Seeing this massive himbo lift 400kg in leg press you wouldn't expect to end up fucking his massive ass while he groans deep like an animal. Pretty hot to see it live tho
Morris needs a job, Byron Industries needs an lab rat perfect for their new trial to make a mindless (read: horny) grunt. Paging through his favorite book while he waits, for such a reader he surely didn't read any fine print.
Wrote this one for a GSS challenge a bit ago! Here it is ever so slightly touched up with a few images added. This one's for all you real Melville heads out there. -Occam
“Call me Morris!”
The literature grad surely expected at least some reaction to his smallest of Moby Dick references. It’s not the first time he’s met with silence at the playfully pitiful introduction, but usually there’s at least confusion. This receptionist simply stares blankly. Perhaps there was a perfunctory smile under the facemask, but it certainly didn’t reach his eyes.
“Morris Baker, yes? For the interview?”
Still recoiling from his scuffed opening Morris is hesitant to speak up. All the well as the receptionist takes his silent quibbling as confirmation.
“Sir Byron will be with you shortly, please have a seat and enjoy our lobby’s amenities.”
Clutching his shoulder bag tightly as he sort of bows before stepping away from the front desk, Morris realizes that he’s not just working himself up. It’s not in his head, something is off about that receptionist. Sneaking a quick glance back, he sees the clerk is still staring at him. No? Staring through him.
To his credit, Morris stills the shiver that runs up his spine at the realization. Focusing on what matters, Morris convinces himself that between the two of them the secretary’s the weird one. That’s why the man didn’t react to his solid Moby Dick reference! Turning with a cocksure grin to take in the amenities the strange receptionist spoke of he wonders what he’ll find. It’s not every day someone like him gets to wander into Byron Roman’s business, after all.
Local celebrity doesn’t begin to cover what the titan of industry has become, but it’s certainly where he started. Morris remembers him being the talk of their provincial Texan hometown, nothing exciting ever happened around here so why not discuss the now-billionaire who escaped.
No one ever expected for him to return to their suburban ghost town to set up shop. Apparently disaffected with the West Coast preoccupation with burning money in pursuit of LLM’s and other digital faux progress, he felt a dire need to take his money elsewhere. For he is concerned with the world material.
Staring up at a painting of the great man adorning the wall above an elegant single-cup coffee machine, Morris can hardly believe they’re from the same ZIP code. That they walked the same high school corridors. Thick silver-speckled beard hiding a jawline everyone knows is as sharp as his mind, Byron seems like a man from a different age. One to be found amongst the pages of Morris’ classic literature more so than as the chief executive of an R&D company HQ’d in bumfuck nowhere.
And to think, Morris is here to work under him. Far, far, far under him presumably. The email didn’t say who he was meeting with, or really what he was interviewing for, but it must be for a low level clerk position. At least he told himself this as he signed an ‘interview contract’ that he had barely read.
Obviously said document could have held these answers and more but Morris was too excited at the opportunity to work for Byron Roman to even glance at the thing before signing. And now it’s almost as if it’s been washed from his mind. Perhaps that would be concerning if he were able to really recall it at all. But right now Morris has bigger fish to fry, sure of his intelligence at least, there is little else about himself he is confident about.
Too gaunt to be considered pudgy, too average to be dubbed attractive. Morris, like the CEO, seems to be pulled from the world of fiction, though one rather distinct from the epic Sir Byron Roman is cut from. No, Morris is more akin to a street urchin busking to sell matchsticks. Some Dickensian side-character that would be left on the chopping room floor.
Stealing another glance at the portrait wondering if he should hazard another cup of coffee, Morris can’t believe the sense of gravity he gets from the painting. It’s as if the man were standing her before him, asserting his masculinity through brushstrokes and painted posture alone.
Coming to this exact realization as he awkwardly averts his eyes and starts brewing a cup, Morris jokes to himself, “Can oi interest you in a pape milord…”
Unbeknownst to the off-duty barista, the receptionist has yet to take his eyes off him. Watching as Morris taps away at a coffee machine that inexplicably has a screen, he scans with concentration more like a machine than a man.
Only when the nervous interviewee sheepishly looks over his shoulder at the otherwise empty room does the receptionist at last avert his eyes. Having apparently gathered everything he needs, when Morris sits down with his steaming to-go cup, the receptionist speaks up.
“Sir Byron will see you now. Please proceed through the door on my left before entering the third room on the right.”
Letting the man’s words hang in the air for a moment, Morris puffs his cheeks and squints as he realizes this is the second time the secretary has outright stated he’s going to be meeting with the CEO.
The first time he had assumed it was a simple mistake, just a slip of the doorman’s hidden tongue. Having spent even a second longer with the mechanical man, Morris feels confident that he is not the type to speak in err. Nevertheless he opts to clarify.
“Hey! Hi there~ I don’t believe I got your name earlier, Mr..?” His question hangs in the air long enough that he gives up and continues. “Right. Well, I do believe there has been some sort of a misunderstanding? I-I’m here for a simply preliminary interview, surely Mr. Roman had better things to do than-“
“This organization is Byron Roman. If he allows some plain well-read fop to represent him in any regard, and that ungainly grunt makes an embarrassment of his name. Well.”
It’s the most animated Morris has seen the man since he walked in. Despite the cool collected tone he’d swear he saw the man’s eye twitch at the very idea of someone embarrassing the brand. Breezing past being called a grunt and clinging to being called well-read Morris tries to salvage the situation. Sure that if everything goes well that he’ll be working to some degree with the severe man before him, he beats down his nerves to perform.
“Of course! Of course~ I completely understand, sir. The squeaky wheel- err? Rather, a man is always judged by the company he keeps! I am simply surprised that a man as great as Byron Roman would make time in his busy day for an aspirant such as myself.”
Unlike the previous hidden grin, at this the secretary’s eyes light up with a smile. Like a faithful hearing true testimony of their lord.
“Well spoken Mr. Baker. Perhaps we’ll have a fruitful working relationship after all. Hold fast to that fervor. Now, if you don’t mind, please away to the next suite. Sir Byron will arrive to join when he is finished with his current business.”
Once more gesturing to the door to his left, the secretary’s face resets to its emotionless steel as he awaits for Morris to obey. Coffee cup in his hands he is torn whether to leave it or bring it to the second location. The simple decision almost freezes him in place.
He can’t help but overthink every single choice before him. Scoffing at himself as he clenches his jaw, in lieu of a decision he follows the path of least resistance and keeps the cup in hands. Still chiding himself for his perpetual lack of volition and his obsession with minutiae, he attempts to beat stoic surety into himself in preparation of meeting a CEO.
The process is interrupted as he crosses the threshold out of the lobby only to find an unremarkable hallway. Warm wooden flooring and vintage wallpaper give the place a homey vibe far more similar to a small-town doctor’s office than the working HQ of a tech company. Even seeing the large elevators at the end of the hallway in a building Morris knows is only the one story tall, he can’t help but be lulled by the place’s provincial decor.
“It’s like my mom decorated this place…”
Snooping just enough to check out the other few doors on the way to the promised third on the right, Morris finds only more beige doors. Their handles are covered with a thin layer of dust that his attention just glides past, much like it does regarding the gleaming elevator down the way.
Far less overactive minds would begin telling themselves horror stories and worst-case scenarios about wandering into the back office of a billionaire’s clearly shady studio. Taking a sip of his coffee and stealing one last glimpse of the empty hallway, Morris refuses to give way to anxiety. The rich light roast on his tongue grounds him, it perfectly reminds him why he’s come here today.
He is not going to be a barista anymore. The lobby’s attendant flickers in his mind as he swallows. A job just like that, maybe one where he doesn’t need to be quite so dogmatic, is that too much to ask?
Lost in thought as he enters the room. From the side of his eye Morris catches movement and spits up coffee as he flinches into the door in surprise. Instantly worried that Byron has been waiting on him and caught this jittery display, he tightens his posture and forces an awkward smile on his face to feign confidence.
His harried resolve immediately drops when he turns completely only to find a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Sighing in relief Morris decides to use the opportunity to freshen up. Setting down his coffee he wanders closer to inspect his reflection.
Hair as unfrizzled as he’s able to get it, there are more than a few curly fly-aways sticking out of his tight dirty-blonde bun. Looking down his baggy button-up there are thankfully no coffee stains on its placket.
At least everywhere visible is stainfree if nothing else. The same can surely not be said regarding the sweat under his arms, but this is thankfully hidden by a neat cardigan and nigh-medical grade deodorant.
‘I’ll be fine’ He tells himself on loop, tugging his cardigan down to cover a wrinkle. Looking downwards his pants are simply too long and bag atop dress shoes he only pulls out for very special occasions. His belt still slightly limp even on its most extreme loop, Morris feels nerves prickle on the back of his neck. He absolutely won’t be fine, he looks like a fucking mess!
The barely positive mantra he’s been clinging to is succinctly batted away as the reality of the situation pelts away the hope he’d been foolish enough to trust. He hadn’t even applied for any position in particular, simply thrown his resume at the company’s inbox alongside a pathetic cover letter asking to be used however they see fit.
As if their CEO would waste a second of his day besides to come down here and chastise him for wasting his important company’s time. The receptionist held more worth in a finger than could be found in all of Morris put together, and he thought he’d be able to work a job like that!? He’d crumble under the slightest obstacle, some rich investor chews him out and he’d dissolve. Morris feels himself tearing up at the very idea.
Or perhaps he’s simply halfway to weeping for being a dumbass who thought things could be better. Always thinking. Too much thinking. He feels his fingers clench into his forehead before he even realizes he’s put his face in his hands. The pain of his fingernails scratching brings him back to his senses and after making sure he didn’t leave splotchy red marks on his hairline he takes a deep breath and turns away from his watery-eyed reflection.
Now’s not the time.
If this is real, and it must be. Then this is a massive opportunity he simply can’t waste because he got in his own head. He’s too smart for that. He’s smart, and Byron Roman himself has a position in mind for him. This is-
BING BONG DING DONG- DONG DING BONG BING
“Jesus christ…”
Nearly jumping out of his skin, it’s clear that despite telling himself to calm down he has remained well on edge. Looking up to find the villainous implement that startled him, Morris is shocked he didn’t notice the clock before now. Still recovering from the jumpscare he can hear a subtle tick-tock, grounding him in reality as he attempts to find calm.
Centering himself on the consistent clicking of gears nearby, Morris sits in a small chair and sets his bag down beside him. Time to lock in. Reaching down to paw through the couple of belongings he saw as necessary, Morris debates whether it’s best to read through his printed resume or to focus wholly on setting his mind at ease.
Obviously he’s not going to just scroll on his phone. At worst he’ll stumble across something that’ll stress him out more. At best he’ll look like some screen-addicted zoomer right when Mr. Roman walks in.
Fingers glaze the worn cover of his trusty bible. Melville’s masterpiece. Moby Dick. Thinking of the tome and the vastness of the sea within, the classicist feels the constriction in his chest just melt away. Focused on the sound of North Atlantic gulls in his mind, buoyed by the persistent ticking of the newfound clock, how could Morris ever notice the slightest hissing now emanating from the nearby overhead vent.
Book in hands, he turns it over a few times before opening it to some choice section on whales and their constituent parts. Morris at last relaxes back into his chair. Despite doing everything right, as he reads his pulse continues to rise. First putting his hand on his chest to feel its racing beat, Morris shakes his head and pointedly ignores how it suddenly feels warmer in the room to read the passage before him.
Fanning out his button-up he frowns and tells himself the discomfort is all in his head. Shifting in his seat he feels the pooling sweat in pits and resolves to ignore it. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he squints at the text and begins to whisper it aloud to himself.
‘Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed unrelenting.. Uh?’ Hearing something bump in the hallway he turns to hopefully see his interviewer interrupting him only to find it’s presumably in his head. Scratching at the side of his chest, carefully not shoving his hand deep in his pits, Morris purses his lips and looks back to the book, unknowingly skipping a few lines.
‘Or, if for any reason thought to be corpo- uhhh? Corporately, no. Corpor-really? Corporeally? Jeeez, god… I must be more stressed than I even thought.” And he certainly thought he was plenty stressed.
Leaning back against his chair, Morris closes his eyes and simply tries to find peace in the darkness. His foot anxiously taps on the floor, at first matching the ticking before rapidly outpacing it. And then it falls heavier. His shoes were tight from the get-go having rarely been worn, but suddenly it’s almost like they’ve gotten tighter in the last few minutes.
Every muscle in his body tensed, he uses his anxious tension to jump up with a start and pace the otherwise empty office. This does nothing to abate the discomfort in his shoes, but as he does so he begins to find that it is not only his feet that are suddenly acting up. Crossing his arms tightly as he patrols the small suite, his cardigan tugs against his shoulders like it never has before.
With a scowl he looks down at his wrists exposed from both his sweater and shirt. Imagining the surely pristine suit his town’s idol is sure to arrive in he easily works himself up anew about his foolish daydreams. Even worse than before, as if every already extreme emotion had heightened. As if they were still heightening.
Throwing his arms down and swinging them to simply remove them from his sight, he refuses to acknowledge how the twigs twitch with every sway. Muscle fibers that have been inactive save to froth milk and open novels suddenly twinge and burn with a need Morris doesn’t understand.
Struggling to make sense of the strange sensation, with pursed lips his fists cramp and at last it becomes perfectly clear. Aggression. Morris is filled with the all-too unfamiliar need to punch something. His consistent pacing back and forth immediately stops as the urge takes pride of place in his mind. Staring as his dainty hands curling into fists, Morris watches mouth agog as the veins on their backs throb.
The sound of his knuckles cracking larger with the force of his clenching is absolutely clear. Wispy blond strands that have long decorated his wrists seem suddenly darker in this office light, to say nothing of the fact that it seems like there are altogether more of them.
Hidden by his cardigan sleeves, Morris suddenly feels his forearms filled with force. Not knowing what a flexor or extensor even is, Morris is dumbstruck as he feels muscles reflexively constrict. Higher up his arm, and far more eye-catching, he is stunned as he sees his sweater catch on biceps like he’s never seen. Muscle like he’d never even been able to imagine on his unimpressive form.
Everything else is washed from his mind as he sees his arms continue to bloat. The shock from his sudden violent streak and even the slight pain still pinging from his shoes pinching more and more, everything fades away as a grin overtakes his shaky face. Panting almost as he lowers and raises an invisible dumbbell, Morris watches as with every lift his sleeves are strained further. And his arms continue to grow.
Hands stretch further from the end of his sleeves as the scratchy, darker curls spreading up his forearm continue to thicken. Doing everything short of drooling at his biceps bulging thicker, when it starts to strain against the dress shirt beneath, his vacant expression twitches into one of frustration.
Nose flaring in irritation, he unintentionally takes a deeper breath and gasps as he suddenly notices a pervasive stink has begun to fill the room. Sure that it simply can’t be coming from himself he raises his heavy right arm to look underneath and can hardly believe the sight. Sweating through both the dress shirt and the thick, once baggy cardigan, Morris can’t take his eyes off the dark, spreading stain in his armpits.
Stunned, his face burns bright red and then feels starkly itchy itself. The urge to scratch is waylaid by the far more powerful need to shove his head into his pit and inhale deeply. Get some of that sweat on his face… Maybe it’d stay there, stick on his upper lip and he’d get a deep whiff of his musky male odor with every single breath.
“Nnno… That- I cann’tuhh…” Words dissolve from his mouth and mind as his lips simply fall open.
Tongue almost lolling, his neck that had been surreptitiously thickening itself begins to lean towards his waiting pit. Converted to the cause, his barely cognizant rational self, tries to make sense of his need. How is he to fix the issue without truly understanding it. He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and let his pits breath to the open air.
Mind wont to picture the bushy tangle of pit hair that must be hidden beneath these restrictive layers, he does just that. Thicker than his pubes and almost as scratchy, he imagines the chalky deodorant he threw on this morning simply melting away. Absolutely overwhelmed by the prodigious musk his pits produce, proof of his own prodigious manhood.
Lost in a daydream, one hand slowly reaches over to scratch the armpit he imagines and finds it just as hairy as he imagines. Stomach quivering as higher thought continues to vacate. Buried beneath two tops, even still his fingertips can still feel the deep scratchy strands that have begun to stretch well beyond their underarm stomping ground.
Lips twitching into a grin, Morris moans quietly to himself as blush returns to his pale cheeks as its skin tightens and grows rougher. Standing limply in the center of the room as he continues to fill out his clothes, there are a couple inches of straining dress socks showing from the pants that were ever too long.
On the opposite end of the garment, his growth is far more drastic. Never much of a shower or a grower, Morris’ petit package has more than filled his lucky pair of briefs. While one hand remains preoccupied with his pits, the other enthusiastically goes to cup a cock slowly twitching larger.
Quickly struggling to remove a belt now constricting his widening waist before it snaps, at the very same moment it clinks against the floor he hears his swelling cock strain his briefs. When it at last breaks free from his underwear and begins throbbing down the side of his pant leg, obviously visible, Morris’ hips twitch forward and he is brought back to the unmistakable reality of his situation.
“OHHHhhh GOddd~” Panting as he tries to make sense of this must-be nightmare, Morris stumbles over to the mirror to try and free himself from this manic hellscape. Thicker lips drooping open surrounded by stubble darkening from its blonde peachfuzz into a real man’s beard, he forces his face into his hands and tries to convince himself that these changes aren’t good. Cock throbbing in response it’s not looking good.
Thick breath mists the mirror, hiding the vacant look in his eyes as they trail up and down the reflection of his body’s new almost pornographic proportions. So focussed on the meaty arms hanging at his side, he had yet to notice how a forming chest suddenly strains the buttons on his shirt. Nipples encircled by lancing curls are absolutely visible through the sweat-stained top.
Hunger and need fill the spot left by intelligence in his eyes, he forces a hand to his mouth to stop a loud moan as his chest cracks wider, at last tearing the pitiful dress shirt. Strange new strength filling him more with every moment, he is again felt with the impatient urge to make use of it. To fight, to ff- fuck. Forcing his fist into his mouth he bites down to feel anything but the oppressive sensation pulsing from his cock at the idea.
Desperately willing himself to settle down and figure out how to wake up from this hallucination, Morris slams the fist not cupping his cock into the wall as he bites down hard on his lip to try and force himself back to his senses. “FUCK!”
Clutching his injured mouth he stomps a foot in pain as the taste of iron fills his mouth. This marks the end of his dress shoes as the seams on its front burst open to reveal long toes almost completely visible beneath the sparse threads of a sock barely hanging in there. The sound of leather tearing continues as his freed foot continues expanding and tears the tattered shoe in two.
Apathetic to the small trail of red dripping into the thickening stubble on his chin, he looks down at his mismatched feet. One with a shoe hanging on its ankle, still widening beyond the pale. The other barely hangs in there, shining leather filled to the brim with the mass of a foot simply far too large.
Gasping in pain at the feeling of his left foot trying desperately to match its pair’s growth while still confined, there’s an ice cold pit in his stomach as he at last realizes he can’t be dreaming. It just feels too much, too good. And then the other shoe bursts open, sending fabric and laces flying, the slightly humid air of the office a balm to the sole.
Somewhere increasingly buried in his mind, he struggles to understand. If he’s not dreaming, then this is real. His back cracks as he adjusts to stand slightly taller. This is impossible.
Staring at the remains of the most expensive piece of his outfit now hanging from both ankles, Morris tries to understand. It’s what he’s best at, making sense of something. Thinking. He has a degree. He was in debate and wrote for his university’s paper. At least he’s pretty sure he did?
Furrowing his brows as they begin to thicken from their patchy blonde, Morris finds it suddenly difficult to recall. Concern at his situation rapidly gives way to frustration which gives way to apathy. He’ll just wait for Byron to come in and explain everything. Surely he’ll know what’s going on.
As it begins to become more and more difficult to recall his higher education, his thoughts begin to drift increasingly to Byron. Picturing the great man does no favors to his libido, his trigger happy crotch is eager to twitch with fervor as Morris struggles to control himself.
No matter what he’s not going to be caught masturbating when the mysterious executive walks in. Despite wanting nothing more in the world to do so, he moves to sit down and struggles to tuck the massive cock in between his thighs before doing his best to cross the thick trunks.
Vaguely recalling he brought some book with him, Morris looks at the novel tossed aside and picks it up. There’s a flicker of recognition as he knows it’s a book he really likes. But as he reads the title he has to stifle a laugh as in lieu of that ingrained peace, he simply reads the words ‘Moby Dick’ “Pffff WAH HAh ah- Hrm.” Clearing his throat as his voice cracks lower, shifting to one which yearns to guffaw rather than giggle.
Steeling himself, as much as he’s able. Morris recovers slightly and sternly tells himself he likes this book. That he’s a big reader, he’s got a degree in books. This is his favorite book. But even as he flails to remember what exactly a B.A. stands for, the memories of going to university feel less true.
Surely he’d be smarter then…
When that thought flits to his mind the pride he holds in his intelligence returns. Determined to prove it by reading a book thicker than he can clearly remember reading, he opens it to a random page once more: Chapter 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
Eyes glazed over, the language is far too advanced for his simplifying mind to even begin to comprehend. Still, they drift over the lines enough for him to pretend he’s grasping anything before at last they catch on something: ‘Squeeze! squeeze! Squeeze!’ Exclamation points calling to him, Morris continues to read Ishmael’s account of processing spermaceti. And unsurprisingly, he begins to laugh.
While earlier he was reading to focus on the text, now he almost needs to sound out the words for them to sink in. Following the lines with his fatter finger “All the morn-ing long; I squeezed that- hehheh, Sperm till I myself almost melted into it HAH HAhah- Huh… Sperm… Squeeze…”
Biting the lip that has miraculously healed already, if only he could recall the injury, Morris’ now sperm focussed and squeeze happy mind can only do what the written page suggests. Dropping the tome as he manspreads in an office chair that now creaks beneath his heavier load, he swallows the drool pooling in his mouth. Looking to pants now decorated with small tears, the once-academic stares at the too squeezable cock stretching halfway down his meaty thigh.
Pants so tight he can see the thick veins through the tearing fabric, Morris’ mouth falls open as he drools outright, beginning to rub his own whale through pants seconds away from tearing apart altogether. Feeling it scratch against his curl covered thighs and the cheap satin of his dress pants, he can scarcely recall that he’s in this room let alone the reason why.
Pool of pre rapidly pulsing through the vicelike pants, Morris’ moans echo as he can recall no reason at all to quiet himself. As he can recall nothing but the pleasure emanating from his wanting cock. Louder than the clock, completely covering the ever-present hiss of the vent that has been steadily increasing; not that Morris ever stood a chance at noticing. His twitchy hips rut as he spits up over himself from excitement at release that is soon to come.
Every aspect of self and every stray neuron firing is focused on the rising pressure in his crotch. Morris can feel his balls pull up as his free hand clenches the chair about to break underneath his weight. Legs extend as every muscle flexes, and just as that sweet release is on the precipice of freeing him from the grand weight of his worries- the door knob turns.
Clad in a tailored three-piece suit more expensive than Morris’ apartment enters the prodigal chief himself, Byron Roman. Morris veins run cold at being seen in such a compromised position by that most influential man that has ever stepped foot in their podunk shared home town. Bolting up like a bullet, the horny man’s spine is straight as a ramrod.
So too is his cock as it finally wins the war against his cheap dress pants. Sending a small stream of pre flying as it bursts free from confinement, Morris can’t help but cross his eyes as it bounces in the air. Hazarding a glimpse, he can hardly believe just how impressive his dick is. Almost twice its previous size and veinier than his arms after the best pump he’s ever had, Morris would have cum at the very sight were he not wholly stunned from being in the presence of Byron.
Closing the door behind him as he enters outright, there is no surprise on the executives face as he inspects the goods. Striding to meet the man, he holds his hands behind his back as he inspects every inch of the man standing firmly at attention. Expressionless as he takes in every detail of Morris.
Zeroing in on whatever bodypart of Morris’ strikes his fancy, as he stares Morris continues to grow. Accelerating from the attention of the great man before him, as if every muscle and mindless body part were trying to make him proud.
Starting from behind, Byron takes an interest in the man’s ass. Morris twitches as his glutes expand, what remains of his briefs fall irrevocably into their crack as his hairy cheeks hang larger in the open air, stretchmarks painted across their prodigious mass like the work of art it is.
Eyes trailing upward, Morris' waist fills out to give his silhouette the most powerful shape one can imagine. Connecting his heavy chest with wide hips and heavy thighs, there is no way someone could look at the drooling man and imagine anything but strength lying within him.
Finishing a slow lap around his aspirant, Byron stands in front of Morris and does one last look down and up. Landing on his face, Morris feels his jaw sharpen underneath the perpetual stubble that coats it. His chin juts out like a superhero’s while his cheekbones and brow ridge grow just as prominent. There’s a small crack in the air as Morris feels his nose reshape into something either aquiline or one that has simply broken and rehealed.
Still frozen in place, Morris’ stunted mind only just realizes that he’s at eye-level with Byron Morris. It’s so unbelievable that it almost breaks him free from whatever trance he’s in. Feeling the sweat drip down his exposed midriff as a breeze in the room sails through the treasure trail etching itself up his puffy abs mostly hidden by his strong gut, a needy grunt ekes out of his throat.
Finally, Byron gives any real indication that he’s anything more than a passive observer. Waiting for his guest’s glazed eyes to look back at him, the CEO smiles. “So. What is it that brings you in today?” His voice is like an upright bass alone in an orchestra hall, tightly controlled, smooth, and completely attention grabbing.
Unable to string two thoughts together he grunts and tries to explain himself, “I- I, uhh… J- Job- s ssir…” Struggling to swallow drool still spilling from his overactive glands, he tries to stand even straighter to hide the obvious mess he’s in. Taking a deep breath to recover from the strain of speaking, he inhales a hearty dose of his musk and struggles against the handful of twitches his body enacts in response.
“I hope you don’t mind the subterfuge, from your letter I did gather you were quite desperate. So much so you were quite lax reading the fine print of- Well, I imagine you can’t recall anyway so what is the point, right old- Er? What was your name again?” For the first time Byron reaches out to touch Morris, brushing some shred of torn cardigan stuck to his sweaty skin as he asks the question
“I’m Mo- Mo…” Finally thickening enough to be the caterpillar-like brows he’s always admired on other men as his brow ridge bulges lower, his eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the simplest of answers. Waiting patiently, Byron starts to massage his bicep, distracting him all the more. It’s his name. It should be engrained within his mind, within his self more than anything else.
Byron’s hand travels up his shoulder before shifting over to cup his heavy pecs, prodding them as if he’s inspecting livestock with a grin. “Come now boy, you must know your name! I read your very brief resume- or I briefly read it, rather. Hm, I suppose you couldn’t mind such a dig at this point ah ha ha!” With each laugh he presses firmer into the man’s chest, delighting as he quivers with need.
“I’mmm Mmmnhh”
Byron reaches up to grasp the man’s jaw with his free hand while he travels down the whole of his torso with the other. Batting away the shirt as he easily sails down sweaty abs and haphazardly detangles scratchy body hair, Byron smiles as he forces the man to look directly in his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind if we just gave you a new one? After all, what could you want more than a fresh start under my wing.”
Needily nodding, the now nameless man melts as Byron at last graces his cock with attention. Lightly grazing its veiny surface with his manicured nails, the executive gives one small tug on the meaty cock’s head and watches as pre that has been trickling down his shaft drips onto the floor.
Eyes darting to the book lying on the floor, Byron smirks as he brings his hand to his mouth to sample the sticky ichor glazing his hand. “Moby, hm? Isn’t that swell.”
Tongue hanging limp from his mouth as he pants like a dog, he must agree the name feels fitting. It feels like him. Or he would if there was a single thought in his mind. At the moment any higher consciousness, much like his blood, was rushing to that most turgid of organs. He was just waiting for Byron’s permission to finally become.
As Byron’s hand reaches to grasp what little of Moby’s cock it’s able, the new hire feels the peace he was always longing for. Mind simplifying with each small tug and twist of the fingers, he feels all he is and was drain into his balls as they pull upward.
Eyes rolling back as his supernaturally rigid posture twitches and almost collapses under the touch of his boss. There’s a blank grin on Moby’s face as he prepares to release the heavy weight of understanding. And with a few simple flicks of Roman’s wrist, Moby does just that.
Erupting like a geyser, everything that made Morris what he was is launched from him in pearly strings. His application and the contract he thoughtlessly signed, his few long years as a barista, his poorly received thesis and the best years of his life precipitating it; all converted to a messy cum splatter on the floor of this corporate office.
Moby pants as he falls back amongst the pools of his scattered past self. Bleary smirk on his face, the toll of almost doubling in size leaves him drained as his eyelids begin to waver. Pulling up a chair and lighting a cigar that had been hidden in his jacket, Byron Roman watches him overtaken by sleep.
He doesn’t remember too much about the man smoking above him. He doesn’t remember too much at all. But he knows the man is everything to him. And when he wakes up well, he’s going to do his best to make him proud.
Byron Roman never really saw the point in a grunt. His many underlings all served their purposes, true. But a body man, one always at his beck and call, one always by his side. He always imagined it would be suffocating.
Never has he been more pleased to be proven wrong. Moby has performed every duty even better than expected. Given their steamy first meeting it’s not long before their relationship grows beyond that of boss and muscled-up assistant.
His scientists always pushed one of their own to be the lab rat, but Byron has always preferred the humanities. While mechanical intelligence may have sufficed, Moby’s tortured classical passions gave his final form far more flavor.
Reclined at his desk, incense burning slowly as he stares at Moby standing over watch outside his office, Byron decides it’s time to call it a day. To that end, he calls his grunt over for their now daily ritual. Calling him over, Byron’s mouth curls into a grin as watches Moby’s tight uniform contort and stretch over his muscle with every labored movement.
“You rang boss?”
“Moby be a dear, lock the door and close the blinds.”
Blush burns underneath Moby’s permanent five o’clock shadow as his mouth reflexively falls open. Sprinting to the door to do just that, he bounds back to his boss to do exactly what’s made for.
Undoing his tie, Byron’s already well-excited himself, zipper creaking as this becomes indisputable. Something about their sessions always leaves him feeling rejuvenated himself. When he looks in the mirror after he’d swear his beard is always a touch darker, the neck it hides thicker. Perhaps he’d worry, but fucking and being fucked by the titan simply has a way of softening his many worries.
Stealing one last glance at a weathered blue copy of Moby’s old book, he cracks his shoulders and feels them reset ever so slightly firmer. “Time to do what you do best, boy.”
"Hey Derek? Can I talk to you for a moment?" My Boss asked, gesturing to his office.
"Ugh, yeah." I dropped what I was doing.
I followed him into the cramped room, trying not to show my nerves. I had a feeling I knew what this conversation was going to be about, and I knew exactly what he was going to say, and yet, some part of me hoped I was wrong.
"Could you close the door." My boss asked as he causally leaned on his desk.
I nodded, quietly closing the door behind me, further trapping me in the enclosed space.
"So..." He broke the silence. "I know that you've been asking to be promoted to fill time."
"Yeah." I responded, doing a horrible job at hiding my disappointment.
"Well you've been here for many years now and have always come into work giving your all. And I just want to say, we appreciate loyalty like that here at Burger King." My boss continued.
"Can you just tell me I'm not getting the promotion so I can get back to work."
He furrowed his brow at the comment.
"I was going to say that we're giving you full time. I think you're one of our best and you deserve it."
My eyes lit up, I had completely lost hope they would give me it since they're notorious for holding back full time benefits from their employees.
"Really!?"
"Yes, really." He chuckled. "Here's your new uniform."
He gave a warm smile and handed me a shirt. As happy as I was, it was a little confusing that I needed a new uniform. I unfolded the shirt to find an identical shirt to the one I was currently wearing.
"Oh, I don't need a new uniform. It's the same as the one I have now." I held out the shirt so he could take it back.
"C'mon, just give it a try." My boss pushed the shirt back towards me. "I'm sure you'll find it fitting if a full timer."
"You want me to try it on right now?" I asked.
"Ya, don't be shy. I don't mind if you change in here." He responded in a charming tone.
Something about it almost came across as flirty, but I couldn't tell. I had never looked at him like that, even though he's quite handsome. I just figured I was reading it wrong, and I wasn't usually shy about showing off my body, so I started taking off my uniform.
I tried not to make eye contact, but he was basically staring at me as I peeled off my shirt. I knew it was inappropriate, but I kinda liked the attention, people as hot as him rarely looked my way.
I slowly picked up the new shirt and slid it over my body, making sure to show off my six pack as I did so. Once I had the shirt on, I put my hat back on and looked up at him. He was biting his lip, scanning his eyes up and down my body. It couldn't be more obvious that he wanted me, and if I was being honest, in that moment, I wanted him too.
He walked up to me, putting his hands on my hips, pinching the shirt. "It fits perfectly, doesn't it?"
"A little big, don't you think?" I responded, pulling out the baggy shirt from my skin.
"Just how I like it..." He gets really close, as if to lean in for a kiss. "Gives you room to grow into it."
I was too into the moment to register what he had said, I just kissed him to shut him up. He pulled me in close and kissed me back.
As we made out, he seemed to really like rubbing my stomach. I figured he just really liked running his fingers along the ridges of my abs, but something felt off.
"I love the weight you put on recently." He said between breaths.
"What are you talking about?" I pulled back for a moment.
"You must have had a few too many burgers after work, Derek, cuz those abs seemed to have faded under a little belly."
I thought I was going crazy, last I checked I was pretty ripped, especially for a guy who worked at Burger King. But then I looked down at my own body, and just like he said, there was a bit of pudge hiding under my loose uniform.
He gave it a pinch before pulling me back in for a kiss. I knew something wasn't right, but it felt like too much was going on for me to focus. And besides, my dick jumped every time he pinched my belly fat, so I definitely wasn't complaining.
"You've really let yourself go, haven't you." He said, catching me off guard.
"I'm not that fat." I laughed at the remark.
"Just look at the evidence." He pointed to my belly. "I can remember back when you had abs, you just can't stop stuffing yourself after work, can you?"
I didn't even know how to respond. I simply looked down at my own body to see that he was right, I really let myself go. My once loose shirt now clung tightly to my bulging gut, obscuring my view of my feet.
"Don't worry babe, it looks great on you." He continued.
I grabbed my belly in disbelief, letting my fingers sink into the soft fat. I couldn't believe I let myself get to this point, and I couldn't believe I actually thought it was hot. Even though I couldn't see my dick anymore, I could feel it up sticking up into the underside of my belly, bouncing every time I pinched my gut.
"It does?" I asked.
"I think it's hot as hell, why do you think I keep giving you free meals every shift." He laughed.
"So there was an ulterior motive!" I joked.
"Guilty!" He raised his hands. "I just want my man to feel proud of his body."
He held up his hands and grabbed my shoulders. "You should feel confident behind the biggest man in the room."
As the words escaped his mouth, I could feel my shirt tighten around my shoulders and arms, as if they were growing.
"They'll also know that I feed you well, because I care."
Once again, I felt my body change to reflect his words. With every breath, my chest expanded, growing into two man tits that pressed tightly against my now tiny looking uniform. I could even feel fat growing under my chin, creating a couple fold under my thin beard.
"Afterall..." He reached around my, cupping my ass cheeks with his strong hands. "A hard working full timer like you deserves a big meal when he's off work."
I sudden tightness grew in my pants as my ass cheeks filled out any spare room I had left in my pants.
He stepped back, as if to admire his work, leaving me to explore the soft edges of this heavy body. I pulled up my shirt, revealing the true scale of the damage I had done to my body since I got full time. As the edge of my shirt lifted past my belly button, my round belly fell into place with a jiggle, showing off the stretch marks I had accrued in my weight gain.
"It fits perfectly, doesn't it babe?" He asked.
I looked up, making eye contact with my handsome boyfriend. I couldn't help but smile.
"Ya... It really doesn't leave much to the imagination, huh?"
"You know that's just how I like it." He leaned in for a kiss. "Now..." He said as he pulled away. "Get back out there and work up an appetite for me, will ya. Tonight, I'm gonna stuff you so much that you'll need a new uniform."
He sent me off with a solid slap to my belly. I walked back into the kitchen, proudly strutting my belly first. I couldn't help but smile at the thought of my boyfriend making me even fatter than I already am.
I woke up to the sound of the dorm shower shutting off and the heavy, wet footsteps of my roommate crossing the room.
Reece.
Even the name still sent a dark little thrill through me every single morning.
He stepped into the main room still dripping, curly brown hair plastered in messy, damp ringlets across his forehead, that signature half-smirk already tugging at his full lips like he knew exactly how ridiculous he looked and didn’t give a single fuck. Water and sweat mixed on his skin, turning it into a glossy, golden map of muscle. Those heavy pecs rose and fell with each breath, the deep cleft between them shiny and inviting, dark nipples still tight from the cold water. His abs flexed and rippled as he towel-dried his hair, every ridge and cut standing out in sharp relief. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips, the thick root of his cock just barely hidden, the heavy bulge shifting with every step.
“Morning, nerd,” he rumbled in that deep, post-sleep baritone, voice still rough from sleep and the way he’d probably been moaning my name into his pillow an hour earlier. He caught me staring and flexed one arm lazily, watching the bicep peak and the veins stand out along his forearm. A bead of water traced down the curve of his pec, caught on the nipple, and dropped onto the floor. “You gonna keep eye-fucking me or you actually getting up today?”
I grinned, cock already thickening under the sheets. “What? I'm just appreciating the view. You look like you got run over by the protein truck again.”
Reece laughed, low and easy, and turned to grab his gym bag. The motion made those massive lats flare and that perfect bubble ass flex under the towel. He had no idea. No clue that a week ago he’d been my balding, beer-gutted, ranting homophobic father. No memory of the slurs, the lectures, the way he used to sneer at anything that wasn’t “normal.” All of that had been scrubbed clean by Chronivac.
Now he was Reece—my 22-year-old, 6'2", 225-pound bi jock roommate who thought we’d been sharing this dorm since freshman year. And he was mine in every way that mattered.
I waited until he left for his morning lift before I pulled out my phone and opened the app again. The interface glowed softly.
Target locked: Reece.
Status: Oblivious.
Reality stable.
I scrolled through the categories I’d already tweaked and felt my cock twitch at the memory of how it had all started.
What happened exactly? It had been last Friday night.
My dad—Robert—had shown up at the dorm unannounced, same sour expression, same gut straining against his polo, same receding hair and judgmental eyes. He’d taken one look at the rainbow flag sticker on my laptop and launched into the usual bullshit about “real men” and “phases” and how I needed to “fix my shit before it’s too late.”
I’d smiled, nodded, offered him the pull-out couch, and waited until he passed out drunk on cheap beer and self-righteousness.
Then I opened Chronivac.
I’d set the parameters with shaking hands and a throbbing dick.
Name: Reece Thompson.
Age: 22.
Height: 6'2".
Weight: 225 lbs.
Body Type: Competition-ready jock, low body fat, maximal muscle density, tanned skin, thick curly brown hair, handsome face with natural smirk.
I’d spent a long time on the body sliders.
Shoulders: +40%.
Chest: +65% — heavy, rounded, deep cleavage, sensitive nipples.
Arms: 19-inch biceps, thick vascular forearms.
Abs: deep-cut 8-pack with sharp obliques.
Legs: tree-trunk quads, diamond calves, and an ass that would make grown men cry.
I previewed it and nearly came in my sweats at the render.
Cock & Balls: 8.5 inches soft, 10.5 hard, thick as a wrist, heavy low-hanging balls, constant precum production, high sensitivity, refractory period near zero.
Ass: Plump muscular bubble, tight when flexed but soft and greedy when relaxed, prostate hypersensitive.
Libido: Maximum. Always horny. Leaks easily. Gets hard from flexing, from being watched, from my voice.
Personality: Cocky, outgoing, gym-obsessed jock bro. Openly bisexual. Flirty with everyone. Secretly submissive and eager to please only around me—his “nerd roommate.” High confidence, zero homophobia, zero shame.
Awareness: Off. Full reality rewrite enabled.
Apply – Gradual Over 90 Minutes.
I hit that button. Then I sat in the dark and watched my father become my perfect roommate.
It started in his face. The snoring stopped for a second as the skin smoothed. Deep lines around his eyes and mouth faded like they’d never existed. His receding hairline surged forward, strands thickening, darkening, curling into those messy brown waves that now framed Reece’s face so perfectly. His jaw cracked softly and squared out, stubble reshaping into the light, sexy scruff that suited him. His lips parted on a sleepy sigh and settled into that permanent half-smirk. Even unconscious, he looked cocky and fuckable.
His neck thickened next, cords standing out, Adam’s apple more pronounced. When he mumbled something in his sleep it already sounded deeper, smoother, younger.
The chest was the part that made me pull my cock out and start stroking slow and tight.
Under the old polo, his soft tits began to swell. The fabric stretched with a quiet creak. I watched the shape change—fat melting, muscle packing on in heavy, rounded slabs. His nipples pushed outward, darkening, growing sensitive enough that even in sleep one hand drifted up and rubbed across the new chest. The polo rode higher and higher as the pecs inflated, the deep valley between them forming right before my eyes. Throb… pulse… stretch… I could almost hear the tissues remolding. By the time the changes slowed, two heavy, meaty pecs strained the fabric, the outline of those fat nipples obvious. A bead of sweat already glistened in the new cleavage.
His gut followed, shrinking fast. The beer belly caved in with wet, sucking sounds I felt more than heard. Skin tightened. Muscle carved itself into existence—first the top row of abs, then the lower ones, deep cuts appearing between each block until an 8-pack sat where the paunch had been. His waist pulled in, creating that sharp V that arrowed straight down to his crotch. The polo was now comically tight, seams popping one by one with tiny pop-pop sounds as his lats and chest kept growing.
Shoulders broadened with dull cracks, delts capping, traps rising. His arms inflated like someone was pumping air into them. Biceps rounded and split, veins rising to the surface in thick ropes. The sleeves of the polo shredded at the seams with satisfying rrriip sounds. He shifted in his sleep, one new massive arm flopping over the edge of the couch, and I had to bite my knuckle to keep from moaning out loud.
Lower body next. His legs lengthened slightly as height adjusted, then packed with muscle. Quads swelled against his pants until the fabric stretched shiny and thin. Calves hardened into diamonds. And that ass—fuck, that ass. It rose and rounded, cheeks firming and lifting into two perfect, muscular globes that pushed the seat of his pants to the absolute limit. Stretch… swell… clench… I watched the fabric ride up between the cheeks as they grew. He was going to have the kind of ass that looked obscene in anything he wore.
The crotch was last and the best. Even asleep, his body knew what was happening. His cock began to lengthen down one thigh, thickening visibly, the bulge growing and shifting. Throb… pulse… thicken… The head pushed against the fabric, forming a clear outline. His balls swelled into heavy, churning orbs that made the fabric tent. Almost immediately the high libido kicked in—dark wet spot blooming at the tip of the bulge as precum started soaking through. His hips twitched. A low, unconscious groan left his new deeper voice. I stroked myself faster, matching the rhythm of his growing cock.
Over the next hour the changes refined. Skin tone warmed and tanned. A light dusting of hair appeared across the new pecs and abs, just enough to catch sweat and make everything glisten. The old clothes morphed—polo and pants becoming a tight black tank and gray gym shorts that barely contained the new body. When he finally stirred and sat up, stretching those massive arms overhead, pecs bouncing and flexing, he looked exactly like the man now living in my dorm.
“Shit, I crashed hard,” he said in that new voice, rubbing his face. The smirk appeared naturally. “Did you just let me sleep on the couch like a fucking animal, bro?”
I played it cool even though my cock was still leaking in my hand under the blanket. “You looked comfortable. Rough night?”
He stood, and the new body moved like it had always belonged to him. Shoulders rolling, pecs shifting, that heavy cock swinging in the loose shorts. “Nah. Just lifted late. You know how it is.” He scratched his abs absently, fingers tracing the new cuts. “Gonna shower. You need anything before I head out?”
I shook my head, watching the way his ass flexed as he walked away. The reality rewrite had already settled. In his mind we’d been roommates since freshman. My dad had “taken a job out of state.” No one questioned it. No one remembered the old version except me.
And I made sure to enjoy every second of the new one.
Over the next few days I made small, delicious adjustments while he was awake and oblivious.
Tuesday afternoon he was in the middle of push-ups on the dorm floor, tank top soaked through, curly hair falling into his eyes. I sat at my desk pretending to study and opened Chronivac.
Chest size +8%.
Nipple sensitivity +20%.
Apply gradual.
I watched as Reece's pecs swell right there on the floor. Each rep made them bounce heavier, fuller. The tank stretched tighter. His nipples, already sensitive from the first round of changes, darkened and pebbled visibly against the fabric. He grunted through the set, sweat dripping from his chin onto the deep cleavage.
“Fuck, pump’s insane today,” he panted, completely unaware that every rep was making his chest grow. By the time he finished, those pecs were noticeably heavier, the tank looking painted on. He stood up, rolled his shoulders, and caught me staring. “What? You like the pump too, nerd?”
I swallowed. “Yeah. Looks good on you.”
He grinned that cocky grin and flexed both arms, then bounced his pecs deliberately. “These bad boys? Been growing like crazy lately. Must be the new protein shake.” He stepped closer, still breathing hard, musk rolling off him in waves. “You can feel these milkers if you want. Spotter’s privilege or whatever.”
Fuck yeah, I want it.
I reached out and ran both hands over the hot, sweat-slick juicy muscle. They were so full now, so heavy, bulging under my fingers. When I brushed his nipples he let out a soft, surprised nnnghhh and his cock twitched visibly in his shorts. A tiny wet spot appeared at the tip. He didn’t even seem to notice.
“Sensitive today,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away. If anything he leaned into my touch, eyes half-lidded. That submissive streak I’d programmed was already showing. “Feels… good when you do it, though.”
I squeezed gently and watched his eyes flutter. “Yeah? Maybe I should spot you more often.”
He laughed, low and breathy. “You know what, maybe you should.”
By Thursday I’d added more. Bigger balls. Higher cum volume. Ass sensitivity cranked. And a little extra spice, whenever he was around me and horny, he’d start leaking steadily without realizing it. Reality made sure no one else noticed the wet spots or the constant bulge. Only I got to see how desperate he really was.
That night he came back from the gym looking like a hot mess—curly hair damp, skin glistening, chest pumped and shiny, that smirk in full effect. He dropped his bag, peeled the soaked tank off with a wet schlick, and tossed it aside. Those heavy pecs bounced free, nipples tight and dark. Sweat ran in rivulets down the deep cleft and over the carved abs. He caught me looking and didn’t even pretend to be shy.
“Shower’s all yours if you want it,” he said, but he didn’t move toward the bathroom. Instead he stepped closer, still in those low gym shorts that clung to his thick thighs and the massive, half-hard bulge. The wet spot at the tip was obvious now, fabric dark and clinging to the fat head of his cock. “Or… you could help me cool down first.”
I stood up. My own cock was already rock hard. “How do you want me to help, Reece?”
"Hmmmm, I don't know," He licked his lips, eyes flicking down to my bulge and back up. The cocky jock mask slipped just enough to show the hunger underneath. “Been thinking about your hands on me all day. That spot you gave me the other night? Fuckkkk. Couldn’t stop replaying it.” He reached down and adjusted himself, the thick length shifting heavily. A fresh bead of precum soaked through. “You make me so fucking hard lately, bro. Is that weird?”
I stepped in until our bodies almost touched. The heat rolling off him was incredible. “Not weird at all. I like it. You like it.”
His breath hitched when I ran my palms up his sweat-slick chest, thumbs circling those sensitive nipples. He groaned—deep, needy—and his cock jumped, another pulse of precum darkening the shorts even more. “Nngh—fuck, you're right, nerd. I like your hands…”
I leaned in and licked a stripe up the center of his chest, tasting salt and musk and pure jock. He shuddered, one big hand coming up to grip the back of my neck, not pushing me away but holding me there. I sucked one nipple into my mouth and he actually whimpered, hips bucking forward so that massive bulge pressed against my stomach.
“Bed,” I murmured against his skin. “Now.”
He went willingly, that big body dropping onto the mattress like he’d been waiting for the command. I stripped him the rest of the way and just stared for a second. The cock that sprang free was obscene—thick, veiny, ten and a half inches of throbbing meat, heavy balls drawn up tight, the head already shiny and leaking a steady stream. His ass flexed as he spread his legs for me, hole already twitching.
I took my time. Sucked that fat cock until my jaw ached and his moans filled the room. Schlick… slurp… gluck… He leaked constantly, sweet and salty on my tongue, hips rolling in little desperate circles. When I finally pulled off he was panting, curly hair sticking to his forehead, pecs heaving.
“Fuuuccckkk meeee,” he begged, voice rough. “Pleeeeaseee, roomie. Need it.”
I prepped him slow and thorough, two fingers, then three, watching his greedy hole swallow them. Every brush over his prostate made his cock jump and spurt more precum onto his abs. By the time I pushed inside him he was babbling—cocky jock talk mixed with desperate begging.
“Holyyyy shittt—yeah, stretch me out—FUCK, your dick feels so good in my ass—been wanting this all week—nngh, deeper, bro, please—”
I fucked him hard and deep, watching those heavy pecs bounce with every thrust, abs flexing, curly hair bouncing, that handsome face slack with pleasure. His cock slapped wetly against his stomach, smearing precum everywhere. The sounds were filthy—skin on skin, wet squelch of lube and precum, his broken moans, my own grunts. I reached down and stroked him in time with my thrusts and he came with a shout, thick ropes painting his chest, some landing on his own face and in his open mouth. His ass clamped down so hard I saw stars and followed him over the edge, pumping deep inside that perfect, twitching hole.
Afterward he lay there wrecked and gorgeous, cum cooling on his skin, chest still heaving, that lazy post-orgasm smirk back in place. He reached up and dragged a finger through the mess on his pec, then sucked it clean with a filthy little sound.
“Round two in ten?” he asked, already half-hard again.
I laughed, low and satisfied, and reached for my phone where it sat on the nightstand. Chronivac still open. I could already see the next tweaks I wanted—maybe make that cock even thicker, or add a little more submissiveness so he’d beg prettier, or turn up the nipple sensitivity until he could cum just from me playing with his chest.
Reece—my Reece—stretched like a big satisfied cat, completely oblivious, completely mine.
“Whatever you want, roomie,” I said, already sliding the sliders. “I’ve got all night.”
And I did. The Chronivac glowed. His body was already starting to respond again, cock twitching, nipples tightening, that perfect ass clenching in anticipation he didn’t understand.
Weeks blurred into the best semester of my life. Reece just being a perfect roommate for me in every single way. He's the perfect jock bro who somehow anticipated every need before I even voiced it. He’d wake up early to make me protein-packed breakfasts, shirtless and still sleepy, those heavy pecs swaying as he flipped eggs and hummed off-key. He quizzed me on lecture notes while doing sets of push-ups between my desk and the bed, his pumped chest glistening, that cocky smirk flashing every time I got an answer right. After long nights hunched over textbooks he’d pull me into his lap, big hands kneading the knots out of my shoulders and back until the massage inevitably turned filthy.
And you know the rest of it. He’d fuck me slow and deep right there in the desk chair, one arm braced beside my open textbook, the other stroking my cock in time with his thrusts, whispering encouragement between kisses until we both came in a messy, groaning tangle. And every single time he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for a bi jock to dote on his stressed-out roommate like this. He had no idea how perfectly I’d programmed him to be exactly what I needed.
Exam week hit hard. I was a wreck—eyes bloodshot, shoulders locked, barely sleeping, stress radiating off me in waves. Reece noticed immediately. He didn’t push, just brought me extra snacks, left little encouraging notes on my desk like “You’re gonna crush it, roomie”, and gave me those long, grounding hugs that always ended with his hand sliding into my sweats for a quick, filthy handjob that left me boneless and a little less panicked. This morning he’d kissed the back of my neck before heading out, murmuring, “Text me if it gets too much. I’ve got you.” I thought that was it.
I was already sitting in class, and almost everyone had already left. One exam was over, and two more were left. I took a deep breath as my phone lit up with a message from him.
Reece:
Hey stressed boy. Saw how tense you looked when you left. Figured my favorite nerd needed something to take the edge off before that exam. Don’t overthink it. You’ve got this. I’m so fucking proud of you.
Come home after and I’ll help you celebrate properly. Love you, bro 💪❤️🍆
Attached was a video.
I opened it with shaking hands, already half-hard from the tone alone.
“Figured you needed a reminder of what’s waiting for you when that exam’s over,” he rumbled, voice low and intimate like he was right there in the room with me.
“Been thinking about you all morning, roomie. How haaaarddd you’re working… how gooood you’re gonna look when you ace this shit.” He wrapped his big hand around the shaft and started stroking—slow, deliberate, wet schlick-schlick sounds filling the audio as more precum leaked steadily, dripping onto the tile between his feet. His balls hung heavy and full, swinging with every stroke.
"These are all pumped for you. Wish you were here so I could shove your face between them while you study.” His strokes sped up, the head of his cock flaring, the wet sounds getting louder and messier.
“Gonna cum for you right now, bro. Think about this load painting your chest later… or filling that tight ass after your exam. You deserve it. You’re gonna do so fucking good.” His breathing grew ragged, that handsome face tightening with pleasure, the cocky smirk melting into something raw and desperate. “Nngh—fuck—here it comes—FUCKKKK—watch me, roomie—”
Reece came hard, thick ropes of cum erupting across his abs and up onto those heavy pecs, some splattering his chin and lower lip. He kept stroking through it, milking every pulse, hips jerking, deep groans echoing in the locker room. When it finally slowed he brought the camera back up to his cum-streaked chest and smirked again, licking a stray drop from his lip.
“There. Now go crush that exam like the smart, sexy nerd you are. I’ll be waiting. Love you.”
The video ended on that smirk and those glistening, cum-covered pecs.
I set the phone down, took a deep breath, and turned back to my notes with a small, private smile. The exam suddenly felt manageable. And when it was over, I knew exactly who would be waiting—shirtless, smirking, already half-hard and ready to help me celebrate in the filthiest, most caring way possible.
Thanks to Chronivac, my annoying homophobic dad was nothing but a distant memory. In his place was Reece—my perfect, ridiculously devoted, best jock roommate ever who somehow always knew exactly how to take care of me.
Micheal was trying to button up this new muscle shirt he bought from this online store called Rakurai Inc. which apparently makes you grow fucking huge if you keep it open. But an unknown side effect was that you also got super dumb in the process.
His roommate, Bryce was present while he put it on, but now he was keeping Micheal from buttoning up his shirt, making his juicy pecs even bigger and his arms straining even harder against the fabric.
"Broooo... staahpp" Micheal moaned as Bryce was groping his muscle tits.
Bryce grinned as his roomie got even bigger, feeling his bulge grind up against his leg. He couldn't wait till his shirt got in, he couldn't wait to be hot, dumb and sweaty with his dumb roomie.
Want to help test some items from Rakurai Inc.? Feel free to sign up. Rakurai Inc. Is not liable for any bodily changes that may occur.
Your fate is sealed. With each reblog you will grow fatter. There is no reversal. Caution to those who are unsure. DO YOU WANT TO BECOME A SUPERCHUB HOG….well then reblog to cast and never go back.
Himbo is very used to men talking about him like this. They never talk to him, what's the point? But with one hand down his shorts, another fondling himbo's ass, he says to his buddies "I need to get that shit pregnant, fuck!"
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