts. Thighs thickened into tree trunks of plush fat, pressing together with chafing warmth, calves burying under rolls, feet planting wider as the growth grounded her at five foot ten, the barn feeling less towering now. “Too much, it’s too much weight,” she groaned, the accent thickening her plea into a resigned mutter, “feels good though, don’t it?”

The core throb hit her groin then, a deep pulsing that made her knees buckle, her vagina spasming with slick contractions, inner walls pulling inward as sensitivity built to a fever. The clit swelled massively, nerves firing in explosive waves, elongating into a short, thick shaft buried under the new fat pad, foreskin loose around the head as blood rushed in, hardening it against the plush thigh with insistent twitches. Ovaries dropped heavily, bloating into small testes nestled in a sagging scrotum tucked beneath the overhang, pubic hair exploding wild and merging with the belly trail. The penis remained modest, half erect from the hormone surge, balls churning with unfamiliar heaviness as urges shifted to lazy scratches and belches.

Flashes intruded stronger, city outings twisting into barn chores, fitness classes inverting to beer guts and hay bales, admirers’ flattery fading into indifferent shrugs at the bulk. “I was Bonnie, I liked… light stuff,” she mumbled, but the words slurred into “I been Nixon forever, lovin’ this gut,” her mind fracturing as routines flooded in, early mornings feeding livestock, the satisfaction of a hard day’s sweat soaking the flannel, no urge to slim down—just embrace the mass, the hair, the laziness.

The jeans mended into sturdy work pants that strained over her thick thighs and gut, flannel opening wider to expose the hairy expanse, a belt buckling tight with a tool pouch at the hip. Nixon scratched his beard idly, a low belch rumbling from his belly as he picked up the shovel again, heaving the hay with ease now, the weight feeling right, natural. The hotel guests would see him as the reliable ranch hand, folksy accent drawling stories by the fire pit, content in the bulk that grounded him.

But as dusk settled over the barns, Nixon leaned on the fence, robe like flannel draped open, the hairy moobs and gut on full display in the fading light, a deeper emptiness gnawed. Admirers glanced but moved on, connections shallow in this rural role, days blurring into endless chores that filled time but left the soul hollow. The pretty girl’s ambitions buried under layers of contented sloth, forever hauling in a body that trapped him in stagnant comfort, the world shrinking to barn walls and beer bellies, a ranch hand adrift in his own heavy horizon, the shovel’s magic sealing him in eternal, isolated bulk.

[bigification]

Real Man

5k follower special. This story is based on your votes on how I would be transformed and what I would transform into.

-

I could feel my body relax as I walked out of my last exam. The weight of university had suddenly lifted from shoulders and the burden of corporate life hadn't yet set in. It felt amazing.

Under the refreshing spring sun, I started walking home. I pulled out my phone, planning on listening to some music like I normally did, but something caught my attention. A notification from tumblr.

"Hey man, you should try this podcast, it really changed my life."

It was a message from an anonymous user with a link embedded. Normally I would be a bit more careful, but I was in a good mood so I clicked on it.

It brought me right to a podcast on Spotify, making it easy to start it up and continue my walk.

The podcast began with the buttery smooth voice of a man, maybe around 30. Something about his voice brought me comfort, like there was something hollow in my life that he filled.

I raised my head and puffed out my chest as I walked, now filled with a strange self confidence that had never felt before. But then, my stomach sank as the charming podcaster began to devolve into weird manosphere shit. I clocked out as soon as he began ranting about what makes a real man.

I reached for my phone to turn off the podcast, but I couldn't. I tried again and again, but it was like my body wasn't responding to my brain.

"Now that I've got you." The podcaster said, "let me tell you what makes a real man."

My mind panicked as my body continued walking like nothing was going on.

"Real men are protectors, they build their bodies like fortresses." The man said.

Almost immediately when those words entered my head, I could feel my body change. My shirt tightened as my chest rose into two meaty pecs and my biceps grew until my sleeves were on the verge of ripping. My legs quickly followed suit, making my legs look like any other gym bros.

What do you mean gym bro, I thought. I never go to the gym.

"Do you feel strong now?" The man asked.

"Yes." I heard my voice speak.

No! I mean yes, I do feel strong, but I don't want this!

"Good." The man continued. "But muscle isn't enough to make you big and strong. A real man needs to have his presence be known wherever he goes. A man should take up a lot of space in any room that he's in."

I could feel my perspective shifting higher as my height increased significantly, I must have been at least 6"4. My shirt looked more like a crop top, allowing the breeze to brush against my bare stomach.

Then my stomach sank, it felt like the sun was boiling inside me. I wanted to scream but my body didn't react, it just kept walking. But all of the pain was quickly released as my stomach surged outward, swelling with soft fat until it sagged over my waistband. My waist softened into thick love handles that also spilled over my waistband, giving my body a much wider look.

That was only the beginning, though. My strong pecs became buried in soft fat, growing thick enough to finally rip through my shirt. And the muscle definition in my arms and back disappeared under a thin layer of fat. My legs similarly thickened up, and my body seemed to subconsciously adjust by spreading my legs out as I walked, preventing my thighs from rubbing together. And finally, my ass expanded into two juicy globes that threatened to rip through my tight shorts.

The transformation had completely taken my attention, I had almost forgotten that the podcaster was still talking.

"Now we can't forget what truly makes a man, masculinity. Real men are mature testosterone filled machines, they're sweat covered hairy beasts and they're proud of it."

"Fuck yeah!" My voice shouted in a deep, mature voice.

Stop saying that, I don't mean that. You know I don't mean that, right?

My body quickly became engulfed in an intense itchiness as thick hairs began to sprout all over my skin. You'd be hard pressed to find a spot on my body that didn't have hair, though it was especially thick around my belly, chest, and arms. Also, my clean shaven face soon became covered in a thick black beard.

And just when I thought the changes were over, I felt a pain emerge in my knees, then in my back.

Am I, getting older?

I felt my facial features start to weather and age, though I couldn't quite tell how much I had aged. I felt the sun beating down on my head as my hairline receded slightly. At the same time, patches of hair on my chest and my beard began to go gray, leaving it salt and pepper.

My hand moved up to my belly, moving my thick man hands through the sweat drenched hair on my belly. The feeling felt so foreign to me, I didn't have a belly, let alone a hairy one.

"Fuck..." I moaned as I felt up my growing body.

No! No this is too far.

"How do you feel, big guy?" The podcaster asked, as if he was talking specifically to me.

"God, this feels great." I responded in a gruff voice.

It does feel good, but I hate it.

"Good man. Now, we can't have a man with pasty white skin. A solid tan shows you're a strong working man, and some tattoos always make you look tougher."

The sun felt like it was burning my skin as it took on a more golden colour, though my chest and shoulders turned bright red.

Without me thinking, my hand reached into my backpack to grab a baseball cap. I threw it on to protect my balding head from the intense sun.

The burning on my skin progressed past a normal burn as tattoos began to appear on my chest, arms and neck. I could feel a sense of pride in the tattoos despite the fact that I would never get tattoos like these.

"Now you're becoming a real man," the podcaster continued, "but there's something you're missing. Any real man needs a package that suits his imposing manly body. The kind of dick that can make any woman, or man if that's what you're into, see god when you fuck' em."

The bulge in my tight shorts started to grow as my dick snaked down the side of my leg, nearly peaking through the bottom of my shorts. It grew to a massive 9 inches, creating an obvious bulge in my skin tight shorts. I wanted so badly to cover up, to not be seen like this in public, but my body still wouldn't listen to me. I just kept walking along with a cocky smirk, extremely proud that any passerby would have no choice but to notice my package.

"Now to wrap up this episode, let's deal with that mind of yours." He said.

Wait what!?

"A real man shouldn't have to think that hard. Who needs a university degree when you've got big muscles like that."

No, please, just let me go!

"You love being a dumb jock that let himself go after his days on the highschool football team."

I wasn't on the football team, was I? And I didn't let myself go!

"You love being a rich dad who does nothing but fuck and relax around with mansion."

I have a mansion? Right, I do have a mansion. And you're right, I love fucking.

"Good man. Now make sure to share this with someone that needs to be reminded of what a real man is."

The podcast cut off at the perfect time as I arrived home. Something felt off as I stared at the lavish mansion in front of me, but the feeling quickly faded. As soon as I got inside, it took off the tiny shorts I was wearing. Normally I would just go for a swim naked, but my stupid neighbour complained, so now I have to wear swim shorts.

That's when a great idea popped into my head. As I walked to my backyard, I pulled out my phone and sent the podcast over to my neighbour. A real man wouldn't judge another man for wanting to be naked in his own backyard.

With that out of the way, I stepped out into my massive yard and jumped into my in ground pool.

The time flew as I was floating around the pool, I couldn't tell how long it had been before my phone buzzed. It was a text from my neighbour.

"Why don't you show me what a real man looks like."

My plan worked. My cock jumped at the idea of seeing my stuck up neighbour as a big horny man. I took a video of myself as I walked out of the pool, making sure to show off the star of the show, my belly.

I sent it over and impatiently awaited a response.

"Come to the fence."

My heart skipped a beat as I approached the fence that split our yards. Peaking over, I saw an older, fatter, and hairier version of my neighbour lounging on a chair.

He simply lifted his hand and gestured for me to come over.

[bigification]

Real Man

5k follower special. This story is based on your votes on how I would be transformed and what I would transform into.

-

I could feel my body relax as I walked out of my last exam. The weight of university had suddenly lifted from shoulders and the burden of corporate life hadn't yet set in. It felt amazing.

Under the refreshing spring sun, I started walking home. I pulled out my phone, planning on listening to some music like I normally did, but something caught my attention. A notification from tumblr.

"Hey man, you should try this podcast, it really changed my life."

It was a message from an anonymous user with a link embedded. Normally I would be a bit more careful, but I was in a good mood so I clicked on it.

It brought me right to a podcast on Spotify, making it easy to start it up and continue my walk.

The podcast began with the buttery smooth voice of a man, maybe around 30. Something about his voice brought me comfort, like there was something hollow in my life that he filled.

I raised my head and puffed out my chest as I walked, now filled with a strange self confidence that had never felt before. But then, my stomach sank as the charming podcaster began to devolve into weird manosphere shit. I clocked out as soon as he began ranting about what makes a real man.

I reached for my phone to turn off the podcast, but I couldn't. I tried again and again, but it was like my body wasn't responding to my brain.

"Now that I've got you." The podcaster said, "let me tell you what makes a real man."

My mind panicked as my body continued walking like nothing was going on.

"Real men are protectors, they build their bodies like fortresses." The man said.

Almost immediately when those words entered my head, I could feel my body change. My shirt tightened as my chest rose into two meaty pecs and my biceps grew until my sleeves were on the verge of ripping. My legs quickly followed suit, making my legs look like any other gym bros.

What do you mean gym bro, I thought. I never go to the gym.

"Do you feel strong now?" The man asked.

"Yes." I heard my voice speak.

No! I mean yes, I do feel strong, but I don't want this!

"Good." The man continued. "But muscle isn't enough to make you big and strong. A real man needs to have his presence be known wherever he goes. A man should take up a lot of space in any room that he's in."

I could feel my perspective shifting higher as my height increased significantly, I must have been at least 6"4. My shirt looked more like a crop top, allowing the breeze to brush against my bare stomach.

Then my stomach sank, it felt like the sun was boiling inside me. I wanted to scream but my body didn't react, it just kept walking. But all of the pain was quickly released as my stomach surged outward, swelling with soft fat until it sagged over my waistband. My waist softened into thick love handles that also spilled over my waistband, giving my body a much wider look.

That was only the beginning, though. My strong pecs became buried in soft fat, growing thick enough to finally rip through my shirt. And the muscle definition in my arms and back disappeared under a thin layer of fat. My legs similarly thickened up, and my body seemed to subconsciously adjust by spreading my legs out as I walked, preventing my thighs from rubbing together. And finally, my ass expanded into two juicy globes that threatened to rip through my tight shorts.

The transformation had completely taken my attention, I had almost forgotten that the podcaster was still talking.

"Now we can't forget what truly makes a man, masculinity. Real men are mature testosterone filled machines, they're sweat covered hairy beasts and they're proud of it."

"Fuck yeah!" My voice shouted in a deep, mature voice.

Stop saying that, I don't mean that. You know I don't mean that, right?

My body quickly became engulfed in an intense itchiness as thick hairs began to sprout all over my skin. You'd be hard pressed to find a spot on my body that didn't have hair, though it was especially thick around my belly, chest, and arms. Also, my clean shaven face soon became covered in a thick black beard.

And just when I thought the changes were over, I felt a pain emerge in my knees, then in my back.

Am I, getting older?

I felt my facial features start to weather and age, though I couldn't quite tell how much I had aged. I felt the sun beating down on my head as my hairline receded slightly. At the same time, patches of hair on my chest and my beard began to go gray, leaving it salt and pepper.

My hand moved up to my belly, moving my thick man hands through the sweat drenched hair on my belly. The feeling felt so foreign to me, I didn't have a belly, let alone a hairy one.

"Fuck..." I moaned as I felt up my growing body.

No! No this is too far.

"How do you feel, big guy?" The podcaster asked, as if he was talking specifically to me.

"God, this feels great." I responded in a gruff voice.

It does feel good, but I hate it.

"Good man. Now, we can't have a man with pasty white skin. A solid tan shows you're a strong working man, and some tattoos always make you look tougher."

The sun felt like it was burning my skin as it took on a more golden colour, though my chest and shoulders turned bright red.

Without me thinking, my hand reached into my backpack to grab a baseball cap. I threw it on to protect my balding head from the intense sun.

The burning on my skin progressed past a normal burn as tattoos began to appear on my chest, arms and neck. I could feel a sense of pride in the tattoos despite the fact that I would never get tattoos like these.

"Now you're becoming a real man," the podcaster continued, "but there's something you're missing. Any real man needs a package that suits his imposing manly body. The kind of dick that can make any woman, or man if that's what you're into, see god when you fuck' em."

The bulge in my tight shorts started to grow as my dick snaked down the side of my leg, nearly peaking through the bottom of my shorts. It grew to a massive 9 inches, creating an obvious bulge in my skin tight shorts. I wanted so badly to cover up, to not be seen like this in public, but my body still wouldn't listen to me. I just kept walking along with a cocky smirk, extremely proud that any passerby would have no choice but to notice my package.

"Now to wrap up this episode, let's deal with that mind of yours." He said.

Wait what!?

"A real man shouldn't have to think that hard. Who needs a university degree when you've got big muscles like that."

No, please, just let me go!

"You love being a dumb jock that let himself go after his days on the highschool football team."

I wasn't on the football team, was I? And I didn't let myself go!

"You love being a rich dad who does nothing but fuck and relax around with mansion."

I have a mansion? Right, I do have a mansion. And you're right, I love fucking.

"Good man. Now make sure to share this with someone that needs to be reminded of what a real man is."

The podcast cut off at the perfect time as I arrived home. Something felt off as I stared at the lavish mansion in front of me, but the feeling quickly faded. As soon as I got inside, it took off the tiny shorts I was wearing. Normally I would just go for a swim naked, but my stupid neighbour complained, so now I have to wear swim shorts.

That's when a great idea popped into my head. As I walked to my backyard, I pulled out my phone and sent the podcast over to my neighbour. A real man wouldn't judge another man for wanting to be naked in his own backyard.

With that out of the way, I stepped out into my massive yard and jumped into my in ground pool.

The time flew as I was floating around the pool, I couldn't tell how long it had been before my phone buzzed. It was a text from my neighbour.

"Why don't you show me what a real man looks like."

My plan worked. My cock jumped at the idea of seeing my stuck up neighbour as a big horny man. I took a video of myself as I walked out of the pool, making sure to show off the star of the show, my belly.

I sent it over and impatiently awaited a response.

"Come to the fence."

My heart skipped a beat as I approached the fence that split our yards. Peaking over, I saw an older, fatter, and hairier version of my neighbour lounging on a chair.

He simply lifted his hand and gestured for me to come over.

[soul-controller]

Dispatched Into Duty

Jackson is a college student who has a crush on his best friend and roommate Patrick. It’s because of this overwhelming crush that the awkward nerd allows himself to be roped into going to a costume party at a local frat house. But after the two roommates get separated, the police-uniform-wearing Jackson begins a journey that has him growing and changing both physically and mentally into a man worthy of his costume and Patrick’s affection.

⸻⸺⸻⸺⸻⸺⸻⸺

Ugh, why did I agree to this?

The engine cut off with a mechanical sigh, causing Jackson to take a deep breath as he struggled to believe he was actually doing this. For a moment, he stayed frozen in the passenger seat, his skinny fingers gripping his knees hard enough that his knuckles had gone white. He was staring at the frat house through the windshield like it might devour him whole – which, given the absolute chaos visible through every window, didn't feel like an unreasonable fear. The building looked alive in the worst possible way, every window blazed with light that spilled out onto the lawn in a sea of flashing colors, and inside Jackson could see a mass of silhouettes moving in writhing masses that suggested the party had already reached critical density hours ago. Bodies were pressed together so tightly that individual people became indistinguishable from the crowd, a single organism of college students united in their pursuit of getting absolutely wasted on a Saturday night.

The bass from whatever rap song was currently playing thumped through the walls hard enough that Jackson could feel it all the way in the car, vibrating through the seat and into his chest in a pounding rhythm that perfectly matched the rapid beating of his own heart. The sound was physical, aggressive, and demanding attention in ways that made Jackson want to sink lower in his seat and pretend he'd never agreed to this terrible idea in the first place. Because he knew – with the kind of bone-deep certainty that came from twenty years of social anxiety and general awkwardness – that he absolutely did not belong here, at this party, with these people, in this world that seemed designed specifically to make him feel small and inadequate.

The only reason he was here at all was because Patrick had asked.

As he thought of his friend, Jackson turned to face him, watching as Patrick checked his hair in the rearview mirror with the kind of casual vanity that Jackson both envied and found mesmerizing. The dome light cast his roommate in soft gold, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips pursed as he adjusted a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Patrick's costume – if you could even call it that – was absurd in the best possible way: an unbuttoned bright orange shirt that hung open to reveal his toned chest and abs, additionally adorned with a small patch across his left pec that declared him with the identification number of 696969. This top was then paired with tight orange booty shorts that left almost nothing to the imagination as it proudly showcased his toned and tanned quads in addition to his prominent bulge . Two plastic shackles and chains dangled from each wrist, completing the "sexy prisoner" look that Patrick wore with the kind of easy confidence that made Jackson's throat tight.

"Alright man, you ready to head in?" Patrick asked, catching Jackson's eye in the mirror. His grin was infectious, all white teeth and genuine excitement, the kind of smile that had made Jackson agree to this terrible idea in the first place.

After seeing how great his friend looked, Jackson glanced down at himself and felt his stomach immediately drop. The cop costume stared back at him in all its cheap, ill-fitting glory – a navy blue shirt that was simultaneously too tight across his shoulders and too loose everywhere else, and a pair of baggy pants held up by a flimsy belt laden with plastic accessories that rattled every time he moved. The fabric was some kind of polyester-velvet hybrid that felt like wearing a trash bag, and the plastic badge pinned to his chest looked like it had been a prize from a cereal box rather than a passable symbol of authority. He looked like a child playing dress-up, especially compared to how perfectly tailored Patrick’s outfit was despite him putting it on straight out of the bag.

"Yeah," Jackson lied, tugging at his collar. "Totally ready."

With a nod, Patrick’s body seemed to jump out of the car with how quickly Jackson suddenly heard the driver’s side door slam shut with a decisive thunk. He watched through the windshield as his roommate stretched, the movement making his orange shirt ride up to expose the sharp V of muscle that disappeared into those ridiculous yet highly arousing shorts. Jackson's eyes followed the line of Patrick's body automatically, a habit he'd developed over three years of living together, three years of stolen glances and careful distance along with the constant and exhausting work of pretending he didn't want what he knew he could never have.

Beyond his own physical beauty, Jackson found that the other most appealing thing about Patrick was that he made everything look effortless. Parties, classes, hookups, friendships – it all came to him as naturally as breathing, whereas Jackson had to white-knuckle his way through social interactions like they were calculus exams. They'd met three ago during freshman orientation, just two gay guys who'd somehow unconsciously recognized something familiar amongst a sea of unfamiliar faces. Soon enough, they reconnected at the LGBT campus club, ultimately becoming close friends and deciding to room together sophomore year. It had seemed like fate at the time, like the universe was giving Jackson exactly what he needed – a center of gravity that naturally stopped him from spiraling out of control amongst new surroundings and people by its mere presence.

Except what Jackson needed was for Patrick to look at him the way he looked at the guys his muscular friend brought home from the bars, the way he looked at his gym buddies when they flexed and joked around, or the way he definitely wasn't looking at Jackson right now as he waited impatiently by the hood of the car.

"Come on, man, let's go!" Patrick called, already moving toward the house with that easy, loping stride that made his shorts ride up even higher. "Everyone's already inside!"

Not wanting to be left alone, Jackson then forced himself out of the car, his plastic handcuffs clattering against his hip and the toy gun in his holster swinging awkwardly against his thigh. The night air was cool against his face, carrying the smell of beer and weed smoke that clung to college parties like a second skin. He caught his reflection in the car window as he closed the door - a skinny twenty-year-old with shaggy, unstyled hair and glasses that kept sliding down his nose, drowning in a costume that seemed designed to emphasize exactly how non-threatening he was.

Yet despite this fact, Jackson couldn’t deny that their outfits were quite fitting despite the pairing being pure coincidence. Patrick, who regularly showed up to their apartment at 3am drunk and giggling, who’d been written up twice in the past by their RA for noise violations, who treated rules like gentle suggestions – he was without a doubt the law-breaker between the two of them. And Jackson, who color-coded his class notes and had never been late to anything in his life, who said "excuse me" when he bumped into furniture – he was supposed to be the cop. It was the kind of costume pairing that would have been funny if it wasn't so painfully accurate.

"Dude," Patrick said, waiting at the edge of the driveway with his hands on his hips, "you good? Don’t tell me you’re second-guessing this again..."

"I'm fine," Jackson said, shaking his head to push away any second guessing or doubts before jogging to catch up. Yet, as he ran, he found that his belt was already trying to slide down his non-existent hips. "Just... adjusting."

"Stop worrying, you look fine," Patrick said, though his eyes barely grazed Jackson's costume before returning to the house. "It's Halloween, everyone looks silly. That's the point."

Except Patrick didn't look silly. Patrick looked like a personal wet dream that had gained sentience and decided to torture Jackson specifically. But Jackson just nodded and followed his roommate up the driveway, past clusters of people smoking on the lawn or making out against a tree towards the front door that pulsed with noise and heat like a living and breathing beast.

Unsurprisingly, inside was instantly overwhelming. The frat house was packed to capacity, a writhing mass of bodies pressed together in ways that made Jackson's anxiety spike immediately. The air was thick with sweat, cheap cologne, and the sickly-sweet smell of whatever punch was being served in the kitchen. Music pounded from speakers Jackson couldn't see, the bass now so heavy that it felt like being repeatedly punched in the chest. Out of nowhere, he suddenly jumped back in shock as someone in a gorilla costume rushed past them, their drink sloshing over the rim of their cup to splash against the vamp of his shoes.

On the flipside, Patrick, naturally, was in his element. His face lit up the moment they crossed the threshold, eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted someone he knew – which, knowing Patrick, was probably half the people here. "Yo!" he shouted over the music, waving at a group of guys near the stairs. He turned to Jackson and smiled. "There's Marcus!"

Jackson's stomach sank as Patrick immediately veered toward the group, his orange-clad body cutting through the crowd like he owned the place. Jackson followed in his wake, mumbling apologies to people he bumped into, his plastic handcuffs catching on someone's costume and nearly yanking him to the ground from how frail he was. By the time he got unhooked and reached Patrick, his roommate was already deep in conversation with four guys Jackson vaguely recognized from other parties - Marcus, tall and broad-shouldered in a basketball jersey; Devon, wearing a vampire cape that looked infinitely cooler than Jackson's cop getup; and two others whose names Jackson couldn't remember, both dressed as characters from some video game he'd never played.

"Bro, your costume is sick," Marcus was saying to Patrick, giving him an elaborate handshake that involved at least three separate hand positions. "Where'd you even find those shorts? Whores-R-Us?"

"Not exactly, but close," Patrick laughed, doing a little spin that made the shorts ride up even more much to Jackson’s chagrin. "I even got them a size too small to really sell it."

The group erupted in appreciative hoots, and Jackson stood there at Patrick's elbow, waiting for someone to acknowledge his existence. Patrick was gesturing animatedly now, telling some story about a recent hookup he had with some jock at the gym, and the guys were eating it up, laughing and interjecting and creating this bubble of camaraderie that Jackson desperately wanted to be part of but had no idea how to enter.

He shifted his weight, the movement making his belt slip another inch down his hips. He reached to hike it up, plastic accessories clattering as he anxiously tried to prevent causing too much of a ruckus. But as he looked up, he realized that no one noticed… or if they did, they just didn’t care.

"So you guys hitting up Fat Jack’s after this?" Devon asked, and Patrick immediately jumped in with opinions about which bar had better drink specials, which DJ was playing tonight, and what bar would most likely lead to them getting laid with either the hottest studs or the ladies for those who were of the more hetero-persuasion. Jackson tried to find an opening, some place where he could contribute, but the topics moved too fast. The conversation was flowing around Jackson like water around a stone, natural and effortless for everyone except him.

This was how it always went. Patrick would invite him along, genuinely wanting Jackson there because Patrick was a good person who cared about his roommate and friend, but once they arrived Patrick would get absorbed into his actual social circle and Jackson would become an afterthought. It definitely wasn’t malicious – Patrick would occasionally come back to check in on him, make sure he was okay, offer to get Jackson an Uber home if he wanted to head out early – but in the moment, Jackson felt like furniture. The friend who showed up as decoration but didn't actually make an impact to the point where people would remember him the next day, let alone a month from now.

He tried to care about the conversation, tried to laugh at the right moments, but his mind kept drifting to how Patrick's hand had brushed his arm when they were walking into the house, how Patrick had glanced at him and said "we" when talking about their plans for later with his friends, how for just a moment in the car it had felt like this was something they were doing together just for them. But that moment was gone now, dissolved in the reality of Patrick's actual life, the one where he was popular and desired and constantly surrounded by people who understood how to be the kind of person Jackson had never figured out how to be.

The worst part was that Jackson had no one to blame but himself. He'd been invited and he’d said yes. He'd known exactly how this would play out because it played out this way every single time, and yet he kept showing up anyway because the alternative – staying home while Patrick went out and had fun without him – felt worse. At least this way he got to be near Patrick, even if "near" meant standing silently at his elbow while Patrick lived his life.

Devon was talking about some girl now, someone he'd hooked up with at a different party. Marcus was giving him shit about it, remarking about how she wasn’t even a 6 on a foggy night, which left Patrick laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall. As Jackson watched them talk, he realized with sudden clarity that he could probably leave right now and no one would notice for at least an hour based on how invested they all were in this conversation.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, mixing with the anxiety that had been building since they'd parked the car. He needed air… or a drink… or… both? Yeah, definitely both, and preferably somewhere he could sit down and stop feeling like an imposter in a costume that kept trying to fall off his body.

"I'm gonna grab a beer," Jackson said, the words coming out louder than he'd intended but still somehow barely audible over the music.

No response. The conversation continued without pause.

"Hey," Jackson tried again, this time touching Patrick's arm. "Patrick. I'm going to get a drink."

Patrick turned, his face still mid-laugh from whatever Devon had just said. "Oh, yeah man, cool. I think Marcus mentioned that the keg's out back?"

"Okay," Jackson said, purposely pausing for a moment in hopes that Patrick would say he'd come with him, or to ask Jackson to grab him something, or literally anything that would suggest he'd registered Jackson's existence beyond this brief exchange.

But Patrick was already turning back to the group, Marcus pulling him into some new tangent about one of their business classes.

"Okay," Jackson repeated to no one in particular, adjusting his sliding belt one more time. The plastic handcuffs clinked against his hip as he turned away from the group, weaving back into the crowd and heading deeper into the party in search of the keg that was supposedly out back somewhere. His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them up with one hand, the other clutching his belt to keep his pants from falling down entirely.

Behind him, he could still hear Patrick's laugh cutting through the noise, stinging like a bee sting the way it was bright, unburdened, and aimed at someone other than him.

The path to the backyard required Jackson to navigate what felt like a gauntlet designed specifically to catalog his inadequacies – the constant barrage of elbows and shoulders, the hallway where bodies pressed together in configurations that forced Jackson to turn sideways and shuffle through like he was apologizing for his own molecular structure, and then the kitchen where people leaned against counters with the kind of casual ownership that suggested they'd been coming to parties like this since their youth. Once again, he found himself mumbling unheard apologies to strangers as his plastic handcuffs continued to snag on other people’s costumes and nearly yank him backwards into someone’s drink. By the time he finally burst through the back door of the kitchen and into the backyard, it was less a graceful exit and more a stumbled escape. Once outside though, he breathed a sigh of relief as the cool night air hit his face like benediction.

The backyard spread before him in a tableau that would have been almost beautiful if Jackson hadn't been so determined to hate it – string lights crisscrossed overhead like a net meant to catch falling stars, their warm glow painting everything in shades of amber and gold, while a fire pit at the far end sent up sparks that briefly rivaled those stars before winking out. The space was crowded but navigable, people clustered in distinct pods of social activity that Jackson's mind automatically categorized as he scanned for the keg: the beer pong table in the center where eight guys in various states of athletic undress shouted and chest-bumped with the kind of aggressive camaraderie that made Jackson's stomach clench, the fire pit where a cluster of girls in costumes that prioritized showing off skin over warmth huddled together with their phones out, a handful of smokers leaning near the doorway into the house passing around cigarettes along with something that definitely wasn't tobacco, and finally – thankfully – the keg itself, a dented silver barrel set up near the property line and guarded by two specimens of masculine excellence who looked like they'd been grown in a lab.

Both were tall – not freakishly so, but enough that Jackson would have to look up to make eye contact (which he absolutely would not be doing) – and both wore the standard frat uniform of backwards baseball caps, tank tops that showed off deltoids Jackson couldn't even locate on his own body, and the kind of easy, spread-legged stance that suggested they'd never once in their lives worried about taking up too much space. They were deep in conversation about something football-related when Jackson approached, his hand instinctively reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose even though they'd only slid a millimeter while the plastic accessories on his costume announced his presence with a symphony of cheap rattling that made one of the bros glance up mid-sentence.

"Yo," the bro said – his name tag declared him "CHAD" in aggressively sloppy Sharpie – and his eyes performed the kind of judgmental head-to-toe assessment that Jackson associated with airport security or doctors' visits. "You here for beer?"

Jackson wanted to respond with something casual, something that would establish he wasn't intimidated even though he absolutely was, but what came out was just "Yeah, if that's cool," delivered in a voice that managed to make a simple request sound like he was begging.

"Duh, man, it's a party." Chad gestured to a stack of red cups with the magnanimity of a king granting access to the peasantry. "Help yourself."

The second bro - KYLE, his tag proclaimed – was in the middle of using the tap with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for bomb disposal, angling his cup with consistent micro-adjustments to achieve the perfect ratio of liquid to foam. Jackson hovered nearby, very aware of how Chad's gaze had landed on his costume and stuck there like gum on a shoe. Unsurprisingly, the weight of that attention was making Jackson's skin prickle with preemptive humiliation. 

"Dude," Chad said, and the grin that spread across his face had the particular quality of someone who'd just thought of something hilarious at someone else's expense. "Is that supposed to be a cop costume?"

The question hung in the air like smoke, and Jackson felt heat crawl up his neck in a way that had nothing to do with the nearby fire pit. "Yeah," he managed, trying to inject some confidence into his voice and failing spectacularly. "It's just... I mean, it was a last minute costume."

"No shit bro, it's pretty bad," Kyle offered as he turned to face Jackson, stepping aside from the tap with his perfectly poured beer and having no awareness about how his observation was delivered with an unintended casual cruelty. "Like, no offense, but it looks like you were playing around in your dad’s closet or some shit."

"No, it was uh… twenty bucks I think at this costume shop in town," Jackson said, moving toward the tap and pressing down on the lever with more force than necessary, beer immediately gushing out in a foam-heavy stream that threatened to overflow his cup before he'd managed to fill it even halfway. "It's whatever though, it’s just a costume."

"Right, but like..." Chad exchanged a glance with Kyle, the kind of wordless communication that Jackson had observed between Patrick and his friends countless times – a shorthand that suggested years of shared experience that Jackson would never be privy to. "A cop should be intimidating, you know? Manly. Someone who walks into a room and everyone shuts the fuck up because they know that guy could ruin their night if he wanted to."

"Authoritative," Kyle added, taking a long drink from his beer like he was doing a commercial. "Like, when you see a real cop, there's this immediate... respect, I guess? Fear? Something that makes you straighten up and act right."

"And you..." Chad's gesture encompassed Jackson's entire physical reality – the baggy shirt that hung off his narrow shoulders, the pants that required constant vigilance to stay on his hips, the plastic badge that looked like it could break with the smallest amount of pressure, the toy gun that swung with all the threatening presence of a pool noodle. "You don't really give off that vibe, man. You look like someone's little brother who got lost on the way to a church youth group."

Jackson's grip tightened on his cup hard enough that the plastic crinkled, foam sloshing over the rim and coating his fingers in sticky warmth. The worst part – the absolute worst part – was that they weren't wrong. They weren't even being particularly cruel about it, just stating observations that anyone with functioning eyes could have made. Jackson didn't look intimidating. He looked like exactly what he was: a scared twenty-year-old kid who'd never won a fight, never commanded respect, never walked into a room and had people straighten up and take notice. He was background noise made corporeal, and these two strangers had taken approximately thirty seconds to see through him completely.

"It's just a costume," he said again, hating the defensive edge that crept into his voice, it just made him loathe how small he sounded along with dreading the fact that he had somehow thought coming to this party was a good idea. "I don't even really like cops. My friend asked me to come last minute and I didn’t have a lot of money, so this was all that I could afford. Something is better than nothing…"

"Nah, you should've just gone shirtless," Chad suggested, speaking with the air of someone believing himself to be dispensing valuable wisdom. "Show off what you're working with. I mean, obviously you’re no gym rat, but not all chicks like that. I mean, there’s tons of girls who get wet looking at dudes like Timothee Chalamet right?"

Kyle snorted into his beer, foam catching on his upper lip. "Bro, don’t set him up like that. C’mon, look at him… he'd catch pneumonia before he caught anyone's attention!"

They laughed – not mean-spirited really, just amused in that frat bro level of intellect that believed themselves to be quite clever – as Jackson took a long drink of his beer. Unlike Kyle’s perfectly poured beer, Jackson’s foam-to-liquid ratio was approximately 80/20, making the taste quite bitter and wrong in ways that had more to do with user error rather than the keg being nearly kicked. With this one-two punch of disasters under his belt, Jackson turned and walked away. He didn't say goodbye or offer any parting words to the men, because really, what was there to say? Thanks for confirming every insecurity I've ever had about myself? Appreciate you taking time out of your evening to make me feel like shit? Instead he just kept walking away, moving toward the far corner of the backyard where a scattering of abandoned lawn chairs sat like a graveyard for party casualties.

"Don't take it personal, bro!" Chad yelled after him, his voice carrying across the yard with the confidence of someone who'd never been on the receiving end of comments like that. "I was just giving you shit!"

Jackson didn't respond or even look back. He just kept walking past the beer pong table, where someone scored and immediately got mobbed by teammates who lifted him up like he'd won the Super Bowl, and a couple making out against the oak tree, who were displaying enough tongue and frantic hand exploration that Jackson found himself blushing, until he reached the isle of vacant lawn chairs. He instantly let out a sigh of relief as he collapsed into a chair, his cheap costume crinkling and bunching awkwardly as the polyester-velvet hybrid fabric stuck to his skin despite the cool air. 

The party continued around him in waves of sound and motion – the beer pong game reached a crescendo of masculine celebration, the fire pit girls shrieked at something on someone's phone, and a group near the fence passed around a joint that glowed orange in the darkness like a tiny lighthouse – but Jackson felt separate from it all, enclosed in his own bubble of misery. He took another drink of his foamy beer and let his mind spiral down the familiar drain of self-loathing.

Why did I even come here?

It was the same question he asked himself every time, and the answer was always the same: because Patrick had asked. Because Patrick had looked at him with those bright eyes and that easy smile and said "you should totally come, it'll be fun," and Jackson –  who knew better after playing this exact scenario out dozens of times before, who understood deep down that Patrick's invitations were born from kindness rather than desire – had said yes anyway. He had forced himself to get dressed up in this humiliating costume, gotten into Patrick’s car, and walked into this house knowing exactly how it would end: with him alone in a corner, nursing a drink he didn't want while Patrick was off somewhere having fun with his actual friends somewhere inside.

The thing about hope, Jackson thought as he watched the gladiator guy at the beer pong table land his shot and do a victory lap, was that it was both incredibly resilient and incredibly stupid. Every time Patrick invited him out, some small, idiotic part of Jackson's brain whispered maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time Patrick would stay by his side and they’d actually hang out together instead of Jackson becoming an afterthought the moment they crossed the threshold. Maybe this time Patrick would look at him the way he looked at the guys he brought home from bars, with want instead of friendly obligation.

But it was never different, and Jackson remained a perpetual fool praying for the impossible.

He drained half his beer in one long pull, the taste somehow getting worse with each sip, and let his eyes wander over the assembled crowd with the detached observation of an anthropologist studying a foreign culture. Everyone else seemed to have figured out some fundamental secret that Jackson had missed – how to move through the world with confidence, how to take up space without apologizing, how to exist in your own body without constantly feeling like you were wearing someone else's skin. Jackson had spent twenty years feeling like he was always on the wrong side of a window, watching life happen to other people while he stood in the cold pressing his face against the glass. Even the couple making out against the tree, oblivious to their surroundings, had achieved something Jackson couldn't imagine – that basic human connection that included a certainty that someone wanted to touch you and be touched by you.

Wallowing in self-pity, Jackson went ahead and finished his beer, which, to his relief, was finally more liquid than foam. Upon setting his cup down, the man let his head fall back against the chair with a resigned sigh. The foam from his final swig had coated his upper lip in a thick, cool layer, clinging to his skin like a white mustache, but Jackson barely noticed it. He was too busy contemplating the logistics of getting absolutely sloshed without having to endure another round of Chad and Kyle's commentary on his general inadequacy as a human being.

Beneath the foam, invisible to Jackson and anyone who might have glanced his way, something was happening. The pale skin above his upper lip – smooth and bare as it had been since puberty had cruelly decided Jackson wasn't the kind of man who grew facial hair worth mentioning – was darkening. Not dramatically, not all at once, but in subtle gradations, like someone was brushing shadows across his skin with an invisible paintbrush. Tiny points of deeper pigmentation appeared, scattered across the flesh between his nose and mouth, each one the budding follicle of a hair that had no business existing.

The follicles multiplied rapidly, spreading from the center of his upper lip outward toward the corners of his mouth, the shadow they created deepening from faint suggestion to visible presence. Individual hairs began to push through the skin – wispy at first, fine and barely there, the kind of patchy facial hair that Jackson had managed to grow exactly twice in his life and had immediately shaved off out of embarrassment. But this time, these hairs didn't stay wispy. They thickened as they emerged, each strand gaining diameter and substance, transforming from the tentative peach fuzz of adolescence into something darker, coarser, and undoubtedly full.

Then, a sudden bout of tingling emerged.

Jackson felt it suddenly and distinctly – a prickling sensation against his upper lip that cut through his distracted thoughts about beer and Chad and Kyle and his general misery. It felt like the foam was fizzing against his skin, tiny bubbles popping and tickling in ways that made his nose want to twitch. He let out a small chuckle at the sensation, bringing his hand up to his face.

"Weird," he muttered to himself, wiping the back of his hand across his upper lip to clear away the foam that was apparently having some kind of delayed reaction against his skin.

His hand came away wet with beer residue, naturally assuming that the tingling sensation had stopped. But despite his attempts, it didn’t – it only lowered its intensity as facial hair continued to push out of his skin and emerge like window-dressing to spruce up his rather unimpressive face.

With the foam gone, Jackson’s mustache was now forming itself with rapid yet methodical precision, filling in gaps and achieving density as the individual hairs multiplied and lengthened until they created a solid strip of growth that ran the full width of Jackson's upper lip. It wasn’t overly long to the point of something dramatic or handlebar-worthy, but it was undoubtedly substantial. It looked dense yet trimmed, the kind of chevron-shaped mustache that seemed carefully maintained at exactly this length for years. Ironically, it looked like the kind of mustache that belonged on a cop in a 1970s crime drama.

Movement in his peripheral vision suddenly made him turn his head, and that's when he saw her.

A girl – young, maybe eighteen, wearing a witch hat that had gone askew and a black dress that had probably looked cute three hours and several drinks ago – was stumbling across the yard toward him with the kind of determined wobble that Jackson recognized immediately as a prelude to disaster. Her face had gone gray-pale in the firelight, one hand pressed to her stomach, her eyes unfocused and watering, and she was making a beeline directly for the patch of grass approximately two feet from where Jackson sat.

"Oh no," Jackson said aloud, the faint tingling upper lip immediately forgotten in the face of imminent vomit. He stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward, his belt immediately trying to escape his non-existent hips while the plastic accessories clattered against the chair like wind chimes. "Oh no no no—"

The girl lurched the final few steps, bent over at the waist with her hat falling forward, and vomited directly onto the grass with the kind of violent productivity that suggested this wasn't her first purge of the evening.

"What the hell," Jackson said, jumping backward and nearly tripping over his own chair, his hands instinctively going to his pants to make sure they remained held up and didn’t try to make a break for freedom at the most inopportune time. "Are you okay? Do you need… Should I get someone?"

The girl heaved again, the sound now reminiscent of wet machinery, and Jackson took several more steps back because he had exactly zero training in how to deal with drunk vomiting strangers and even less desire to be anywhere near the splash zone. The smell hit him immediately – acrid and sour, mixed with something that might have been fruity vodka or possibly actual fruit – and he had to breathe through his mouth to avoid contributing his own beer to the growing puddle.

"'m fine," the girl managed between heaves, one hand waving vaguely in his direction while the other clutched her stomach. "'s just shots. Too many shots. Sarah said–  hhhhrrrk…"

"Okay, well, do you want water? Or I could find your friends, or–"

The girl straightened up suddenly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that was somehow both disgusting and oddly dignified. She then turned and looked at Jackson for the first time. Her eyes, bloodshot and watering, went wide with a kind of drunken wonder that Jackson immediately distrusted.

"Dude," she said, her voice filled with the kind of awe usually reserved for sunsets or particularly good pizza. "Dope mustache!"

The words hit Jackson like cold water. "What?"

"Your mustache," the girl said, pointing at his face with a finger that couldn't quite find its target. "It's like... retro. Old school. Very…" She paused, her face doing something complicated. "Very chhhRRRK–"

And then she was vomiting again, doubling over as Jackson's brain was too busy short-circuiting to process anything except the word mustache echoing in his skull like a fire alarm. Mustache. She'd said mustache. But he didn't have a mustache. He'd never been able to grow facial hair that amounted to anything more than sad wisps that made him look like he'd glued cat fur to his face. His genetics had deemed him unworthy of the kind of masculine facial hair that Patrick could grow in a week, that Chad and Kyle probably had to shave once a day to maintain. Jackson's upper lip had been smooth since birth and was supposed to stay that way.

Except… when he reached up to touch his face, he suddenly found himself touching against what felt like a dense rug taped to his upper lip. Jackson's hand instantly froze, his mind trying to process what his nerve endings were reporting. You didn't just grow things on your face from drinking shitty keg beer. That wasn't how biology worked. And yet the sensation persisted, reaching across his upper lip like something that didn't belong there but was making itself at home anyway.

"I have to go," Jackson said to the vomiting girl who was definitely not listening. "I have to– inside. Mirror. I need a mirror…"

He backed away from the scene, moving with immense haste to avoid the smell and the sound of the horrible sounds that continued to spill out of the woman’s mouth. Jackson only made a few feet before he nearly collided with the fire pit girls who had apparently gotten up to investigate the commotion. They gave him looks that suggested snottiness from him almost bumping into them, but Jackson’s usual anxiety about others’ perceptions of him paled in comparison to the anxiety he felt towards his appearance. With each step he took, his mind raced as he could feel his upper lip still tingling with that impossible sensation of presence.

He wove through the backyard crowd, moving faster now, his plastic accessories rattling with each step like some kind of demented percussion section. The beer pong game was reaching its climax, people chanting and pounding the table, but Jackson barely registered it. He just needed to get inside, find a bathroom, look in a mirror and see his own familiar face staring back at him, smooth-lipped and facial-hair-free.

But as he walked – as he moved past the fire pit where the flames cast dancing shadows across the yard – he caught his reflection in one of the large glass windows that ran along the back wall of the frat house. It was just a glimpse of his face superimposed over the chaos of the party inside, but enough to make him stop dead in his tracks.

Much to his horror, that girl hadn’t been wrong.

There was something on his face. Something dark… something that definitely had not been there when he'd checked himself in the car mirror thirty minutes ago. His fingers traced the shape of it in horrified fascination – a solid strip of hair that ran the entire width of his upper lip, each individual follicle distinct beneath his fingertips, the texture coarse and masculine and completely foreign.

"What the fuck," Jackson whispered, staring at his reflection in the glass door. 

His hand was still pressed to his upper lip, fingers tracing the impossible hair, when someone bumped into him from behind. The collision was hard enough to send Jackson stumbling back into the backyard, and then someone – a guy wearing a crown and a large royal mantle who clearly wasn't watching where he was going – went sprawling directly into the cluster of girls standing near the fire pit.

"Watch it!" one of the girls shrieked, but her warning came too late. The king stumbled, arms windmilling, and his billowing fabric swung through the flames of the fire pit like it was reaching for warmth. The fabric caught fire immediately, racing up the synthetic material with haste.

"Oh my god!" another girl screamed, her voice hitting a pitch that could probably shatter glass. "Brody, you're on fire! Your cape is on fire!"

And then the backyard exploded into chaos – the man named Brody struggling to untie the cape while the girls nearby were useless as all they could do was just scream louder. Across the yard, the beer pong game came grinding to a halt as everyone turned to watch the unfolding disaster, with someone yelling about stop-drop-and-rolling while someone else yelled about water. Yet, despite all of the chaos, Jackson stood frozen with his hand still pressed to his impossible mustache, his brain trying desperately to process two impossible things at once and failing at both.

Somewhere in the distance, cutting through the screaming and the panic and the general atmosphere of disaster, Jackson suddenly heard a sound he knew better than his own heartbeat.

Patrick's laugh.

That sound was what finally broke through Jackson's paralysis and reminded him that he needed to get the fuck out of here.

But before he could move, before he could find for his friend and get help, Kevin from the keg came sprinting around the side of the house with a garden hose in hand. The sound of water spraying caused Jackson to look and see Kevin beginning to point the nozzle directly at him. As he realized that he was partially in the line of fire, Jackson had just enough time to think “oh no” before the hose began to hit him.

He gasped - actually gasped like he was drowning on dry land - and stumbled backward with his arms raised in a gesture that was part surrender and part futile attempt at protection. The water streamed down his face and fogged his glasses until the world became a blur of fire-colored light and screaming shape. It hit Jackson with the force of divine retribution, the frat bro wielding the hose with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that suggested he'd been waiting his entire life for an emergency that required him to spray things. By the time someone finally yelled "You got it, the fire’s out!" Jackson was completely, thoroughly, and embarrassingly drenched.

"Sorry bro!" Kyle called, already coiling up the hose with the satisfied air of a hero who'd saved the day. "Didn’t mean for you to be collateral damage!"

Jackson didn't respond because he was too busy trying to remember how to breathe, his lungs doing something complicated that felt like they were trying to simultaneously inhale and expel water. He pulled his glasses off with shaking hands – they were completely useless at the moment, covered in water droplets that turned the world into an impressionist painting – and that's when he looked down at himself and felt reality take another sickening lurch sideways.

Something was happening to his costume. It was different, it was… changing.

Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract, poetic sense. It was actually changing, right there in front of his eyes, the cheap fabric transforming with a speed that defied everything Jackson understood about how matter was supposed to behave. The water that had soaked through his shirt was evaporating – no, it wasn’t evaporating, it was actually being absorbed into the fabric like it was a sponge. As more and more of the water vanished into the material, Jackson felt how the clothing was not only dry but also thickening as the sad polyester-velvet grew stiff and structured. Jackson watched in mute horror as the wrinkles smoothed themselves out like invisible hands were ironing him, the light blue color of the fabric deepened to something richer and more authoritative, and the loose, baggy fit pulled taut across his shoulders and chest like it was becoming vacuum-sealed to Jackson’s body.

Not knowing what to do, Jackson’s hands subconsciously moved up towards his chest as it reached out to touch the plastic badge pinned to his chest. But when his trembling fingers made contact the plastic was already changing - warming, hardening, and growing heavier in a way that made his stomach drop. The cheap toy badge that had probably cost three cents to manufacture was becoming metal under his touch, real metal that caught the firelight and gleamed with official authority. Jackson's thumb traced the edges and felt them sharpen from rounded plastic to precise angles. As his fingers grazed the rest of the back, Jackson could feel the surface develop texture and engraving to the point where the badge no longer seemed like an afterthought but an essential part of this ensemble.

"What," Jackson whispered, his voice barely audible over the renewed chaos of the party – the guy with the cape was fine apparently, his friends clustered around him with the kind of dramatic concern that suggested this would be an incredible story tomorrow. The fire pit was now being carefully monitored by people who’d suddenly become extremely interested in fire safety while across the yard, the beer pong game had resumed with even more enthusiasm. "What is—"

A sudden breeze around his thighs caused Jackson to look down, discovering in horror that his pants had finally given up entirely. The waistband, which had been fighting a losing battle all evening despite having a belt, finally surrendered to the combined forces of gravity and whatever impossible transformation was occurring. His pants had dropped straight down his legs and pooled around his ankles, leaving him standing in the middle of the backyard in his boxers – faded gray things with a hole near the waistband that he'd been meaning to replace for months – while approximately forty people turned to stare.

The laughter was immediate and brutal, a wave of sound that crashed over Jackson with physical force. Someone wolf-whistled while another yelled encouragement for him to moon them with the kind of glee that suggested they'd been waiting all night for someone to humiliate themselves. The beer pong bros doubled over, one of them laughing so hard he dropped his cup. Even the fire pit girls, who'd been so concerned about the once on-fire man thirty seconds ago, were now pointing and giggling behind their hands.

"Oh my god," Jackson said, bending down to grab his pants with movements made clumsy by panic and mortification, his face burning with heat that had nothing to do with the nearby fire. "Oh my god oh my god–"

He yanked the pants up with enough force that he nearly lost his balance, hopping on one foot and then the other like some kind of demented flamingo. While this was happening, his glasses were still clutched in one hand and threatening to fall into the grass. The pants resisted for a moment – they felt oddly heavier than they should, denser like they'd gained mass during their brief encounter with the ground – but Jackson managed to haul them up over his hips and immediately reached for where his belt should be to secure them.

Except the belt was different now. Jackson's fingers encountered leather instead of cheap synthetic material, thick and heavy and real in a way that the costume belt definitely hadn't been. He looked down – squinting because his glasses were still off and everything was blurry – and saw not the flimsy thing he'd put on in his apartment but an actual utility belt, black leather studded with metal fixtures and weighted down with equipment that definitely had not been there a moment ago.

His pants were different too. The baggy, wrinkled polyester had transformed into proper uniform pants – heavy-duty material with a sharp crease down each leg, the kind of starchy pants that looked like they could withstand a natural disaster and still maintain their shape. They sat lower on his hips now, properly fitted instead of constantly sliding, held in place by the utility belt that Jackson was almost afraid to examine too closely because he could feel things attached to it – heavy things that shifted and pressed against his body with every movement.

"This isn't real," Jackson said aloud, his voice shaking. "This isn't– this can't be…"

But his fingers were already exploring the belt like they had a mind of their own, moving from fixture to fixture with growing dread. The plastic handcuffs that had been a nuisance the entire night were no more, replaced with cold, heavy, metal cuffs that suggested that they could actually restrain someone. On top of that, he discovered a radio holster with a piece clipped into it that ran up to his shoulders and was clipped into his epaulet along with a pepper spray canister, flashlight and a baton holder with an actual–  no, he wasn't going to think about that. And then, worst of all, his fingers encountered the unmistakable shape of a gun holster.

Jackson's entire body went cold, a chill that started in his chest and radiated outward until his fingers were numb. Needing both hands for this, he set his glasses down on a nearby table before he grabbed the holster to confirm what his fingers were telling him. As he felt the snap release give way, the man reached inside and found that the weight there was substantial, real, and wrong in every possible way. He pulled it out slowly, every survival instinct screaming at him to put it back and pretend this wasn't happening.

The gun sat in his hands like an accusation. It was real – undeniably, impossibly real – metal and heft that spoke of lethality. Jackson had never held a real gun in his life, he’d had actively avoided them ever since his youth when his dad and uncle would try to take him hunting. As such, it was a complete nightmare to find himself standing in a frat house backyard with what appeared to be an actual loaded service weapon in his shaking hands.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, his mind immediately jumping to worst-case scenarios. Accidental discharge. Someone getting hurt. Him going to prison for a crime he didn't even understand how he'd committed. The gun in his hands felt like it was burning, like if he held it any longer it would somehow fuse to his palms and he'd be stuck with it forever. "Fuck fuck fuck…"

He shoved the gun back into its holster with fumbling, graceless movements, his fingers refusing to cooperate until he finally heard the snap click shut. His heart was hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, adrenaline flooding his system with the kind of fight-or-flight response that was one hundred percent choosing flight. He needed to leave – more specifically, he needed to find Patrick, get the fuck out of this house, and figure out what was happening because clearly something was very very wrong here.

Jackson grabbed his glasses off the table and, after drying them off with his now completely dry outfit, shoved them onto his face with enough force that they dug into the bridge of his nose. The world snapped back into focus, unfortunately, which meant he could now see in perfect clarity the dozens of people still staring at him, some giggling, some just confused, all of them witnessing what had to be the worst night of Jackson's entire life.

He started walking – not quite running, but close – toward the back door of the house. His pants stayed up this time, held in place by the tightened utility belt that seemed to weigh about forty pounds and made every step feel like wading through quicksand. The equipment rattled and shifted with each movement, the gun holster pressing into his hip as a persistent reminder that he was now apparently armed at a college party, which was either a terrible costume choice or grounds for immediate arrest and expulsion depending on whether any of this was actually real or he was having some insane psychotic break.

The problem was that it all felt real. The weight of the belt, the texture of the uniform pants, the cold metal of the badge on his chest – it all felt exactly how Jackson imagined real police equipment would feel, with none of the hollow plasticky cheapness of his original costume.

He was almost to the back door – he could see the kitchen through the glass, people clustered around the counter doing shots – when he had to pass by a cluster of smokers huddled near the house. Three guys, college-aged, shared what was definitely not only tobacco based on the slightly sweet, skunky smell that immediately made Jackson's eyes water. They were deep in conversation about something, passing both joints and cigarettes between each other in a practiced rotation, completely blocking the door Jackson desperately needed to get through.

Jackson tried to edge past them, mumbling "excuse me" in a voice that came out barely above a whisper, but they didn't even acknowledge him and thus didn’t move. They just kept talking and smoking and existing in Jackson's path like they were specifically placed there by a universe that had decided tonight was the night to make his life a living hell.

He cleared his throat and tried again. Nothing. Once again Jackson tried, this time louder. Still nothing. The smoke from the men was getting thicker, curling around his face in ways that made his throat itch and his eyes burn. In response, Jackson felt something shift in his chest – not quite anger, not quite frustration, but some combination of the two that was rapidly approaching a boiling point.

"Get out of the way, I’m trying to go inside," he said, but this time the words came out wrong.

It wasn’t as if he had said a completely different sentence. Rather, it was the way he said it which was wrong. Out of nowhere, his voice had dropped at least an octave, maybe two, shifting from his usual anxious tenor into something that sounded like it was being dragged across gravel. 

The smokers turned to look at him with expressions that suggested they were seeing him for the first time, and Jackson watched their faces change – from casual indifference, surprise, and finally to something that looked oddly like respect.

"Oh shit, sorry officer," one of them said, immediately stepping aside and motioning for his friends to do the same. They scattered like Jackson had pulled his gun on them rather than simply speaking, the joint being snuffed out and disappearing into someone's pocket with practiced speed as the other two men stomped out their cigarettes.

Jackson stared at them, his hand going to his throat like he could physically grab his voice and pull it back to normal. "Huh–" he started to say, but the words came out in that same gravelly bass, each syllable reverberating in his chest in a way that felt fundamentally wrong. "I'm not a real cop, this is just–"

"It’s ok, officer," the same guy said, giving Jackson a nervous smile. "We were just leaving anyway. Have a good night."

They then fled, slipping past Jackson and disappearing into the party with the kind of speed that suggested they'd had practice avoiding law enforcement. Jackson stood there in the space they'd vacated, his hand still pressed to his throat, trying to reconcile the sound that had come out of his mouth with the voice he'd heard in his head. It hadn't felt different when he spoke. The words had formed normally, his vocal cords had vibrated the way they always did, but the sound that emerged had been completely foreign.

"No no no," he said, and the bass rumble that came out made his chest vibrate. "I don’t want this to change too, don't–"

But even as he said it he could feel it happening, something was in his throat – possibly his vocal cords thickening or lengthening or doing whatever biological impossibility was required to produce this new voice. It felt like he was undergoing a second puberty compressed into thirty seconds – that same sense of his body betraying him, becoming something he didn't recognize, transforming without his permission or input. Jackson tried to cough, to clear his throat, to do anything that might reset whatever was happening, but his voice stayed low and authoritative even as panic made his thoughts spiral higher and faster.

He needed to find Patrick now – before anything else changed, before he lost the ability to explain what was happening, before this nightmare escalated into something even worse than standing in a backyard with his pants down and a real gun sitting on his waist.

Jackson shoved through the back door and into the kitchen, the sudden noise and heat of the crowded indoor party hitting him like a physical wall. There were bodies everywhere, pressed together in ways that made navigation nearly impossible, the air thick with sweat and alcohol. He tried to move through the crowd towards where he vaguely remembered seeing Patrick earlier, but the utility belt made him clumsy – he wasn't used to the weight distribution and thus kept misjudging how much space his hips now took up. This in turn frequently left him bumping into people with the heavy equipment.

"Watch it!" someone yelled when Jackson's radio holster caught on their costume.

"Sorry," Jackson rumbled in his new voice, "I'm just trying to–"

Out of nowhere, a couple stumbled into his path – both of them making out with enough intensity that they were effectively blind – and Jackson had to stop short to avoid collision. He instinctively took a step backward to give them space, not thinking or paying attention to his surroundings, which caused him to grimace as his ass collided with the sharp corner of the kitchen island.

The impact sent a jolt through his entire lower body, pain blooming from the point of contact. Yet, that pain wasn’t the worst part of the situation, as another sensation followed – one of pressured warmth, one that made it clear that something was happening to Jackson’s body once more. His glutes, which had always been flat and unremarkable to the point that he'd sometimes looked at his profile in mirrors and wondered if he'd somehow been born without an ass, suddenly felt present in a way they never had before.

Jackson's hand flew to his backside automatically, some instinct driving him to assess the damage, where his palm suddenly made contact with his rear sooner than expected. His ass was growing, actually, physically growing, swelling outward with each passing second like someone was inflating it like a balloon. The sensation was bizarre and uncomfortable but undeniably real. There was a pressure building in his glutes as beneath the surface: muscle fibers multiplied impossibly fast, fat redistributed itself, and the entire structure of his posterior began rearranging itself into something that could charitably be called an ass and more accurately be called a fucking shelf.

"What is happening to me," Jackson whispered in his deep bassy voice, both hands now pressed to his expanding backside like he could somehow push the growth back in or make it stop through sheer force of will. But his ass kept growing and swelling until his uniform pants – which had been incredibly loose and ill-fitting moments ago - were suddenly painted on, the fabric stretched so tight across his new glutes that Jackson could feel every seam of the now-legitimate police uniform pressing into his skin.

The couple finally disentangled and stumbled away toward what Jackson assumed would be a bedroom, but he couldn't move in the wake of his newest transformation. To make matters worse, his center of gravity had clearly shifted with the addition of all this new mass to his backside, throwing off his balance in ways that made walking suddenly require conscious thought. He took a tentative step forward and immediately felt his ass move – not just shift with his gait the way it was supposed to, but actually bounce and jiggle with enough force that Jackson nearly tripped over his own feet from the vibration.

"Oh my god," he rumbled, taking another careful step and feeling his massive glutes sway. "Oh my god this is–"

He bumped into someone - a girl in a devil costume - and his ass pressed against her hip with enough force that she stumbled forward.

"Hey!" she yelled, whirling around to glare at him. "Watch where you're… oh." Her eyes widened as she took in his uniform, his badge, and the ill-fitting aura of newfound yet accidentally-acquired authority. "Sorry, officer. My bad."

"I'm not… I didn't mean to–" Jackson tried to apologize but she was already disappearing into the crowd, leaving him standing there with his still-sore ass jutting out behind him like it required its own zip code. He tried to turn, to navigate toward the front of the house in search of Patrick, but his ass swung with the movement once more and collided with someone's drink, sending it flying.

"Dude, what the fuck!" a guy in a zombie costume yelled, beer dripping down his front. "You just…" He looked up, saw Jackson's uniform and badge, and immediately backed down. "Sorry, dude. My fault. I wasn't looking."

Jackson wanted to explain that no, it was definitely his fault since he wasn't used to having an ass that could be registered as a lethal weapon, but the words died in his throat as he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror hanging near the kitchen entrance. His pants were obscenely tight now, the fabric molded to his glutes like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. His ass looked like something you'd see on a porn star or a professional athlete – huge, round, muscular, and sitting high and proud instead of the flat nothing he was accustomed to.

He turned carefully this time, trying to account for his new dimensions, as he started making his way toward the front door. No matter how much he walked, each step felt like an adventure in physics – his ass swayed and bounced while his thighs had to spread wider to accommodate the mass. People parted for him without being asked, their eyes going wide when they saw his uniform and badge, giving him space that Jackson had never been granted in his entire life.

It should have felt good, it should have felt oddly powerful. Instead it just felt wrong, like the costume was wearing him and each consecutive change was removing a piece of whatever made him Jackson and replacing it with something else entirely...

If you're interested in reading the rest of the story, the entire 31,000 word novella has just been released on my Patreon. Click here if you'd like to check it out. I hope you enjoy if you do!

[burrcapts]

Well-Aged and Well-Hung

Here's one of the new caption stories from my Patreon if you enjoyed it and would like to read more stuff like it, there are a handful still unposted ones in my discord channel! Plus, a brand new one about a guy leaving work only to find the streets filled with tons of hulking, furry pipe bears: https://www.patreon.com/posts/151270546

“Holy crap duuude! Look at this thing! I bet Stacy would totally love a necklace like this, she’d been dropping hints about wanting something fancy for her birthday for like the whole month!”

You kept on rolling your eyes but after seeing your best friend’s excitement as he jumped around this antique shop you just didn’t have the heart to bring him back to reality by telling him that this shiny thing probably cost more than his entire apartment or maybe even his parents’ house. But there were probably some worse places out there to be stuck in, at least unlike that concert Eddie took you to last week this one didn’t seem likely to permanently damage your hearing. Plus, some of this stuff actually looked pretty neat despite smelling a little musty… Though you figured that was to be expected, it was as if you were in the middle of some kind of a labyrinth made out of all kinds of old looking crap, paintings, statues, vases covered in mosaics and countless other, barely holding together antiques… 

Suddenly you caught a whiff of a smell you didn’t quite expect to find here and as you turned your head, you found your eyes going wide as faint curls of smoke slowly drifted through the air right past your face. Oh crap! Was there a fire in here or something?! You whipped your head around to get Eddie’s attention but he seemed to have wandered off in the meantime so you quickly turned back around, quickly discovering just where those wisps of smoke were coming from… as odd as it sounded, it seemed like someone didn’t put out this pipe before placing it on the wooden display stand it occupied.

Wow, even this thing looked like a genuine work of art, with its large, wooden bowl painstakingly sculpted to resemble some old, bearded guy’s face. Every wrinkle and strand of hair on his pudgy face seemed so real that for a moment there you almost thought you saw it move and blink at you as if it was alive. You remembered that there was a sign near the entrance warning not to touch anything but what if something really were to catch on fire because of it? This entire shop would be gone in minutes like a box of matches and it’s not like you have seen any staff around anyway…

You picked it up and sure enough, the bowl felt a bit warm to the touch. For a moment you stared at it completely transfixed, admiring the level of detail and wondering just how someone would go around sculpting a thing so ridiculously detailed. Then suddenly you let out a surprised yelp, just barely stopping yourself from dropping the pipe to the floor. Holy shit! You weren’t seeing things earlier, this face did actually move! The wooden eyes shifted like they were staring straight at you, it gave you a wink as the mouth curled into a smirk and then opened up wide.

In an instant, a thick spiral of smoke erupted from between its carved lips, briefly drawing a curve through the air before wrapping itself around your hand before you could even react. Your first thought was to toss the pipe away but for some unknown reason you found your fingers clutching onto its bowl even tighter now. You could only watch as the smoke coiled up your arm like a living thing, moving up your limbs with impossible speed. Before you knew it, its plumes had already engulfed your whole chest, you felt its warmth as it surged up your neck and then face, its dense cloud nearly fully blocking out the sight of the antique shop around you. 

You opened your mouth to shout for Eddie only realizing that it was the dumbest idea ever when it was too late, the very moment your lips split apart, the smoke was already prepared to rush down your throat, forcing its way straight into your lungs. You began to cough violently, the harsh taste of tobacco burning inside your chest, your eyes watering as you doubled over, still unable to let go of the pipe in your hand.

For a second you thought you were actually going to suffocate right there, but just as you were about to take your last, desperate breath, you suddenly found the smoke flowing inside you without any resistance whatsoever. Not even a faintest scratch could be felt inside your throat, almost as though your airways have also discovered a brand new appreciation for this exquisite, premium tobacco blend, growing intimately accustomed to it at the exact same time you did… How curious… a sense of calmness proceeded to wash over you as you straightened your back, even if truth be told you found yourself at a bit of a loss… unexpectedly having a particularly difficult time trying to recall what it was exactly that left you so deeply perturbed just now… certainly not this fine specimen of a pipe? 

Oh, that couldn’t possibly have been the case.. Yet at the same time you had to concede that it seemed a little peculiar how only a second ago you could have sworn that its bowl had been adorned with an expertly crafted carving of a rather dashing gentleman’s face. Yet now all you could see as it laid nested within your fingers was your own, not a smidgen less galant reflection staring back at you in the dark, polished wood. But it only took a moment before its stem was placed rightfully between your lips, pipes were to be enjoyed after all, not simply admired, especially ones packed with such delectable tobacco! Oh… you could hardly suppress your moans as you drew on it for the first time, savoring its refined, complex notes as they melted on your palate. Your turgid member already calling out to you, tempting you to partake in your second favorite activity despite being in such an indiscreet locale.

“Holy fucking shit!!! What happened to you dude?!”

A terrified shriek of a younger man rushing towards you had momentarily pulled you out of your pleasureful reverie. You hastily confirmed that your pecker was indeed still well within the confines of your fly so what could have possibly warranted such an uncouth outburst? You removed the pipe from your mouth and tilted your head slightly in confusion and yet this young ruffian still continued to stare at you with his mouth wide agape and eyes as if ready to pop out of their sockets!

After yet another insistent stare from his direction, you sighed and glanced downwards to see what might have possibly placed him in such profound distress. Immediately you were greeted by the edges of your magnificent, luxuriant beard as it cascaded down from your robust, puffy cheeks, blending in with even more snowy white tufts that densely stuffed the wide-open collar of your tailored suit. Your chest was broad and powerful but any brawn cultivated in the distant past could never dream of approaching in its grandeur the true monument to indulgence that proudly jutted beneath your teats its round glory. You gave it a light pat, feeling reassured that despite appearing visibly strained, all of your shirt’s buttons were still entirely successful in their valiant effort of containing its girth. In total, nothing seemed to be amiss whatsoever…

You placed the pipe back in your mouth and ran your large hand across your beard, relishing the sensation of the silken, perfectly groomed strands gliding past your fingertips. Then you shifted your attention back to the younger man who by now grew even more agitated and barely coherent as he proceeded to unceasingly blather about something that supposedly had just happened to you. Insisting that he was in fact a close acquaintance of yours and just saw you being swallowed by smoke, only to emerge from it as ‘some old, fat guy’ as he put it. You scoffed, unsure if more at his sheer impertinence or perhaps simply just at how preposterous this entire notion appeared to be.

Calling this young boy underdressed would hardly begin to describe the full extent of his haggard state with those old, torn-up jeans and the garish t-shirt of some vulgar music group. Even the most cursory glance was sufficient to assess that this scrawny hoodlum lacked both the refinement and culture required for a gentleman of your standing to ever wish to associate himself with… However, after witnessing the sheer force of his conviction, a tiny fragment of you began to wonder if perhaps this pipe that he so desperately implored you to get rid of, did perhaps have some special power.

A mischievous smirk crossed your bearded lips… while you had no intention whatsoever of ever parting with this magnificent briar, if this young man did in fact insist on staying at your side, then perhaps its powers could be harnessed to refine him as well into a more… amicable form. Your stubby cock was already beginning to twitch within the silky folds of your briefs as you pictured it. His athletic frame did show some promise, but in truth it was hardly enough to whet your appetite… the lad was going to need far more substantial endowments in order to properly fulfill the duties you had planned for him. Both in terms of muscle and no doubt also the one area that counted the most when it came to satisfying your big, hungry arse behind the bedchamber doors. 

This rascal must have been shrewder than he appeared at first glance because it didn’t take him too long after you began to draw on your pipe before he seemed to catch on and turned around to run. But when you opened your lips and exhaled, hardly a few more squeaks of his sneakers against the hardwood floor managed to reach your ears before the rapidly surging smoke was already at his feet, engulfing his entire body. You heard him choking, gasping for air, his voice dropping octave after octave with each desperate breath, slowly reaching the desired timbre when he could no longer help himself and unleashed a true cacophony of moans so wonderfully ripe with helpless need and desire that it made your cock drip.

His features remained hidden behind the hazy, grey veil but by now his body was inflating to such obscene proportions that even its silhouette left hardly anything to the imagination. His shoulders squared and broadened, biceps easily reaching and then far exceeding the size of actual watermelons, chest exploding outwards into a boundless meaty shelf as his legs, now immense, sprawling pillars of pure muscle worked tirelessly to keep this hulking colossus fully upright. When the smoke finally began to dissipate you found him in a far more agreeable pose than before. Spine straight, hands clasped behind his back and eyes attentively focused on you with a composed, submissive expression, a truly perfect image of your new butler.

“Hello, how may I serve you today, Sir?”

Hearing this muscular giant who by now towered over you by well over a head addressing you with such respect and reverence suddenly felt so fitting… just as well as the choice of his new outfit. Thankfully that ghastly shirt and pants were completely gone, with only a bowtie underneath a small white collar adorning his neck and a black pair of skimpy posers, tight enough to immediately reveal that your wish regarding his endowment was fulfilled in an equally satisfactory manner. As eager as you were to inspect it up close, you simply had to take a moment to fully admire the very monument to the male physique he’d been turned into. Every smallest muscle was fully defined and sculpted to absolute perfection that would have made even the Farnese Hercules blush, all of it honed with utmost diligence and rigour… of course… you expected nothing less from your personal assistant.

You approached slowly, hearing the floorboards creak with each step, your substantial belly swaying from side to side as you savored the view as well as this delightful tobacco which caressed your tongue. His new, full beard and the dusting of blonde hair over his chest have captured your gaze for almost as long as his bulge. They made him look so virile… so profoundly masculine… your hole was already twitching with need but before you had him make you squeal, you fully intended to have some fun first…

With a mischievous smirk, just barely visible underneath your voluminous, snow-white mustache you extended your hand, only narrowly succeeding in cupping his enormous manhood within your pudgy, weathered palm. Aside from a barely audible whimper which slipped past his lips, your butler’s composure remained unbroken even as your fingers have fully wrapped themselves around his firehose of a cock through the soft fabric. But you were relentless, steadily fondling and massaging its entire length all while observing his brutish, broad-jawed face beginning to blush and cover in perspiration as he desperately tried to hold his trembling, colossal form in check. His head slowly tilting backwards as helpless gasps echoed from his throat. Oh yes… he was in your full control and you both knew it.

You slipped one of your chubby fingers behind the waistband of the posers and pulled them down, letting his gargantuan slab of meat spring free as it smacked right against his gigantic abs with a meaty thwack, spraying both his chest and your beard with countless, shiny beads of precum. Even before you laid your eyes on this unshackled, pulsating monstrosity you were already hungrily licking your lips, feeling your mouth overflowing with saliva, but now you simply needed it! The lad was perfectly trained, you found one of his arms already extended to serve as support while you descended to your knees, his posture not wavering in the slightest even when you balanced your whole weight against it.

You let the pipe stem out of your mouth and leaned forward, opening wide in the thrilling anticipation of finally getting your lips around that magnificent shaft… yet when you were only mere inches away from tasting his youthful, masculine essence, why were you suddenly the one trembling and starting to hesitate?

“Eddie…”

You heard yourself whisper, but not in the aged, sonorous and commanding baritone that you were accustomed to hearing resounding from your throat. No, it sounded more like a meek, confused voice of some scared boy. Why were you suddenly so terrified of that name?! Of course deep inside you knew exactly why… it belonged to your best friend… a guy you knew since college… a guy whose cock you were just about to suck off! Oh shit, what the fuck was going on here?!

“Is everything alright, Sir?”

You could hear the tension in his voice, as if he were fruitlessly trying to say something else but only those words were allowed to ever come out. He was still in there too! Fuck, you had to help him! Your eyes darted to the pipe still clenched within your hand, you saw smoke rising from it, angrily billowing in your direction as if it could sense that you were back in control. Oh fuck! You saw it shooting towards your face in countless white tendrils, you wanted to block them, cover up your mouth and nose but you were so huge, so monstrously huge and so awfully slow… your arm was only halfway to your mouth when it had already been filled with smoke that reached all the way down to your lungs. And by the time one of your hands had arrived by your lips, its only purpose was to place the pipe’s stem back where it belonged so you could enjoy yet another lungful of this refined and profoundly invigorating fragrance.

“With a scrumptious treat like this prepared for me to enjoy? I am feeling decidedly splendid, my dear Edward!”

Your robust voice was once again thick with desire, however as you glanced upwards you took note of your butler appearing rather disconcerted for a change, his panic-stricken countenance fidgeting slightly as if he was trying to shake it, yet at the same time quite unable to move his neck in the slightest. Oh, perhaps that silly lad still thought that you intended to merely tease him further, but no such thing! Now at last it was time for the both of you to depart together on your voyage into the land of the most blissful pleasures!

You parted your lips and exhaled, letting a few misty, grey curls descend upon Edward’s oh so appetizing manhood, embracing its imposing girth as they spilled down the veiny, engorged sides. It almost appeared to swell even larger right before your eyes as it violently jerked up and down, dripping like a broken faucet while your butler pleadingly moaned to you, imploring you to “snap out of it” or something along those lines. However you found yourself realizing that you did not quite care enough to inquire as to what he might have meant by it, after all you did not keep him around to be your conversation partner… For that both sides would have needed to keep their mouths unobstructed and you were already stuffing yours with his irresistibly swollen shaft.

Edward’s lightly salted precum mixed with the exquisite tobacco which still coated your palate made for a truly divine combination. You slowly dragged your tongue against the underside of his cock, sensing every tiniest ridge and crevice, feeling the ferocious heat which radiated outwards as his gargantuan form shook in untamed ecstasy. Your jaw was already aching from the strain as you attempted to fit the entirety of his humongous endowment down your throat, and yet you nevertheless greedily pushed forward, knowing that you won’t feel fully satisfied until you could smell the raw, primal scent of his pubic fur with your nose buried deep among it and could feel his huge, sweaty ballsack smacking against your beard with each thrust. 

Your own stubby member was aching so badly that you had no other choice than to send your pudgy fingers haphazardly fumbling with your pants until his angry head stood there, just barely jutting past the zipper. But even if you could hardly fit him within your palm, each stroke filled you with so much of this animalistic, ecstatic bliss that it only took moments before the facade of a refined man of culture that you have cultivated on the outside began to crumble, giving way to your true self, the absolute horny cockslut who moaned like a cheap whore as you tightly sealed your bearded lips around your butler’s obscenely throbbing piece of meat and began to suck with every bit of determination left within your huge, corpulent body.

Edward went completely rigid, his immense muscles flexing and contracting all at once as a strangled cry tore from his throat and his hips began to buckle involuntarily. Driving yet another inch past your lips and making you gag, but that only made it so much more exciting! His impossibly wide, gigantic thighs were quaking before your very eyes but you showed no mercy whatsoever and only hungrily drove deeper, bobbing your head in a frantic rhythm. Your hirsute moobs and belly jiggling with each rapid stroke of your stubby nub.

You were in heaven and as you lifted your heavy-lidded eyes to fully take in the view of this muscular behemoth helplessly trembling above you, of his tremendous chest heaving with each labored breath, of all the glistening sweat pouring in rivulets through every perfectly defined curve and valley on his Herculean body. His face was flushed deep red and tilted far back as endless moans and gasps poured out of his bearded mouth. What you so desperately craved was already well on its way. Edward’s voice cracked into a guttural roar as his entire form froze in place as if a marble statue and then began to flood your mouth with endless waves of virile, hot seed.

The first rope nearly made you choke as it shot straight down your gullet, but you greedily swallowed it all, moaning around the pulsating cock as it continued to unleash more and more of that thick, salty nectar which immediately threatened to spill past your lips out of its sheer abundance. But the cum-hungry fiend like you would never let even a single drop go to waste as your eyes rolled back in bliss, an orgasm of pure delight sending your rotund frame into powerful spasms. Yet even then you didn’t stop swallowing for even a second, didn’t stop sucking and milking that glorious piece of meat until it was completely dry.

When Edward finally slid his cock out your throat with an obscene pop, both of you found yourself turning to find an older, distinguished and finely dressed gentleman observing you from the side. He was still slowly stroking his newly spent cock, his eyes glazed with pleasure, clearly having just finished as evidenced by the mess staining the floor between his legs. Somehow you knew that he was the owner of this antique store and with Edward’s prompt assistance you heaved yourself to back your feet, dabbing the corners of your mouth with the handkerchief you pulled out of your pocket.

“Hello my good Sir, please excuse this small indecency. I simply must inquire about purchasing this remarkable briar!”

Yet in reply you only saw his lips curving into a knowing smile underneath the monumental, white mustache which adorned them.

“Oh, my dear fellow, this magnificent performance alone was worth far more than any monetary sum I might have requested for this little trinket, please, do consider it yours. I only ask that you recommend my establishment to other acquaintances of yours, a place like this truly thrives on word of mouth, I believe you understand.”

After seeing that mischievous glint in his eyes the implication was indeed not lost on you and after thanking him profusely you once again nodded your head and gestured for Edward to follow you to the exit. As you stepped out into the afternoon air, the pipe was already back between your lips, delighting you once more with its exquisite taste. Yet you knew that the pleasures of the day were far from over, your hole was already twitching in anticipation of all the things Edward was going to subject it to with his monumental instrument once the both of you arrived in your bedchambers. The road back home couldn’t possibly be short enough.

[misctf]

Quality Time

Here is the third story out the five part Love Languages series I've been writing. Check out Words of Affirmation and Acts of Service, the first two in the series. Hope you enjoy!

"Quality time."

"That's your love language?" The text read, "That's ironic."

Logan frowned at the nearly instant reply from his boyfriend, Sam. He could just feel the tension behind those typed words. With a sigh, he put his phone back into his pocket and walked into the office. Work. So much work. Time spent in the office working, time spent at home working- it seemed never ending.

"It's for our future." Logan thought bitterly- a future that seemed like it might not come true. The time spent working was certainly a constant topic of their arguments and was creating more tension, "He just doesn't get it." He frowned, "Wedding rings are expensive."

"Logan! How're you doing?" Kathy approached him with a grin, "Big day today!"

"Yeah..." Logan replied, barely paying attention.

"Are you excited?"

"Big day... Big day?" He turned towards her, "What's going on? Is there some kind of announcement?"

She smiled, "You've always been such a jokester." She laughed and walked off, leaving Logan confused.

"Weird." He whispered, grimacing at a sudden achy feeling in his knees, "Damn, that hurts." He grunted, "Leg day finally catching up with me."

And as he moved slowly to his desk, something caught his attention. The table in the break room was decorated and he spotted some donuts from his favorite shop.

"Wonder what the occasion is?" He walked over, suddenly distracted by a grumbling in his stomach, "One won't hurt." He whispered, grabbing a donut. He scarfed it down in what must've been record time for him, "Usually one's enough." He muttered, "But I'm real hungry." He grabbed a second. And a third.

"Logan!" He turned to see Steve, "We're not done setting up."

Logan blushed, "I... Uh sorry about that. I can run and get..."

"No, don't worry about." Steve smiled, "I guess it doesn't matter. They're for... Ah shit let me take this call."

Logan frowned, "What's going on?" He patted his gurgling stomach and froze, "Since when...?" His stomach was pushing out, straining slightly against his shirt, "Fuck, shouldn't have eaten so much." He winced at the discomfort in his stomach and his knees as he finally made it to his desk.

The workday seemed to be progressing normally. Logan sent a few emails and worked on a few projects he had been assigned. But the day was tiring- more tiring than it should've been. His fingers moved slower on the keyboard. He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as his lower back started to ache similarly to his knees. He found himself taking a few breaks and rubbing his eyes, finding the screen was bothering him more than usual.

"Hi Logan," Logan looked up to see a younger guy, probably slightly younger than him. Blond hair, clean-shaven, well dressed, "Mr. Carpenter wanted to talk to you about the Advent Project."

"Oh? Was there a reason?" Logan had been working on this one for a bit now. Big client, possibly lots of money to be made in commission if the deal went through.

"Since I'm taking over your projects, I thought I'd..."

"Taking over?" Logan coughed a few times to clear his voice. It sounded rougher, like he was coming down with a cold, "What're you talking about?"

The young man raised an eyebrow, "Umm, I'm taking over your projects, so I figured I should talk to you more about the most important one?"

Logan stared at the young man, confused. Was he being fired? Was his work not good enough? As the frustration built, he ran a hand across the top of his head and froze. His hair. What happened to his hair? Why did it feel so short? Why could he feel skin?

"What the..." Logan stumbled up out of his chair, nearly tumbling over at the change in his center of gravity, "Oh god, oh god..." His gut stuck much further out now, straining tightly against his shirt, "I... I need a bathroom..."

The other man looked on as Logan stumbled past him and towards the bathroom. When Logan finally did shut and lock the door behind him, he was nearly hyperventilating. Slowly and with a sense of growing terror, he looked in the mirror and gasped at what he saw.

"No..." He reached a hand towards the mirror as a much older reflection mimicked his movements, "No... that can't be me." He whispered, "I need to..." His phone buzzed and he looked down at a text from his boyfriend. His eyes widened as he read it.

"Can't wait to see you later." It read, "Are they doing anything big for your retirement party?"

"Retirement?" Logan gasped as another wave of changes rocked his aging body, "Oh fuckkkkk." He groaned.

It started with the itching. Everywhere. His back, his chest, his shoulders, his pits, his face. Coarse, grey hairs made there way to the surface, blanketing his previously clean-shaven skin in a blanket of curly hairs. Logan could only watch as his face sprouted a thick graying beard, while wrinkles formed around his face and under his eyes.

"Nnnnnggggg" His hand caught the mirror as he leaned over, breathing heavily, "Wh..."

He nearly doubled over as his already impressive gut took on more girth, while his lean, hairy pecs sagged with age and fat. Even his arms and legs grew larger as fat and muscle packed on to his once slender, youthful frame. All the while Logan could only stare as his youth drained from him at an impossibly alarming rate. By the time the changes seemed to have settled, he realized he must've been older than his own dad.

"Logan, are you okay in there?" His boss asked from behind the door.

"Ahh I'm... I'm okay..." He huffed, wincing at the ache in his back. Internally, he was screaming, "I think I ought to get home, fast." He said as he emerged.

But as he walked out, he was surrounded by his smiling coworkers. A sign was hung on the wall, reading "Thank You For Forty Years." Donuts were piled high in the nearby break room. There were even a few gifts. Logan looked at these wide eyed. Did his coworkers really not see that something was wrong? That this wasn't him? He swallowed nervously.

"We just finished up decorating!" Kathy said with a grin, "Can you stay for just a little?"

"I... I..."

"Yeah, it isn't everyday you retire." His boss said, "C'mon, let's celebrate. After, you can get home."

Logan gulped, and slowly nodded. His thoughts were racing too fast. He couldn't even think of what to do next.

-----------

"Forty-years and that was it." He mumbled as he lugged his wider, fatter, and older frame back to his apartment, "A donut party?"

Logan knew he should be worried about other things. Should be worried about how he went from a young, 20-something year-old man in the prime of his life to a fat, hairy, and balding 60-something year old in a matter of mere hours. With a sigh he entered his apartment and nearly fainted at what he saw.

"S-Sam?"

"There he is."

Logan felt sick- whatever magic had done this to him had also worked on Sam as well. Sam was naked, sprawled out on the couch. And as Logan looked at him, he realized just how identical they were. Large bellies, hairy bodies, balding heads, aged skin. Both of them had aged and changed rapidly, yet Sam didn't look even the bit bothered by it. Did Sam even realize what happened? Or was he like his coworkers?

"Sam, something's wrong, we're not..."

"Come here, handsome." Sam guided Logan inside, "Congratulations on your retirement."

"Sam, seriously..."

"I finally get my sexy husband all to myself." Sam smiled.

Husband? Logan suddenly felt something wrap around his finger. Eyes widened as a ring materialized seemingly out of nowhere. They were married. That thought should've brought him joy, yet now, he was horrified. As if his entire life had just sped by.

"No... Sam, there's something..."

"We finally have all the time in the world to spend with one another."

Logan's heart sunk. Time. Quality time. Sam was right. He was retired now. He didn't need to work. They could spend so much time together now. All the time in the world. Together. And as that realization hit Logan, he felt dizzy. Memories flashed rapidly. Their wedding day, their honeymoon, their day-to-day lives, growing older, vacationing, celebrating anniversary after anniversary- an entire lifetime flashed before him.

"Are you okay, handsome?"

"Yeah... Yeah I am." Logan slurred as he settled into this reality, "Feelin' my age a bit." He chuckled.

"Well I hope you're not too out of it." Sam smiled, "I have my own retirement gift for you."

Logan grinned. What a life they'd already built together. All the happy memories, all the challenges along the way. And as Sam helped Logan undress, the two pressing up against each other and kissing passionately, Logan was looking forward to all the time they'd get to spend with one another now.