Asnir's Chamber

Today I met my deadbeat father for the first time, and it went horribly. He was even more of a macho womanizing scumbag than my mom said he was, and he treated me like shit. I just wish I had a better dad, one who was actually in my life…

You're sitting in this cheap diner, the kind with sticky tables and a smell of stale coffee that clings to everything. Across from you, the man you've been told is your biological father—your "dad"—is already halfway through his third beer. He hasn't even bothered to learn your name, keeps calling you "kid" or "boy" like you're some stray dog that wandered in off the street.

"So, you're one of them faggots, huh?" he belches, wiping beer foam from his thick mustache with the back of his hand. "Your mom always was a terrible judge of character. Should've known she'd raise a queer."

You clench your fists under the table, nails digging into your palms. "My name is Jamie," you say through gritted teeth. "And I'm not 'one of them.' I'm a person."

He laughs, a harsh bark that makes the couple at the next table glance over. "Person? You're a disappointment, is what you are. Real men like pussy, not dick. It's simple biology." He gestures toward the waitress, a young woman with dark circles under her eyes. "Like that one. I'd bet she knows how to treat a real man."

The meal goes on like that—insults, crude remarks about your sexuality, bragging about the women he's "conquered" over the years. When the check comes, he slams down a few crumpled bills and stands up. "This was a waste of my time. Don't contact me again."

You watch him leave, feeling something hollow and bitter in your chest. After paying the rest of the bill, you stumble out into the night, not even noticing the host at the door—a small man in all red with a mischievous grin and a coin flipping between his fingers.

"I just wish I had a better dad," you mutter to yourself, "one who was actually in my life..."

The coin lands TAILS. Before you can process what's happening, your head and muscles ache violently. You keel over, grabbing at your stomach as vile thoughts flood your mind—disgusting, pigheaded ideas about women, about dominance, about how real men should act.

Your vision blurs, the streetlights smearing into watercolors. A pressure builds behind your eyes, a sickening throb that pulses in time with the churning in your gut. It's not just a headache; it's like your skull is being reshaped from the inside out, bone grinding against bone.

"Ughhh—" you groan, doubling over as your stomach contracts violently. And then it happens. The most disgusting wet fart you've ever produced in your life rips out of you. Pfffffffffffft! The sound is obscene, wet and guttural, echoing in the quiet alleyway. The smell hits you instantly—rotten eggs and spoiled meat, a stench so foul it makes your eyes water.

Your body betrays you, your slender frame contorting as bones crack and stretch. You can feel your spine elongating, each vertebra popping audibly as you grow taller, broader.

Your shoulders wrench outward, widening into a frame built for intimidation, not grace. The muscles in your chest heave and swell, pecs becoming heavy, rounded slabs of meat that strain against the fabric of your shirt until the seams give way with a series of sharp rips.

"What the... what the fuck?" you gasp, but the voice that escapes your throat is a stranger's—deeper, rougher, laced with a gravelly authority that feels both alien and terrifyingly right.

Your arms are next, transforming from twigs into gnarled branches of power. Biceps and triceps bulge, veins snaking across your forearms like thick ropes. Intricate, bold tattoos bloom across your skin, covering your shoulder and upper arm in a tapestry of aggressive imagery that screams "don't fuck with me." Your chest sprouts a thick carpet of dark hair, coarse and wiry, a testament to your newfound masculinity that you can't help but run your hands through with a strange, primal pride.

The mental assault is even more brutal. Memories of your life, your identity, your very sense of self are being overwritten, erased like chalk on a blackboard. The pain of growing up without a father, the joy of discovering your identity as a gay man, the love you've felt—it all dissolves, replaced by a flood of new, ugly memories.

High school football glory. The roar of the crowd as you plow through opponents. The thrill of victory. The cheerleader, the one with the big tits and easy morals, who you fucked behind the bleachers after a game. Knocked her up? Maybe. Who gives a shit.

No... no... you're gay... you remember loving men, the tenderness, the connection... nawwwww man, BURRRRRP, a belch rumbles up from your chest, tasting of cheap beer and regret. You hate them faggots. Fucking queers. You love some good pussy, brah. Always have, always will.

Your ass balloons outward, a grotesque expansion of fat and muscle that strains the waistband of your pants. Pfffffffffffft! Another rancid fart escapes you, longer and wetter than the last, a disgusting symphony of bodily functions that somehow feels right, feels powerful.

You remember the insatiable need to stick your dick into any chick that moves, the thrill of the conquest, the satisfaction of using them and discarding them. It's not just sex; it's domination, a primal urge to assert your superiority over the weaker sex.

"Damn, I need a beer," you mutter, the thought of cheap, watery beer making your mouth water, even though you've never been much of a drinker before. But now, the idea of getting shit-faced, of losing yourself in a haze of alcohol and aggression, is intoxicating.

The cheerleader's face flashes in your mind again, tear-streaked and desperate, telling you she's pregnant, that you're the father. As if! The fucking slut, probably couldn't even tell you who the real father was, just picked the biggest jock she could find.

Fat chance it was you. You left town the next day, college calling... though of course you flunked out by freshman year. Too much partying, too many pussy, not enough studying. Ain't no matter, though. You got some job as a personal trainer, a way to get paid for staying jacked and hitting on desperate housewives. That was 20 years ago.

The aging process accelerates, a cruel time-lapse of decay and decline. Lines form on your face as you age rapidly—20... 25... 30... 35... 40... 45... Your face becomes angular with a hardened expression, brow subtly tense, eyes carrying a distant, unfocused look.

Your beard grows full and dense, trimmed just enough to look intentional but still scruffy around the edges. You look worn-in and careless, like someone who's let discipline slip rather than fully owning your image.

Pfffffffffffft! Another fart rips through you as liberal values vanish, replaced by Fox News talking points and conservative values. "Damn liberals ruining this country," you grumble, though you can't remember what you used to believe. "All this woke bullshit... real men know how to treat women. They want it rough, they want to be dominated. It's in their nature."

You remember countless one-night stands, the beer, the alcohol, and most importantly, your need to degrade women, to abuse them and treat them like shit, making them sniff your disgusting pits, soak in your sweat and stink. The thought makes your dick hard, a primal urge taking over your mind, a hunger that demands to be satisfied.

You blink and suddenly you're back in the restaurant, the smell of stale beer and fried food filling your nostrils. You glance at the mirror behind the bar and freeze—that's him. You're your deadbeat dad. Fuccccccck! The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, but the horror is quickly replaced by a strange sense of satisfaction, of coming home to the man you were always meant to be.

The last bit of the old you disappears as you chug the rest of your beer, the cheap liquid burning a path down your throat. With it, you spot some hot chick at the bar and grab her ass while pulling her toward the bathroom.

"Oh....ohhhhh.....oh...Colton...you're so big" she moans.

"Shut up, bitch," you growl, pinning her against the wall, your hand roughly grabbing her throat. "You know you want it. All you sluts do." And the worst part? A twisted part of you believes it's true. This is who you are now. A disgusting deadbeat, an alpha male, a womanizing breeder, a conservative douchebag. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

Cody struggled against the thick ropes binding his wrists to the back of the wooden chair, the coarse hemp cutting into his pale skin. His breathing was ragged, eyes wide and glassy with panic as he stared across the cramped, dim dorm room. The overhead light flickered intermittently, casting Cruz’s broad silhouette in twitching shadows across the walls. Cruz had always been a bit… off. Diego used to joke that his roommate was born in the wrong decade—that if it were up to him, every dorm would be one giant locker room. The guy stank like he bathed in his own sweat and wore it like cologne. Cody never liked him, but he never thought he’d end up like this: restrained and helpless, watching as his boyfriend was dragged toward something unthinkable.

“Let him go,” Cody spat, his voice cracking with desperation. “You don’t have to do this!”

Cruz didn’t even glance back. He stood in front of Diego, who was shirtless and breathing hard, his cheeks flushed with confusion and anger. Diego’s dark curls clung damp to his forehead, and his chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running. He looked scared, but not scared enough. Not yet.

“He’s still got that softness in him,” Cruz muttered, lifting one of his battered soccer cleats and pressing it to his own nose, inhaling deeply like it was the finest cigar. “But don’t worry. We’ll fix that.”

(Cruz)

“Diego, don’t breathe in. Don’t listen to him!” Cody shouted, writhing in his restraints. “You know who you are. You’re not—whatever he’s trying to make you.”

But Diego just stood there, staring at the shoe Cruz held out like it was… calling to him.

“It’s just sweat, man,” Diego mumbled, uncertain, but not pulling away. “It’s just a smell.”

“No,” Cruz grinned. “It’s the smell of manhood.”

He pressed the cleat to Diego’s face with a sudden, aggressive push, and Diego gagged—then coughed. Then inhaled. The change wasn’t immediate. It never was. That’s what made it worse. Cody could only watch, his stomach twisting in horror as Diego blinked slowly, nostrils flaring. His face contorted with disgust for a second—then something changed. His eyes unfocused, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

“Smells… strong,” Diego murmured. He tried to shake it off, but Cruz was ready. He pressed the cleat in harder, practically grinding the sole into Diego’s face.

“Breathe deep, bro. Let it in. Let it show you what you really are under all that fake polish. All that weak-ass love-boy crap.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Cody cried. “You’re not like that! You’re kind, you’re smart—”

But Diego had stopped listening. A low, shuddering breath rolled through his lungs, and his body trembled. He tried to pull away, but Cruz grabbed the back of his head and forced it back down into the cleat. The air was thick with the smell of dried sweat, mildew, and aged leather. Diego moaned—but it wasn’t just in discomfort. There was something else beneath it. Something closer to need.

Cruz leaned in, his voice practically a growl. “That’s it. Let that fog in. It’s already starting, isn’t it? The ache in your brain? The way things don’t matter like they used to? You think Cody matters? He’s just noise. What you need—what you are—is something better.”

Diego staggered back, gasping, but he didn’t fall. He stood there, wobbling slightly, eyes unfocused. One hand moved down to his waistband, shifting slightly as if—

No. No. Cody shook his head, tears in his eyes. “Diego, please. Look at me. You love me. Remember?”

For a moment, a flicker of something real sparked in Diego’s eyes. His mouth opened. “Cody… I…”

Then Cruz was there again, shirtless now, his glistening pit shoved right up to Diego’s nose.

“Round two,” he growled. “Go on. Breathe in deep. This is what being a real man smells like.”

Diego froze—then crumpled into it. Cody could only watch as Diego slumped against the wall, his chest heaving, lips parted as if struggling to suck in clean air. But Cruz was already there, one meaty arm curled around his shoulder like a vice, pinning him in place. The scent of his armpit lingered in the room like a thick haze—pungent, musky, and strangely sweet in its rot. Cody’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t just the smell—it was what it meant. That odor was doing something. Twisting Diego, seeping into him.

“You good, bro?” Cruz muttered into Diego’s ear, loud enough for Cody to hear. “Starting to feel it now? That burn in your lungs? That itch in your brain?”

Diego’s voice was hoarse. “It’s… I dunno. I feel hot. My head’s like… fuzzy.”

Cody leaned forward in his restraints, shaking his head. “That’s not you, baby. It’s not real! You’re just being drugged or—brainwashed or something, you have to fight it!”

But Diego didn’t look at him. He looked at Cruz.

“What’s happening to me?” Diego asked, voice trembling.

Cruz grinned, full teeth. “You’re just waking up, hermano. Shedding all that weak, soft crap. That boyfriend. That college-boy future. That tight little guilt you carry around.”

Diego flinched. But he didn’t pull away. Cruz leaned in again, letting a slow, wet drip of sweat slide from his pit down onto Diego’s shoulder. “And you’re gonna let it happen. You’re gonna let go. Bit by bit. You don’t need to think so hard anymore. Just feel.”

Diego’s body twitched. His back arched slightly, like he was stretching against invisible restraints. A sound escaped him—half grunt, half moan. He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, sniffling. Still breathing it in. His abs flexed—not with effort, but with growth. Cody’s eyes widened. Diego had always been fit, sure—swam in high school, hit the gym casually—but this was different. His stomach twitched again, muscle thickening in slow pulses, veins rising under the skin like roots crawling from under the surface. His lats widened slightly, pushing his arms out just a bit further from his sides.

He stared down at his own torso, eyes wide. “What the hell…?”

“It’s the man-fog, bro,” Cruz murmured, voice like a prayer. “Ain’t just a smell. It’s change. It’s what you were meant to be.”

Cody screamed, voice cracking. “Diego, don’t let it win! That’s not you! You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re not—this!”

Diego flinched again—but he still didn’t look at Cody. His hand dropped to his waistband. Cruz saw it and laughed, low and rough.

“Oh yeah. You’re feelin’ it now.”

Diego swallowed hard. “I feel… weird. Like I wanna… stretch or fight or just… I dunno. Do something.”

Cruz’s grin widened. “Your brain’s getting lighter, isn’t it? No more overthinking. No more feelings. Just sweat, and meat, and need. You’re almost there.”

“I don’t… I don’t wanna hurt him,” Diego muttered, eyes flicking toward Cody just for a moment.

But Cruz was ready. He grabbed Diego’s face and shoved it deep into his pit. This time, Diego didn’t resist. The sound he made was obscene—wet, muffled, like a moan buried in a grunt. His fingers dug into Cruz’s side, clinging there as he inhaled again, and again, and again. Cody turned away, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out the room. He wanted to scream, to throw up, to run, but he couldn’t do anything but watch as his boyfriend drowned in the scent. The muscles swelled faster now. Diego’s traps thickened, shoulders bulking outward. His skin glistened with sweat that wasn’t his a moment ago. His jaw clenched, sharpening. The softness in his features—the gentle, thoughtful glow—melted away under a sheen of testosterone-fueled hunger. He was panting when Cruz finally let him go.

Cruz leaned in, brushing a thumb across Diego’s cheek. “You’re gonna forget him soon. That little twink tied up in the chair? He’s just background noise now. You don’t date guys, bro. You don’t even like ‘em.”

Diego’s voice was different now. Thicker. Slower. “Nah, man… I don’t—” He shook his head. “I don’t swing that way.”

His eyes flicked to Cody. And for the first time…They weren’t eyes of love. They were eyes of confusion. Disgust.

“Why’s he tied up?”

Cody’s breath caught in his throat.

Cruz chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, bro. He’s just someone you used to know. Before you woke up.”

Diego nodded slowly. “Yeah… before I got fuckin’ real.”

Cody’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t speak anymore—not because he didn’t want to, but because the words wouldn’t come. His throat was raw from screaming, and no matter how much he begged, pleaded, or cried, Diego kept slipping further away. And now… now Diego was laughing.

“Bro, what the hell,” Diego grunted, holding his arms out and flexing. His voice was lower now—rougher, almost sluggish—and when he looked down at himself, it was like he didn’t recognize his own body, but didn’t care. “I feel jacked, dude. This shit’s wild.”

“You’re becoming you,” Cruz said, standing behind him, one hand on Diego’s shoulder like a proud sculptor admiring his work. “The real you. The one who doesn’t give a single fuck about anything except lifting, smashing, and stinking up the world.”

Diego snorted. “Yeah, man. I feel, like… free or something.”

Then Cruz grinned—and shoved Diego down, forcing him to his knees on the floor.

“You’re not done yet, bro,” he said, turning around and tugging down the waistband of his shorts. “You’ve still got the last piece to inhale.”

Cody’s eyes went wide. “Don’t—please, don’t—”

But it was already too late. Cruz hunched over slightly and ripped one—a deep, slow, bubbling fart that hissed out of him like a leaking gas valve, thick and sulfuric.

PFFFRRRBBBSssssssssst

The sound was disgusting, but it was the smell that hit the room like a war crime. Cody gagged instantly, jerking against the ropes. It smelled like fermented protein, swamp rot, and something sourer. Rancid. Diego twitched on the floor. His nose wrinkled—but instead of recoiling, he leaned forward. And breathed.

“Duuude,” he groaned. “That’s so rank.”

Cruz let another one out, louder this time, right into Diego’s face. “Yeah, man. Drink it in. This is what alpha really smells like. Raw. Brutal. Unfiltered.”

Diego moaned—and his body shuddered. The change kicked into overdrive. His neck thickened, veins pulsing just under the skin. His jaw cracked and widened, growing meatier. He scratched at his pecs as they ballooned, sweat soaking through his skin. His abs were now fully formed bricks, deep and grooved. A trail of dark hair snaked down his stomach. Then came the shift lower. Diego’s groin twitched—and then bulged. His crotch strained against his underwear, a visible wet spot forming as the musk worked its way deeper into him. He groaned again, louder, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Goddamn, my cock’s like… heavy, bro,” Diego slurred, dumbfounded. “And it reeks.”

Cruz laughed. “Yeah it does. That’s manhood, bro. Cheese it up. You ain’t some soft little boyfriend anymore. You’re a freakin’ jock beast. You stink like a god now.”

Diego’s face twisted. Something inside him cracked—and Cody could almost see it.

“What’s a guy doing tied up in our room anyway?” Diego asked, scratching his balls through his boxers. “That’s, like… gay or something.”

Cody’s heart shattered. He stared into Diego’s eyes—and saw nothing left of the man he loved. No recognition. No softness. Just heat, hunger, and haze.

“Please remember me,” Cody whispered. “You’re not… this. You were never this.”

Diego snorted, rising to his feet with a stretch, his pits now reeking on their own. He turned to Cruz. “Yo, let’s hit the gym after this. I’m, like, amped. Might blow out my back doin’ squats or some shit.”

Cruz slapped him on the back. “Atta boy.”

Then, casually, he ripped another fart—wet this time—and Diego laughed. Like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Like it was home.

Cody’s chest heaved in shallow, panicked breaths. He didn’t even notice the tears streaming down his face anymore. His wrists burned from the ropes, his lungs ached from the choking stench lingering in the room—but nothing hurt more than what he saw in Diego’s eyes. Nothing. Not even the way Diego smirked now. That same crooked smirk Cody used to find charming after long nights in bed. But now it was warped—emptied. The smirk of a man who no longer remembered why Cody ever mattered.

“Yo,” Diego grunted, flexing and sniffing his own pit, face twisting in satisfied disgust. “We can’t just leave the twink like that, bro.”

Cruz leaned back against the desk, arms folded, his own sweat-streaked chest rising and falling with lazy breaths. “Nah. That’d be cruel, right?”

He turned his head slowly, locking eyes with Cody.

“But not turning him?” Cruz grinned. “Now that would be cruel.”

“No,” Cody croaked, struggling again, more desperate than ever. “Please. I’m not like you. I don’t want this.”

Diego crouched beside him, still shirtless, drenched in testosterone-soaked sweat. The scent rolled off him like heat. His shorts were tented—he didn’t care. His grin stretched wider as he leaned in close, bringing that overwhelming stink with him.

“You’re gonna love it, bro,” Diego said, voice thick and sloppy. “You just need to… breathe it in. Like I did. Shit changed my life.”

“Changed you,” Cody spat, his voice breaking. “Killed you.”

But Diego just laughed and yanked the chair—and Cody—closer to the bed with a screech of wood on tile. Cruz was already waiting, one leg up on the mattress, arms lifted behind his head. His pit hair was soaked, glistening, the reek curling in the air like visible fog.

“You know what to do, Diego,” Cruz said. “Wake your bro up.”

Cody thrashed, screaming now, tears and snot smeared down his face as Diego climbed up behind him, locking him in place with thick, muscular arms. His sweat dripped onto Cody’s neck, into his shirt collar. It burned like acid.

“Don’t fight it,” Diego breathed. “It’s so much easier when you let go.”

Cruz stepped forward—and shoved Cody’s face right into his pit. The scent was instant. Like a punch to the soul. Thick, rancid, hot. It had weight, like Cody was being smothered by the very essence of rot. It filled his sinuses, coated his throat, burned into his lungs. His mind reeled. It was so wrong. So foul. So intimate in the most degrading way. He coughed, gagged—but Diego held him tighter. Another shove. Another breath. And the edges of his thoughts began to curl like paper near fire.

“You smell that?” Cruz grunted, voice smug. “That’s the new you. That’s what real life smells like. Not perfume and feelings. Just funk. Just man.”

“Y-you… can’t…” Cody whimpered.

But the fog was already in him. Cruz farted—loud, wet, toxic—and the wave of stink hit Cody hard. His legs kicked instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. The gas was in his mouth, behind his eyes, changing him. His brain screamed—but the scream got quieter. His skin tingled. His chest itched. Something stirred in his groin.

Diego leaned in, whispering, “Feels good, huh? Bet you’re already feelin’ your cock growin’. Gettin’ ripe. Jockified.”

Cody moaned—no. Whimpered. He didn’t want to enjoy it. But the scent kept pressing in, pounding at every barrier inside him like a hammer made of rot and sweat and dominance. Then he felt it.His abs flexed. Not much. But more than before. A faint ridge. A twitch in his biceps. His thighs clenched, tingling as if blood was rushing to places it hadn’t before.

“First pump’s always the best,” Cruz said, smirking down at him. “Now let’s blow the rest of your brain out.”

He turned, stuck out his ass, and let it rip.

PPPPFFFFRRRRBBBTTTTT

Cody’s scream turned into a gasp. And then…A groan. His eyes rolled back. And the first real crack in his identity appeared.

Cody was sweating. Not from exertion—but from exposure. From absorption. His pores were screaming, wide open, trying to fight back against the flood of rancid stink that was seeping into him from every angle. The room was a sauna of testosterone. A crucible of stink, where men were melted down and reforged. He could feel it in the air. Thick and humid and sour. It clung to him like grease—seeped into the fibers of his clothes, into his hair, under his tongue. And it was changing him. His head lolled forward, still bound tight, mouth parted as he gasped for air. But there was no clean air. Only the thick, unrelenting fog of Cruz’s unwashed pits, his protein-fueled farts, and Diego’s now jockified musk rolling off him in waves. Cody whimpered, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

“Still fighting, huh?” Cruz’s voice oozed through the haze like oil. “Your body’s not.”

Cody couldn’t argue. His chest—flat, smooth, once more aesthetic than athletic—was starting to itch. He could feel the skin tighten, like something was pushing up from beneath the surface. He looked down, horrified, as the slight swell of his pecs pulsed once… then again. Slow, throbbing. They weren’t sculpted. Not yet. But they were thickening. Meat growing under skin. He shuddered, sweat pouring down his temple.

“No,” he whispered. “Not me. Not this.”

But his body wasn’t listening anymore. His abs tightened—involuntarily. His core spasmed, and he felt something click deeper inside him. Muscle fibers waking up. Stretching. Gorging themselves on the stink like it was fuel. And then came the hair. It was subtle at first. Just a darkening at the center of his chest. But as he blinked, more spread across the plane of his torso—sparse but wiry. Around his nipples. Down his belly. It was spreading like moss, fed by the humid air.

Diego leaned down beside him, eyes glittering with jock-stupid pride. “Told you it’d hit good, bro. Gettin’ thick already.”

“F-fuck… off…” Cody tried to snarl—but it came out weak. Almost needy.

His thighs spasmed next. He felt them bulk. From the inside out. Like two logs swelling under his jeans, pressing outward. Denim stretched. The seams groaned. The skin under it burned with the heat of transformation, and with it came a smell—not theirs, but his. He was starting to make it. His own stink. Faint. Cheesy. New. Cody’s lip trembled. His cock, hard against his will, throbbed once—then twice. It pulsed with heat, and with it came another involuntary moan.

“Feels good, huh?” Cruz whispered, pressing his foot against Cody’s swelling thigh. “That’s your body telling you the truth. You were never a boyfriend. You were a bro waiting to happen.”

Cody shook his head, barely. But his shoulders rolled. A stretch. A twitch. And then another pop of muscle at his traps. He could feel himself getting heavier. And the smell… it was changing. No longer entirely alien. There were moments—brief, terrifying moments—where Cody caught a whiff of something familiar, his own sweat, and instead of gagging, he didn’t mind it. He wanted to mind it. He wanted to hate it. But his brain was lagging behind his flesh. And his flesh was humming. Buzzing with submission. The stink was in him now. Soaked into his skin. Feeding the growth. His arms bulged. Not dramatically. But enough. He could see the rise of muscle at his biceps. Not sculpted—just meaty. Heavy. Bro muscle. Thoughtless, gym-earned thickness. His jaw clenched—because his jaw was widening. He felt his tongue press oddly against his teeth as his face began the slow shift from soft to sharp. His cheekbones rose. His brow thickened. His nose twitched—and for one horrifying second, he liked what he smelled.

BRRRRRRPPPPPPPPP

A deep fart bubbled from Cruz—wet and brutal—and Cody’s whole body tensed. His cock jerked in his pants, and this time, he didn’t moan. He groaned. Low. Dumb. Needy.

“Shit,” he breathed. “That’s… nasty…”

Cruz leaned in close, licking his lips. “Told you. Your body’s ours now. Your brain’s next.”

Cody’s mouth hung open now, his head lolling slightly from side to side as if it were too heavy for his neck. His tongue was dry, lips cracked, and every breath he took felt like it pulled him deeper into the stink-soaked abyss. And for the first time… Cody didn’t answer. He just breathed. He reeked now. His own musk had joined the oppressive cloud of Diego and Cruz’s sweat, armpit grime, and weaponized farts. The room was a man pit, and Cody was just one more source of it. But now the transformation had shifted focus. Now it was going for his mind.

“Yo,” Diego said, nudging him in the shoulder with a thick, veiny arm. “You in there, bro?”

Cody blinked. Sluggish. Blank. For a moment, nothing came out. Not words. Not even a sound.

Then—“Uhhh… yeah?” It came out like a question. Like even he wasn’t sure.

Cruz laughed. “Fuck yeah, bro. That fog’s finally settin’ in. You feelin’ it now?”

Cody’s brow furrowed. “Fog…?” he repeated, voice slow, dazed. “Yeah… uh… head’s all… floaty n’… shit…”

He blinked again. Thoughts were hard. Words didn’t line up right. Every sentence felt like a workout. His brain was sweating just trying to think. It wasn’t just confusion—it was erosion. Like every deep thought, every emotional memory, every abstract idea was being ground down into dull thuds.

Diego crouched in front of him, grinning that idiot grin Cody used to love—before it had turned into something stupid and cruel. “You remember your name, bro?”

Cody opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes went distant.

“Cuh…” he started. “Cuh… Cody?”

That was right, wasn’t it? It sounded right. But then Cruz leaned in—and ripped another one. A deep, nasty fart that vibrated the air between them. And just like that, Cody forgot what he was saying. All that came out was a dumb little laugh.

“Shiiit… that’s rank, bro…” he mumbled, drool sliding down the corner of his lip. He didn’t wipe it. Didn’t even notice it.

Cruz clapped him on the back. “That’s the stink killin’ the parts you don’t need, bro. No more overthinking. No more dumb feelings. Just horny, hungry, sweaty fuckin jock shit.”

And Cody’s cock—already half-hard—twitched at those words. He barely reacted. Didn’t question it. Didn’t even feel embarrassed. Diego leaned in closer, and Cody didn’t move away. His former boyfriend’s pit was right there—hot, wet, tangy—and Cody’s nose flared. He sniffed. Once. Then again. Then deeper.

“Smells… fuckin good, bro,” Cody slurred, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Like… like home…”

Cruz stepped behind him again, rubbing his own swampy pits with both hands and dragging the scent up under Cody’s nose. “Say goodbye to the old you, man. Say goodbye to… uh, whatever fag shit you used to care about.”

Cody tried to focus. Tried to remember. A voice in his head whispered, Boyfriend. College. Love. Literature. Self-respect. But the words were slippery. Soft. Weak. They melted in the heat of the room, in the musk, in the fart-saturated air. And what replaced them was a warm, thick nothing. A dull buzz. Like a gym locker room had grown sentience inside his skull.

“Yo,” Cody muttered, blinking slowly, a little smile spreading over his slack lips. “I think I wanna… lift or somethin’…”

Diego and Cruz fist-bumped.

“He’s almost there,” Cruz grinned.

Cody stared blankly at the wall. His jaw hung loose. His pecs bounced slightly with every lazy breath, chest rising and falling with bro-tified rhythm. He was still Cody, technically. But what was left? A name. A smell. A cock getting thicker by the second in his gym shorts. And a mind…turning to gas.

The room was so thick. Dense. More atmosphere than air now. Sweat clung to the walls like condensation. The musk of three bodies—soured, ripe, corrupted—filled every breath, and Cody’s lungs had long since stopped resisting. He was breathing stink like it was oxygen. His eyes were glassy. Mouth slack. His once-tight jaw now hung open in a permanent dumb bro gape, glistening with drool. His hair, matted with sweat, clung to his forehead. His gym shorts—when had he even gotten into gym shorts?—clung to his hips like a second skin, tented by the heavy, pulsing meat swinging beneath. But the real change now…was in his gut. A deep, grinding pressure had been building. Right at his core. A boiling, festering tension that felt like it had weight—like a storm brewing in his bowels. And it meant something. Cody didn’t know what anymore—he barely knew how to think. But deep down, some part of him knew: this wasn’t just gas. This was everything.

“Bro,” Diego said, fanning the air with one hand, grinning. “He’s loading up. Look at that face. He’s about to blow the last of his fuckin brain out his ass.”

Cruz cackled, pressing a hand to Cody’s shoulder. “This is it, man. The grand finale. Say g’bye to being Cody.”

Cody moaned. A low, wet sound. More sound effect than word. His stomach gurgled—loudly. Pressure shifted. His hips jerked slightly forward. And then—

PFFFRRBBBLLLT

A long, wet, noxious blast ripped from Cody’s ass, echoing off the wooden chair beneath him. His head snapped back, eyes fluttering, a dumb, blissed-out smile stretching across his dopey face. But that was just the start. The gas kept coming.

PRRRRT-BRRRAAAP—SPRRRRTCHHHHH

Each fart shook his body. Tore through what was left of his dignity, his identity, his memories. Each one was like a balloon popping inside his skull—memories of college, of books, of Diego—gone, carried out on a cloud of steaming, toxic jock-gas.

“Uhhh… what was… what wuz I…”

Another blast. Loud and lazy.

BBBRRRFFFFFT

There goes literature. There goes his GPA. There goes his first kiss. Gone.

“Fuck, bro!” Diego laughed. “He’s straight-up fartin’ out his whole personality!”

Cody grunted, abs flexing involuntarily as another bubble of pressure bloated in his core. His body loved this. His cock was fully hard, oozing, bouncing with each thunderous release. His brain was just static now—warm, sour, content. One final glorious blowout built in his gut. The biggest yet. The one that would take everything. Cody’s eyes rolled back. He leaned forward. Gave a dumb, guttural, “Hhhurrghh…”

And let it rip.

PPPPFFFRRRRRRBBLBLBLLLTKRRRRTTTTT

A seismic, unholy sound. The stink hit hard, like paint thinner and rotten cheese. His whole body shuddered. His mind emptied. When the sound faded, Cody just slumped back in the chair, arms limp, mouth open. There were no thoughts left. Just heat. Scent. Sweat. Hunger. He blinked slowly and scratched his gut. Then he looked at Cruz and Diego, eyebrows slightly scrunched like he was almost thinking something.

“…yo,” he said finally, in a dopey, lazy voice, “when’s, uh… leg day?”

They howled with laughter. Cody laughed too, not knowing why. Just knowing he was home.

Tracy could feel himself getting jittery, his nerves building up while he waited for his first customer.  He had never worked for a rideshare company before, but he was desperate for money. A guy could only go off of plasma donations for so long after college graduation, and without job offers piling up, Tracy deemed a temporary solution necessary. But now Tracy felt like everything was constricting; the small space inside his Prius, the oversized sweater he was wearing, his favorite pop divas singing from the stereo. He prayed that he would not have to talk much, wishing to be silent like those taxi drivers in every other movie set in New York. 

Taking a deep breath, Tracy heard the back door swing open and shut. Questions immediately flooded his head. Did he miss any hairs when he shaved this morning? Did he remove that pesky pimple patch? Ignoring the battering thoughts and turning around, Tracy found a muscular jock spread across the entire back seating area. 

“Are you Tracy?” the attractive customer asked, a bit confused. Despite being a couple of years younger than Tracy, the jock held a certain level of arrogance. This display of superiority intimidated Tracy and embarrassingly, turned him on a bit.

“I’m going to assume yes.” The jock asserted after waiting a moment longer. He then stuck out his hand with a smile. “Michael, in case it wasn’t obvious.”

Tracy’s eyes dashed between his phone and the handsome young man before him. “Oh uh…yeah,” the words spilled out clumsily as he took his hand.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” Michael questioned.

Tracy took a moment to respond, “Sorry, um I kinda am.” 

“No worries, man,” Tracy caught Michael’s smirk in the rearview mirror. “But with a name like ‘Tracy,’ I was expecting a chick or something.” 

Tracy blushed. “It was my grandfather’s name…” Trying his best to recover, he opted for a joke. “At least I didn’t get stuck with something worse, right?” Although his voice had come out a little tight, the attempt made the cut, as confirmed by Michael’s light chuckle.

“I guess,” Michael agreed. “But that’s why you go by Trace, right? Funny how that simple letter change can make you a whole lot manlier.”

“Hmm?” Having turned on the ignition and left the parking lot, Tracy was now juggling both driving and providing conversation. It was not a difficult task, but he found himself adjusting the stereo to better concentrate on the two tasks at hand.

“I mean you’ve been going by Trace since what, middle school?” Michael attempted to confirm.

Trace found himself a bit lost. “Why…how did you know that?”

Michael’s face broke out into a charming grin. “Stop being so timid, man. You’re a legend at the university! Even if you graduated a few years ago, your fame is still alive and well.”

Trace found himself a bit stunned. “Thanks…?”

“Don’t be so humble, bro” Michael frowned. “Everyone knows you were the star of the football team back in the day. The boys won’t shut up about you.”

“‘The boys’?” Trace asked curiously. 

“Yeah! ‘Trace was always committed to the team.’ ‘Trace was the epitome of masculinity.’ ‘Trace was…’, well, you get the idea.” Michael scratched idly at his pec before continuing. Tracy absentmindedly did the same to his own bulky counterparts. “Those guys look up to you! And by the looks of it, you hold up to your own legend.”

“I try to,” Trace smiled back, confidence creeping into his voice. Taking a wide turn, Trace could feel his thick forearm flexing while rotating the wheel, his bicep testing the limits of the tight athletic shirt’s fabric. Trace took a moment to examine himself in the rearview mirror. His stubble was on point, accenting his lantern-like jaw appropriately. His whole face in fact was quite macho.

“Checking yourself out, big man?” Michael caught Trace red-handed. The remark made Trace’s legs bloat a bit larger, forcing them further apart. “I’m surprised a guy with your height can even fit in this rust-bucket.” 

“You could argue the Fusion was meant for a 6’3 man,” Trace chuckled, his vocal chords a bit deeper. “But yeah once I get enough money, I’m getting a real, All-American truck.”

“Ah, so that’s what this side gig is for,” Michael nodded. “I was guessing it was a side hustle for the ladies.”

“What do you mean?” Trace turned the volume up slightly, the country music twanging a smidge heavier throughout the car.

“Isn't this just a stint to pick women up, double entendre intended? It's the other thing the guys are always talking about,” Michael commented. “‘Trace was always a lady killer.’ ‘Trace never pulled out.’ ‘Trace’s hit list was longer than anyone else’s.’”

Trace sat silent, turning into the destination’s parking lot.  “Is that part of the legend no longer true?” Michael pushed.

Once Trace found an open spot to station his car, he responded. “Oh it’s true,” he confirmed proudly. “In fact, you can tell the boys the number has doubled since graduation.”

Michael’s face copied Trace’s own cocky smirk. “I'll be happy to report that back. I’ll see you around then, man!”

Trace watched through the rearview mirror as Michael hopped out of the car. He then scanned his phone to find his next customer. Trace’s thick fingers automatically drifted to the “Female, 18-25” range, searching for someone to give a ride too, double entendre intended.

To read the first part, follow this link.

With @sjw-publishings

Alexander Carmen nervously followed the kind pastor through the back of the church. He did not feel unwelcome by any means, but certainly like he did not belong here. It was improper for someone like him to be able to see the inner workings of a church–as a gay man who enjoyed the worldly spoils, Alexander was practically stepping into enemy territory. But he dutifully kept speed with the Korean-American man just a few years his senior. 

The pastor had a run-of-the-mill, slightly older guy-next-door look that Alexander typically would have on the street passed by without giving a second thought. But his average qualities also had a certain flair, enough so that Alexander could see himself sporting a slight boner. And he had, their initial physical touch having sent a current from his shoulder straight down to his crotch. Luckily, his dick had since deflated from its excitement, the blood flow in his moving legs helping resolve the unfortunate issue.

“Please, brother,” Pastor Bang opened the door to a small office. “Take a seat in front of my desk and we can discuss your worries.”

Placing his firm grip on Alexander’s shoulder once more, the twink again felt the shiver of ecstasy course along his vein. He did his best to hide the boner awakening underneath his linen shorts.

Following the instruction politely, Alexander placed himself in the assigned chair. Typically, he acted out as quite the brat, one who liked to mess around and avoid orders as playfully as could be. He was one to tease, coyly flirt, and craft up anything necessary that could be complimented with a reaction. As a trouper, Alexander was a natural theatric, and in turn the world was his stage. Everyone had a part to play in relation to his flamboyant protagonist.

“I’m here searching for someone,” Alexander began, his plea whiny. “I just don’t know where he is and it’s freaking me out! I mean we were supposed to meet up thirty minutes ago, and I know that isn’t too long but then when I saw that he was here I got confused because I’d never heard of him being religious before. In fact, I’ve never even heard of this church before. I mean is the Covenant of the Brotherhood new? Anyway…”

Alexander continued to ramble on, taking in the room around him as he did so. The office was small, quaint, and only really held the necessary materials. A bookshelf containing theological literature, a single monitor at least ten years old, two degrees and a number of other certificates on the wall behind the pastor. The room was practically colorless, even the sole picture of Pastor Bang and (whom Alexander assumed to be) his girlfriend was printed in black and white. Eventually, Alexander realized he was still talking, and the pastor had not yet replied to him.

“Are you, are you going to say anything?” Alexander cut himself off, toying with his rainbow wristband. He was a bit dismayed that the other man had not yet made a response. 

Pastor Bang shrugged, indifferent. “Sounds like you are worried, brother.”

Alexander blinked. He tried to hold back the burst of red that threatened to color his olive cheeks. “Did you listen to a single thing I said?” Alexander thrived off of reactions, he practically centered his life around them. It influenced how he acted, influenced the manner in which he presented himself. It was why his voice held its signature nasally pitch, why he had dyed his hair platinum blond.

And yet, Pastor Bang offered him nothing. “Clarify for me, what are you so worried about?”

“I’m looking for John Brand,” Alexander spat loudly, as if he and the pastor spoke different languages.

“No need to waste your vocal chords unnecessarily.” The command was simple and direct, silencing Alexander. He was not used to being treated this way, engaging in such a manner. And yet, something about the simple anomaly roused Alexander. It also a-roused his dick, which throbbed lightly.

“I’m an actor,” Alexander seethed. “I know how to properly dictate.”

The pastor cocked his head innocently, “I believe you’re mistaken?”

This caught Alexander a bit, leaving his reply a bit staggered. “I have a theatre degree…?”

“It’s a diploma in Bible Studies, brother,” the pastor corrected. “And you haven’t graduated yet.”

“I um…” Alexander stuttered, suddenly bewildered. Was he not only a few years younger than the pastor? He was not still in school; he had graduated, had he not? But then again, why would Pastor Bang lead him astray? The man was eight years older than him, by that math eight years wiser.

“Oh yeah…my bad haha!” Alexander awkwardly chuckled, subtly palming himself under the table. For some reason, the strange moment had only further excited him. “But please, have you seen my boyfriend?”

“Your boyfriend?” Pastor Bang's response was steady, as if the concept was impossible to him. “Do you mean your brother in the Covenant?”

Alexander's cock twitched. “Mmmyes daddy…” He moaned under his breath before suddenly catching himself. “-I mean my boyfriend! We are gay, pastor, we are both gay!”

“Brother, I know you’re happy to see me,” Pastor Bang misunderstood. “But now is not the time to use such language and act like the Prodigal Son.”

Alexander did not know how to reply without repeating his sexuality. But the words could not leave his mouth, it was too hard. His dick was too hard. Alexander could feel it writhing within his jockstrap.

“I believe you are worried about other things,” the pastor continued. “You already have a lot on your plate outside of our church. Admittedly the typical of every other Asian-American boy your age: the straight A GPA, jogging sessions, intramural soccer. But presenting for the Youth Ministry should be your passion.”

The sudden intake of information overwhelmed Alexander. The foreign existential weight piled up, burdening him under its sheer power. These new facts barged in upon the young man without any warning, forcing an evacuation of sorts within Alexander's mind. It made him dizzy. Alexander suddenly felt the need to escape.

“Uhhh, Pastor Bang, thanks for your guidance!” Alexander sputtered out, his blood coursing south as if his heart had suddenly moved to his pouch. “I have to uhh…go to the restroom, duty calls!”

“That’s alright, brother,” Pastor Bang extended his hand. “I need to practice for my upcoming sermon anyway.”

Quickly, Alexander accepted the firm shake. An electric surge shot across his entire body, delivering bliss to every one of his nerves and dulling his wristband into a modern, ordinary watch. Alexander's manhood was calling for him, begging to be touched with the hand he had just offered to Pastor Bang. Without waiting a moment longer, he made a beeline to the restroom, not questioning how he knew the way. Within moments Alexander was locked into a stall, so hot and flustered that he considered removing his tee shirt.

“Can’t resist…so good,” Alexander grunted softly. Carefully, Alexander gripped himself, the immense pleasure nearly paralyzing him. “Pastor Bang is…mmmmf…”

As if having heard his name, the shepherding tone of the pastor began to broadcast into the restroom. Pastor Bang, having returned to the altar in the main hall, had begun practicing his sermon. And with the speaker system live, his words were able to echo clearly throughout the entire church.

Alexander groaned as the paternal voice rang out within the restroom. His manhood was sandwiched between his legs, begging for release and yet not being granted it. Something was holding Alexander back, but he could not understand what. It was as if the appendages were built for other purposes, their length and lean muscle holding other obligations. His legs were meant for a goalkeeper–on the field and in real life. And the two extra inches of height that pushed Alexander over the average signified that he was meant to set an example without standing apart from his fellow brother.

“I need to…need to pull up something,” Alexander said to himself, grabbing his phone. In seconds, he had clicked on a bookmark for one of his favorite porn videos. But instead of two men wrapped together, his phone presented him with two men standing apart, fully clothed. Speaking on the roles of masculinity as determined in the Bible.

“Didn’t I have some-” Alexander could no longer identify what he had been trying to find. “-fun videos or something?”

“Brothers are expected to help one another physically and emotionally, but not romantically,” Pastor Bang’s voice suddenly filled the room. Alexander grunted, his vocal tone dropping a touch and sneaking farther back into his throat. His fingers messily tapped away at his device, lengthening into more robust digits as they searched for other materials to work with. His documents tab was filled with highly-graded papers, his emails a mix of project assignments and group collaborations.

“Don’t I have photos I could use, man?” Alexander asked himself, his voice now holding a youthful maturity that mimicked the pastor’s. He desperately continued to scroll through his phone, his arms tensing and relaxing as their muscles expanded slightly. Not to an egregious amount, but just enough to fit in with his peers, just like his clean-cut, trusty phone did.

“Man, who are these people?” Alexander blinked, his gallery filled with many of the same individuals. He was not expecting most of the pictures to be of him out on the soccer field, around a college campus, and at Youth Ministry. Nor was he expecting them to be filled with the same Asian-American men, all practical copies of each other besides the slightest differences. It took Alexander a moment to even find himself in some of them. His own lemony skin had the same hue as the rest of the men, his smaller eyes identical to the crew's. Even their frames were alike, not a single chest broader or pack of abdominals more prominent. 

“Can’t believe I forgot about my guys, man!” Alexander chuckle was friendly. “No homo though!”

The last phrase blurted out on its own, but Alexander was too captivated in his screen to realize it. His manhood enjoyed the remark however, perking up to be just large enough to fulfill its new role. Or rather, its traditional role. Consequently, Alexander’s bubble butt deflated into two flattened mounds, their responsibilities stripped away.

Eventually, Alexander landed on an album filled with selfies of him and another person. A lady friend of his own age, who with her Asian-American beauty complimented him nicely.

“Man, who is she…?” Alexander rubbed the back of his head shyly, the raven, feathered curtain bangs tickling his fingers. “She’s…kinda cute mannn…”

With that realization, Alexander’s manhood trembled in great force. He instinctively knew what to do, but as his hand made its way down to the straight-fit joggers encasing his legs, Alexander found himself lost. He needed to do something, but Alexander could not recall what. He could remember his younger peers had mentioned something before that required his hands. Was it assisting in some kind of job? Or something about being “a jerk off”?

“I gotta grip my pen…pen…!” Alexander suffered to get the word out of his mouth. It was right on the tip of his tongue.

“And us men shall be abstinent until the day of marriage with our wives.” Pastor Bang announced as he concluded his sermon.

“...gotta grip my pen-dant!” Alexander exclaimed. With one hand on his quarter-zip, he shoved the other underneath the sweater and pulled out his cross pendant, holding it firmly. With his free hand, and in pure euphoria, Alexander moved his zipper back and forth along its tread. Up and down, up and down. He could feel himself getting close, approaching something incredible. His manhood was throbbing as he approached a breaking point.

Out of nowhere, a knock came onto the stall door. “Everything okay, brother?” Pastor Bang asked.

“Mmmmf yes...Father!” A rush of spiritual ecstasy cascaded over the young man, for no physical outburst was necessary to solidify his glorious transformation. Once the wave had dissipated, the young man stood up and opened the stall door. 

“Sorry Pastor Bang,” the handsome, yet rather standard young Chinese-American man began.

“All good, brother,” Pastor Bang smiled. “I was just checking in to see if you were still worried about the presentation?”

“I was just texting my girlfriend to see if she could make it." The young man approached the sinks, checking himself out momentarily in the mirror. Carefully, he pulled his zipper up to the top of its track. After all, he had to maintain the role of a cool big brother; he did not want to be scandalous in front of the students. "It will be my fiftieth presentation for the Youth Ministries!”

Proudly, the young man left the restroom and ventured forth to his classroom. Once inside, he was greeted by his many students–a group of rowdy Asian-American boys–and Anna, his beautiful girlfriend since high school, sitting behind the teacher's desk.

“Ay-Ay Ron!” one of the backsliders shouted, and soon the whole class joined in a boisterous chorus. The young man smiled and exchanged a look with his girlfriend, knowing his Anna was not fond of the silly nickname.

“About time you got here, Aaron,” Anna greeted him with a peck on the cheek. “Leaving me all alone for so long with these guys is quite the hassle.”

“Ooommf…haha sorry sweetheart.” Aaron cheekily rubbed the back of his neck, squeezing his inflated manhood between his thighs. “Cannot help myself from being a goofball every now and then–just like my students!”

Aaron’s manly, yet cute chuckle was the kind that made everyone want to be just like him. A typical college student, one with the crowd, blending in with his brothers and talking about the simple things that excited them. Without delaying any longer, Aaron booted up his monitor and the projector, his presentation soon lighting up on the wall behind him.

My nephew Brandon grew up in a deeply conservative household, where masturbation was strictly forbidden. He had been raised just like his father and I had been by our own parents, and their parents before them. We were built by traditions, maintaining them as they had maintained us throughout our childhood and adolescence. Certain words were never said in the house, certain ideologies never acknowledged. 

It had been my brother’s hope for Brandon to never see a naked woman before marriage. Everything had appeared to have been going to plan, for by the time Brandon reached his 22nd birthday, he was still exceptionally shy around the whole topic. My brother and I had been so proud; his little boy had made it through all of college without being tainted by “progressive” ideas or gone astray from our values. Unfortunately, that image was shattered when I arrived at  Brandon’s room to fetch him for cake, finding him jerking out a quickie to hardcore gay porn on his laptop.

Both of us stood in shock for a moment, unable to move as the realizations hit us. I had discovered his secret, he believed his perfect facade was about to collapse. Brandon opened his mouth to explain but I had already left the doorway. By the time we got downstairs, everybody had been waiting for us. They had no idea what I was about to tell them.

“Before Brandon blows out the candles, I have one last birthday gift to give him.” Brandon rushed in behind me, his face red with embarrassment. My brother eyed me, caught off guard by this sudden announcement. “After college, he will stay with me out in the country for a few months to learn some more physical skills. All expenses covered by me, just one last hurrah before Brandon’s adulthood begins!”

Brandon’s eyes grew wide as the room cheered. My brother gave me a solid pat on the back, laughing and thanking me for such a great opportunity, insisting it was too much. I argued the contrary, watching as my nephew hesitantly paced over to his cake.

———

What none of my family knew, not even my brother, was that my property out in the country also doubled as a conversion camp. My institution had stayed afloat for three primary reasons. First, my property was an exclusive institution. I worked one-on-one with my clients, meaning my property was truly intimate. This tied in my second aspect, privacy. It was not special that no one in my family knew of my alternate career, as I kept my side gig well under the wraps of a decent, average country farm. Finally, I had never had a complaint. All my clients converted perfectly to my standards.

When Brandon had arrived at my farm for the summer, he had assumed there would be a combination of heavy farm work and awkward conversations. To be fair, at the surface level this was true. I had my nephew working from dawn to dusk every day, filling him with hearty, animal protein-heavy meals that along with the exhaustion would knock him out immediately after dinner was served. 

There was no time for anything but labor and my conversations with Brandon. I also allowed no devices beside my work computer, which was off limits anyway, meaning not only did my nephew have no time to jerk off, but nothing to jerk off to. Eventually, Brandon’s brain became too overworked from the constant tug of war between exertion and exhaustion, forcing his will to fall back in line. It became easier to just listen and absorb, to sponge up my opinions rather than react to them.

Over the summer months, I watched as my nephew’s slim, faggy form bloated into that of a man. He grew taller, broader, muscles slowly piling on thanks to the proper diet and obnoxious amount of exercise and training. One by one I replaced his articles of clothing with more appropriate attire: cheap tees that could get dirty, thrifted jeans, my old boxers already stretched to fit his thickening size. Brandon had not made any comment when his razors had disappeared, nor when his shoes were replaced with much larger, well-worn boots. His growing feet had needed them anyway.

The mental changes were harder. Our conversations, which eventually became nothing more than lectures, where discussions focused around the family's values. I spent the majority of our time peeling back Brandon’s progressive ideology, stripping down to the traditional conservative roots. In between it all, I would constantly scatter in mentions of girls, vulgarly tossing tits and pussy language so that it became all my nephew heard. At first it pissed him off, but once Brandon began to simply ingest it all, I knew the conversion had already begun. 

By our last week together, Brandon had become an entirely different man. The 22-year-old now physically resembled our family pride, his masculinity now at par with the textbook definition. As a final test of my work, I brought my nephew into my office and sat him next to the sole computer on the property. I instructed Brandon to open the screen, stepping away as the old monitor booted up a lesbian porno I had already booted up.

“Like what you see?” 

I chuckled as Brandon’s cock hardened, completely mesmerized. Thanks to the lack of exposure, my nephew’s brain was flooded with waves of sexual pleasure forgotten to him, now redirected with my instruction. With his instincts realigned, Brandon’s former life would be no more. I reached over and quickly turned off the monitor, knowing his aching cock threatened immediate release.

“You’ve passed the test,” I announced. “You’re a real man now, Brandon.”

I motioned towards the open bathroom, Brandon's massive cock still throbbing for the opposite gender. I offered my permission without saying a word, grabbing for the door. To my surprise, and delight, my nephew cockily questioned my expertise.

“I disagree, uncle,” his voice was deep and authoritative. “The true test will come after I lose my gold star.”

You shuffle deeper into the alley, the damp chill seeping through your thin jacket. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of desperation and shame. The coin in your palm feels impossibly heavy, its edges digging into your skin as you clench your fist.

Ahead, the fountain looms, a monstrosity of carved stone barely visible in the sickly orange glow of a single flickering streetlamp. It's a face—cruel, ancient, undeniably masculine—with water perpetually spewing from its sneering mouth into a scum-covered basin.

"Oberon," you rasp, the name scraping your throat raw. "I... I need your help."

The confession feels like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "The sin is envy. I know it is. I fucking know it." Saying it out loud doesn't bring relief; it just solidifies the rot that's been festering inside you for years. You're gay. Not just gay, but hopelessly, pathetically so.

A doughy guy whose dating life is a barren wasteland of ghosted messages and awkward coffee dates that lead nowhere. It eats at you, a constant, gnawing hunger that you've never dared to speak aloud.

Everywhere you look, they're there. The gods of this world. Those jocks with muscles that seem carved from marble, stomachs so flat they look like they could be used as an ironing board, jaws so sharp they could slice paper, and that effortless, liquid confidence that makes everyone gravitate towards them. They walk into a room and the atmosphere changes. People lean in. Laughter gets a little louder. Eyes follow them. They don't even have to try.

And you? You watch. You compare. You burn.

You envy the way their tight t-shirts stretch across sculpted chests, hinting at the power beneath. You envy the easy way people flirt with them, the casual touches, the hungry looks.

You envy their comfort in their own skin, while you spend half your life pulling at clothes that never seem to fit right, strategically positioning yourself to avoid any reflective surface. They have the bodies you were cheated out of. The looks you were denied. The magnetic presence that makes people want them instantly.

Every time one of them passes you on the street, something sour and toxic twists in your gut. A bitter cocktail of longing and self-loathing.

You don't see yourself as ugly, not really. Just... average. Painfully, crushingly average. Soft where they're hard. Blurry where they're sharp. Invisible where they're the main event.

You close your eyes sometimes and imagine it—being them. Waking up in that body, with that face, that confidence. Imagine walking into a room and having heads turn. Imagine people desiring you the moment they see you, instead of looking right through you.

The envy is a physical presence now, a heavy stone in your gut that grows a little larger, a little heavier with every perfect body that parades past you.

You stumbled upon this place by sheer, desperate accident. A cobblestone side street you'd never noticed before, tucked away behind a row of grimy warehouses. And there it was. The fountain. A last-ditch prayer to a dark fairy king you weren't sure was real, but what choice did you have?

"Please," you beg, your voice cracking, sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Take this... this thing from me. This envy. Make me like them. Make me one of them."

With a trembling hand, you flick the coin into the murky water. It hits with a disappointing 'plink,' sending a few weak ripples across the scummy surface. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Just silence. The distant wail of a siren. The drip, drip, drip of water from the stone face.

Then, the ripples change. They grow faster, more violent, churning the basin into a frothing, angry whirlpool. A strange, electric tingle shoots up your arm from your fingertips, a buzzing, invasive energy that quickly spreads through your entire body.

Your muscles seize up, locking in place as a wave of intense heat washes over you. You gasp, stumbling back against the damp brick wall, your eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning hope.

It's starting.

You can feel it. The fat. It's not just melting; it's being actively purged, siphoned from your body with an alarming efficiency. You watch, mesmerized, as the soft pouch of your stomach tightens, the flesh seeming to shrink and retract right before your eyes.

Your thighs, once doughy and thick, feel leaner, the skin pulling taut over newly emerging muscle. It's painful, a deep, cellular ache, but it's a glorious pain, the pain of becoming.

Your mind begins to fray and reweave itself. Memories flicker and shift like faulty projector reels. That disastrous date with the philosophy student? Now you remember him hanging on your every word, his eyes wide with adoration as you held court on a topic you barely understood.

That humiliating Grindr hookup where you couldn't get it up? Poof. Replaced by a memory of some twink begging for your number, his hands trembling as he touched your arm. The comparison, the constant, soul-crushing comparison to the college studs, the gym gods... it's fading. Why would you ever compare yourself to them? When you're... you're becoming...

A god.

The thought slams into you with the force of a physical blow. YES. A GOD.

The transformation kicks into high gear. Your chest balloons outwards, the soft flesh replaced by two thick, heavy slabs of muscle that strain against the fabric of your shirt. Your pecs feel solid, powerful, each breath causing them to flex and ripple.

Sweat beads on your skin, running in rivulets down the newly carved valleys of your abdomen. Your waist cinches in, the fat vanishing completely, revealing a set of razor-sharp, deeply etched abs. You run a hand over them, the sensation alien and electrifying. They're hard as rock, each ridge perfect, symmetrical. The kind of stomach people stare at with a mix of blatant envy and raw hunger.

Your arms are next. They swell, biceps rounding into perfect peaks, shoulders broadening until your shirt seams groan in protest. Veins, thick and blue, snake beneath the thin layer of sweat-slick skin, mapping out the new terrain of your power. There is no softness left anywhere. No trace of the person you were a minute ago. You are pure, engineered potential.

Your brain is on fire, synapses firing and rewiring with brutal speed. The awkward mumbling, the self-deprecating humor, the desperate need for approval—all gone. In their place rises a slick, effortless charm. A cocky, knowing smirk feels natural on your lips.

You remember conversations where you didn't just participate, you commanded. You remember people laughing at your jokes, hanging on your every word. Your ego isn't just growing; it's exploding, inflating like a hot air balloon, lifting you high above the petty concerns of mere mortals. You're not just important. You are the center of the fucking universe.

More memories flood in, displacing the old, worthless ones. You see yourself in a bright, sterile bathroom, flexing for your phone's camera. You remember the exact wording of the captions you'd post. "Another day, another pump. Who's mirin'?"

You remember shilling overpriced, useless protein powder to your desperate followers, the notifications of sales pinging on your phone like a dopamine drip. You remember the adoration, the worship. And you remember getting hornier. So, so much hornier.

Your phone, suddenly in your hand, buzzes. A message. From a guy. Some dude named Kevin. 'Hey man, you look amazing. Any chance I could take you out? My treat.' Your dick, already stirring, gives a half-hearted lurch. Then... nothing. A wave of disgust, cold and sharp, washes over you. Pathetic.

That's what he is. Look at him. Begging. He probably can't even bench his own body weight. And the way he's looking at you... that desperate, hungry look all those fucking fags get. It's gross. It's weak. A new, ugly thought coils in your mind: they're all so fucking gay. The word hangs there, dripping with contempt. Homophobia. It's not just a thought; it's a core belief now, as fundamental as your newfound muscles.

Your phone buzzes again. And again. A torrent of notifications. But these are different. Profile pictures of women. Stunning women. A blonde with lips so plump they look like they're stung by bees, posing in a bikini. A brunette with hair cascading over perfect, surgically-enhanced tits. Models. Influencers. Bimbos.

FUCK.

Your cock, which had been merely interested, now erupts with a vengeance. It thickens, lengthening with alarming speed down your thigh. 6 inches... 7... it keeps growing, pushing against the restrictive denim of your jeans. 8... 9... 10... it's a monster, a thick, heavy rod of meat that pulses with a life of its own. 11... 12 fucking inches. It feels incredible, a source of immense, primal power. Your ego swells to match it, a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated self-worship.

The last vestiges of your old life are being systematically erased. College? A hazy, irrelevant dream. You remember high school, but it's different now. You weren't some awkward nerd. You were the star quarterback. The captain of the wrestling team.

You remember coaches slapping your ass, cheerleaders fighting over who got to hold your jacket. You could have gone pro, everyone said so. But college? Nah. Too much bullshit. Too much reading. You were too dumb, too horny, too fucking important for all that. Why sit in a classroom when you could be in the gym, or better yet, in some chick's bed?

Now, the memories are crystal clear. You're a personal trainer at Equinox, downtown. The most exclusive one. Every bored, rich housewife and every daddy's-little-princess in the Chicago Loop wants a piece of you. They pay you a fortune just to watch them sweat, to occasionally "adjust their form," your hands lingering on their soft, perfumed skin. And you're happy to help. For the right price. Or the right look.

Your sense of entitlement solidifies into granite. You weren't just given a silver spoon; you were born with a fucking golden platter in your mouth. You've always had the best. The best car, the best clothes, the best body. You deserve it. The world doesn't just revolve around you; it fucking orbits you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Politics? You don't follow the details, that's for losers and eggheads. But you know what you believe. You're conservative. Strong. Like your father, whose money you now remember inheriting without a second thought.

You hate the other side. You hate their whining, their weakness, their blue hair and their "safe spaces." Especially those bitchy, woke liberal chicks. God, you fucking hate them. And yet... you love fucking them. You love the challenge of breaking them, of fucking them so good, so deep, so relentlessly that they forget all about their little causes and their little protests.

You love seeing that fire in their eyes go out, replaced by a vacant, adoring need to please you. You fuck them until they're just as stuck, just as vapid, just as conservative as you are. It's a public service, really.

Your mind, once a library of facts and feelings, is now a stripped-down engine with three simple functions: lifting, fucking, and looking good. The dumbing-down process accelerates. You can barely remember how to do long division.

History? A blur of names and dates you couldn't give a shit about. Science? Something about... weights and reps? You're a fucking moron, and it feels glorious. People might call you a himbo, but that implies a certain, affable stupidity, a gentle giant quality. You're not gentle. You're not affable. You're a fuckboi. A crude, vulgar, self-absorbed fuckboi, and it's the only thing you've ever wanted to be.

Your body, now a masterpiece of physical perfection, pulses with this new reality. The rare combination of brute strength and elegant proportion makes people instantly, painfully aware of their own shortcomings when they stand next to you. Men don't just want your physique; they resent it. They want to be you, and they hate you for it. Women want your body, but more than that, they want your attention, your approval, your seed.

And your face. God, your face. It's the final, devastating touch. The jawline is sharp enough to be a weapon, a stark, angular frame for your mouth. Your eyes, once a soft, forgettable brown, are now a dark, intense, almost predatory blue.

Your hair, damp with sweat, is pushed back from your forehead in a way that looks careless but is utterly perfect. Your expression is a masterpiece of arrogant seduction, a slight smirk playing on your full lips as if you've just been told a dirty joke or are thinking about the last person you utterly ruined in bed. It's not a delicate beauty; it's a consuming one. The kind of face that haunts people, that they replay in their minds long after you've gone.

You don't just look attractive. You look untouchable. You are the gold standard, the living embodiment of what everyone else secretly measures themselves against and fails.

The stone face of Oberon in the fountain suddenly looms in your vision, growing impossibly large, its cruel features overwhelming your senses until it bursts—not with a bang, but with a silent, blinding rush of water that engulfs you completely. You sputter, wiping your eyes, and the grimy alley is gone.

You're standing in a steam room, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and expensive sweat. The air is warm and heavy on your perfect skin. Across from you, two women are staring, their mouths slightly agape. They are breathtaking.

A blonde, improbably tan, with tits that defy gravity, barely contained by a tiny bikini top. Her lips are glossy and plump, perfect for... well, you know exactly what they're perfect for. Next to her, a brunette with dark, sultry eyes and legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair falls in perfect waves over shoulders that would look even better draped over your face.

You don't hesitate. You flex.

It's a small movement, just a tensing of your bicep, a slight puffing out of your chest, but it's like a starting gun. They move towards you as one, drawn by an invisible force. Their hands are all over you, touching, stroking, worshiping. "Oh my god," the blonde breathes, her fingers tracing the veins on your forearm. "You're... you're even better than your pictures."

The brunette moans softly as her hand glides across your slick, hard pecs. "I used to work for the DNC," she murmurs, as if confessing a sin. "I used to care about... things." She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a new, desperate purpose. "But I don't care about any of that anymore."

The blonde nods in agreement, her hand sliding down to grip your impossible ass. "I wrote those awful protest songs. So angry. So stupid." She giggles, a high, vapid sound. "Now all I want to do is make you happy."

Your whores. Rich, reformed, perfect whores.

The lust that has been simmering, building, now boils over, consuming every remaining thought. There is no envy. There is no past. There is only this. The sin of Lust, and it is your religion. You lust for flesh, for the feeling of their bodies against yours. You lust for attention, for their adoration, for their worship. You lust for sex, a primal, all-consuming need that will never, ever be satisfied.

They aren't people anymore, not in the way you used to understand the term. They are accessories. Trophies. Living, breathing proof of your power, your conquest, your sheer, unadulterated dominance.

"I... I can't even believe you're real. Your body is... it's like it was carved by angels to make other men feel like shit." breathes the blonde, her voice a high-pitched, needy whine, her lips, swollen and glistening, are parted slightly.

The brunette, nods vigorously, her dark hair clinging to the sweat on her temples. "I used to think I was happy," she confesses, her hands roaming freely over the chiseled landscape of your abdomen. "I had my master's degree in gender studies. I volunteered. I protested. I thought I was making a difference." She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "What a fucking joke. The only difference that matters is this." She squeezes your bicep, her fingers failing to even make a dent in the solid muscle. "This is real power. This is what matters."

Their words wash over you, not as praise, but as simple confirmation of reality. Of course your body was carved to make lesser men feel inadequate. Of course your physical presence is the only true power in this world. Any residual empathy, any capacity for seeing beyond your own reflection, any shred of understanding for the "plight" of others—it's all gone.

"You're right," you say, your voice a low, confident rumble that vibrates through your chest and into their eager hands. "All that other shit is for people who have nothing to offer. People who are... soft." You spit the word out like it's poison. "Weak. They need their little causes and their committees because they can't look in the mirror and see a god staring back."

You reach down and cup the blonde's face, your thumb stroking her jawline. "But you're not like that anymore, are you? You're smart now. You know what's important." You guide her head down, and she goes willingly, eagerly, her glossy lips parting. The brunette watches, her own hands busy, one stroking your powerful thigh while the other disappears between her own legs, her breath hitching.

"I used to date this guy," the brunette pants, her eyes locked on the scene before her. "He was so sensitive. He wanted to talk about his feelings." She shudders, a look of genuine disgust on her face. "God, I was so stupid"

You smirk, a cruel, knowing expression that feels as natural as breathing. "That's because you're a woman," you state, as if explaining gravity. "It's biology. You don't want a partner. You want an owner. You want to be claimed by something stronger than you. It's not your fault you were confused. You were listening to a bunch of weak, liberal fags who were too scared to be men."

Now this. This is a proper reaction. This is the natural order of things. A thick, primal lust reasserts itself, crowding out the momentary irritation. Your cock, which had been semi-soft, surges back to its full, terrifying 12-inch glory, a veined pillar of granite demanding satisfaction. You look from the phone to the two women before you. They are not just whores; they are your first converts. Testaments to your power.

"Get up," you command, your voice leaving no room for argument. They scramble to their feet, their bodies slick with sweat and anticipation. You grab the blonde, spinning her around and bending her over the smooth, tiled bench. Her ass is perfect, round and tan, and you give it a sharp, stinging slap that leaves a red handprint on her skin. She yelps, but it's a sound of pure pleasure.

"You see this?" you say to the brunette, grabbing a fistful of the blonde's hair and pulling her head back. "This is what you were meant for. This is what all women were meant for. To be on their knees, or bent over, waiting for a real man to put them in their place."

You position yourself behind the blonde, the head of your colossal cock pressing against her entrance. The brunette moves to your side, her hands running over your heaving back and shoulders, her mouth whispering filthy encouragement in your ear. "Yes, fuck her. Show her what a real man feels like. Ruin her for anyone else. Breed her."

The word 'breed' sends a jolt of electricity through you. Yes. That's it. That's the ultimate purpose. Not just the fleeting pleasure of the act, but the biological imperative. To pass on this perfection. To create more of you. It's the most conservative, the most fundamental, the most important thing in the world.

With a powerful, guttural roar, you thrust into the blonde. She screams, a high, keening sound of pain and ecstasy that echoes off the tiled walls of the steam room. You don't hold back. You don't ease into it. You fuck her with the brutal, unthinking force of a tidal wave, your hips slamming against her ass, your hands gripping her hips so tightly you know you'll leave bruises.

A hammer blow against the wall of the old world, shaping it in your image. Your body is a blur of motion, a symphony of flexing muscle and raw, animal power. The steam room fills with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the blonde's incoherent screams of pleasure, and your own guttural grunts, the sounds of a primeval god claiming his territory. The brunette is everywhere, her hands stroking your sweat-slicked back, her nails digging into your ass, her lips whispering a constant stream of filth and encouragement that fuels your fire.

"Look at you," she moans, her voice thick with lust. "So fucking strong. So fucking perfect. God, I wish every man on earth could see this right now. I wish they could all see what a real man looks like so they'd know to just give the fuck up."

The thought sends a surge of pure, unadulterated ecstasy through you. Yes. They should see. They should all be forced to watch. To see the gap, the insurmountable, genetic chasm between them and you.

You picture it: all the weak men, the sensitive men, the liberal men, the gay men—all lined up, heads bowed, forced to witness this act of pure, masculine conquest. They would weep. They would finally understand their place in the world, which is nowhere. They are obsolete. You are the future.

"We need strong men!" you'd roared, and the crowd, a sea of adoring, beautiful women, had gone wild. "We need men who aren't afraid to be men! Who aren't afraid to build, and protect, and BREED! We don't need thinkers! We need doers! We don't need talkers! We need fuckers!"

The blonde is trembling beneath you, her body convulsing with one orgasm after another, each one more intense than the last. She's broken. Remade. You've fucked the DNC out of her, fucked the liberal arts degree out of her, fucked every thought except for the singular, all-consuming need to please you out of her pretty little head. She is your creation. A testament to your power.

"Tell me what you are," you growl, your voice a harsh command as you pound into her relentlessly.

"I'm yours!" she screams, her voice cracking. "I'm your whore! I'm your little Republican cumslut! Just please... please don't stop!"

You laugh, a deep, arrogant sound that vibrates through your entire body. You have no intention of stopping. You could do this forever. This isn't just sex; it's your purpose. It's as natural to you as breathing. The pressure builds at the base of your spine, a tidal wave of molten pleasure gathering force, ready to annihilate everything in its path.

The sight of them, both completely lost in their worship of you, is the final trigger. The dam breaks.

You grab them, one in each powerful arm, and you fuck them. Right there in the steam room. You fuck them relentlessly, your body a piston of pure, unadulterated power. You are a god, and they are your sacrifices. You hear them moaning, but it's a distant sound, background noise to the roaring in your own head. They're moaning your new name.

"Sebastian... oh god, Sebastian..."

Yes. That's it. Sebastian. Of course it is. With a roar that seems to shake the very foundations of the building, you cum. It's not just a release; it's an explosion. A volcanic eruption of pure, concentrated alpha essence. Your body convulses, every muscle straining, as you unload what feels like a gallon of your seed deep inside the blonde. The force of it sends another shattering orgasm through her body, and she collapses onto the bench, a quivering, moaning mess.

You pull out, your cock still firing, and grab the brunette by the hair, spinning her around. You paint her back and her perfect ass with thick, white ropes of your cum, marking her as your property. Your territory. It's a primal act of ownership, and it feels more right than anything you have ever felt in your entire life.

You stand there for a long moment, your chest heaving, your body slick with sweat and steam and the evidence of your conquest. The two women are on the floor, at your feet, exactly where they belong. The air is thick with the scent of sex and eucalyptus and your own overwhelming, masculine presence.

You feel... solid. Complete.

You scoop your phone off the bench and open the camera, switching it to selfie mode. You look at your reflection. At the sharp jaw, the intense blue eyes, the sweat-matted dark hair. At the body that doesn't just look good, but looks unfair. You smirk, the same arrogant, knowing smirk that has made countless women weak and countless men seethe with jealousy. You take a picture. Perfect.

You type a quick caption. 'Done with the gym. Picked up a couple of new whores for dinner.'

You don't need to wonder. You are Sebastian. You are a god in human form. A vapid, egotistical, lustful, homophobic, conservative douchebag. And the world, honestly, does revolve around you. You look at the two women, already beginning to stir, their eyes finding you again, filled with that familiar, desperate hunger. You feel your cock begin to stir again. The lust is never sated. It is a fire that can only be fed. And you will spend the rest of your perfect, beautiful life feeding it.

As the last tremor subsides, you stand there, steam curling around your perfect form, two beautiful women clinging to you, and you know, with absolute certainty, that you are complete. You are Sebastian. The most beautiful, sexy man alive. A vapid, egotistical, lustful man with the body of a God. And the world is your oyster, ready to be fucked.

Nobody knows when RED180 spilled its final drop. Maybe it happened quietly in some flickering gas station cooler at 2:13 in the morning. Maybe the last can hissed open in the hands of someone desperate enough to ignore the warnings.

Or maybe there was never a “last can” at all.

Some say the drinks were pulled from shelves after too many stories surfaced — people changing overnight, voices deepening, bodies warping, memories rearranging themselves into someone else’s life. Security footage corrupted. Missing persons reports quietly buried. Smiling faces that no longer matched old photographs.

Others whisper something stranger.

That the curse simply ran dry.

That whatever lived inside RED180 and DARK180 finally exhausted itself after years of feeding on lonely people, unhappy people, curious people. That the magic drained out one transformation at a time until all that remained was stale liquid in dead aluminum cans.

Now the shelves sit empty.

Dust gathers where the crimson and black labels used to glow beneath fluorescent lights. The forums are silent. The sightings have stopped.

But every now and then, someone swears they spot a single can in the back of an old convenience store cooler, cold as ice and waiting patiently for someone foolish enough to crack it open.

Until next time....

I took a few creative liberties here and wrote a long one lol. Enjoy!

-------------------

“C’mon,” Ethan muttered, gripping the back of the couch as he tried to straighten his right leg. “I’ve got this... I've... fuck!”

He exhaled deeply and collapsed onto the couch, wincing as the pain shot through his knee. It hurt so much, so fuckin' much. And it wasn't just physical. He could hear his phone buzzing, the messages piling up.

"You coming back this season, bro?"

"Tubing Friday. Your knee good enough yet?"

"Scouts still asking about you btw."

Ethan cursed again. He missed going to practice. Missed drinking with bros. Missed the parties, the dumb arguments, the camaraderie. He missed his life before the injury.

“Fuck me...” His head sunk into his hands, "Stupid fuckin' knee."

He glanced up at his stick and the framed photo of the team. Him in the middle with a wide grin and his arm around his bros. Fuck... he wanted to get back to that. And he wanted to get back fast.

"There's gotta be a way..." He muttered.

An hour later he was deep in rehab forums when an ad stopped him cold.

BUILD-U-BACK RECOVERY NOW ENROLLING IN YOUR AREA: A NEW START, LASTING RELIEF

“Sounds fake as hell,” Joe murmured. But when he glanced back at the team photo he felt a pang in his chest. He reached for his wallet soon after.

----------------

This was it. Ethan stood on the empty practice field, stick in hand. The cold night air felt good against his warm skin. The stadium lights already dimming.

"Okay..." He bounced on the balls of his feet, "Okay, I've got this."

He dropped into goalie stance carefully, bracing for the pain. But it never came.

"No way..." Ethan pushed harder, shuffling across the crease before planting sharply off the bad leg, "Oh my god." He laughed with disbelief, "No fuckin' way!"

"Walsh?"

Ethan spun and smiled wider when he saw Luke, "Bro!"

"Dude! You're running!"

"I know! I fuckin' know!" He pointed at his knee, "It's gone, dude! It doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Let's fuckin' go, bro!"

It fuckin' worked. That fuckin' drug actually worked! Ethan stood proud, chest heaving and adrenaline surging. He was back. Practice, scouts, games, parties... it was all back.

-----------------

“Dude! First game back, you feel ready?”

Ethan looked up from tying his cleats and grinned. “More than ready.”

He tugged at the bottom of his hoodie, annoyed again by how tight it felt around his waist and chest. He’d already stopped wearing some of his older shirts entirely after realizing they didn’t fit right anymore. He figured his dryer was doing a number on his wardrobe.

“We won’t be too upset if you fuck up out there,” Luke said while peeling his shirt over his head. “We get you’re a little rusty.”

“Eat shit,” Ethan laughed, tossing a roll of tape at him before reaching for his own hoodie.

The cool air felt warm against his skin, and Ethan scratched absentmindedly at his chest, pausing for just a moment as his fingers tangled with thicker hairs there.

"The fuck...?" Ethan frowned and looked down.

Dark curls spread across the middle of his chest before trailing down his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sweat glistened faintly through the hair despite the cold room, and when Ethan shifted slightly, the waistband dug tighter against a stomach that suddenly looked thicker than he remembered.

"I shaved this shit this morning..." He figured the hair growth was a side effect of the drug, but he'd spent the last few days making sure he kept it under control. But now...?

Luke whistled low. “Damn, Walsh. Didn’t realize the recovery plan involved growing a lawn on your chest and blowing out your waistline.”

A couple guys laughed awkwardly before looking away again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan muttered, pulling his jersey on faster than usual. The fabric stretching tighter around his waist than he remembered.

Nobody really said anything after that.

Ethan forced a grin anyway and slammed his locker shut. “Alright, boys,” he called out. “Let’s do this.”

-------------

It was supposed to feel normal again. Friday night. Sports bar packed wall-to-wall after the game. Music too loud. Ethan sat wedged between Luke and Dylan with a cold Busch Light in his hand before realizing halfway through the bottle that he didn’t even remember ordering it.

“You looked like shit tonight,” Luke laughed.

“Appreciate it.”

“Seriously though, you good?”

Ethan scratched at the rough stubble on his chin. “Just playing bad.”

His phone buzzed against the table.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON ONE MONTH! YOUR NEXT PHASE OF RECOVERY STARTS TONIGHT!"

Ethan frowned at the notification before locking the screen again, "Next phase?" He stared at his arm, now dusted with dark hairs.

"Hey Ethan." Luke nudged him, "Someone's staring."

Ethan spotted her across the bar. Blond. Gorgeous. Smiling at him. For the first time all night, something loosened in his chest.

“There we go,” Dylan laughed when he caught Ethan staring. “That’s the Walsh we know.”

Ethan grinned and took another sip. Soon after, he was fumbling with his apartment keys while she laughed softly beside him in the hallway. They moved to his bedroom, clothes discarded quickly.

"Fuck..." Ethan whispered, as she kissed slowly along his neck, "I needed..."

"Standby mode protocol upload."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What?” she asked softly.

“It's uh... Nothin’.”

Her hands slid slowly across his chest and draped around his shoulders before pausing.

“Wow,” she said with a small laugh. “You’re kinda hairy.”

Ethan glanced down automatically, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hair curling across his shoulders and down his back.

"That's not..." He knew it wasn't there five hours ago.

“Sorry,” she added quickly, still smiling. “You’re just hairer than most guys I’ve been with.”

"Pleasure directives stem from labor initiatives."

Ethan winced hard enough that she finally pulled back slightly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just...” He rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t feel right.”

She kissed him again anyway, her hand sliding lower across the thicker, softer shape of his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers and around his flaccid cock.

“Oh,” she laughed gently, trying to mask her confusion.

Ethan glanced down, a wave of sickening humiliation washing over him. His cock stayed completely dead. Buried in a dense, coarse mat of newly thick pubic hair and a rapidly expanding fat pad, his dick looked distinctly shorter, stubbier, and entirely useless

“You okay?” she asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah. I just...” He swallowed hard. “I dunno. It's not working... I... Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said softly, “Seriously. It happens.”

A few minutes later he stood awkwardly by the door while she slipped her shoes back on.

“Maybe just stress?” she offered gently.

“Yeah.” Ethan forced a laugh. “Probably.”

After she left, the apartment felt painfully quiet again. Ethan stood there shirtless for another minute before walking to the fridge automatically and grabbing another Busch Light.

------------

A week had passed, and Ethan exhaled heavily as he stepped out of the shower. He’d stopped changing in the locker room after practice a few days ago, tired of catching teammates staring too long at his stomach or shoulders before awkwardly looking away. Now, alone in his apartment, there was nobody else left to notice except him.

“Jesus Christ...” he whispered at his reflection.

The mirror across from the bed reflected somebody that looked wrong. Dark curls spread heavily across his chest and shoulders now, while rough stubble shadowed his jaw despite shaving before practice that morning. Even standing still, his body looked heavier than it used to.

“I’m exercising,” Ethan muttered weakly. “I’m eating healthy...” His eyes drifted toward the empty Busch Light cans scattered across the nightstand, “I...”

"Standby initiating."

Ethan’s breath caught as the voice echoed in his head.

“What the...”

"Standby mode active."

Every muscle in his body locked instantly.

Ethan jerked hard against it on instinct, but nothing responded correctly. His fingers twitched once beside his thigh before going still again. His chest continued rising and falling normally. He could blink. Breathe. Swallow. But that was it.

“What... the fuck...” he forced out weakly.

Hours passed as Ethan sat frozen on the edge of the bed staring into the mirror. The rough hair across his chest thickened slowly while his stomach pushed heavier against his lap with every shallow breath. His face itched constantly as a dark beard spread across his jaw until he looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

A knock on the door and the sound of heavy footsteps entering his apartment made him tense. He watched as two men in BUILDING-U-BACK jackets entered his room and stopped mid-step when they saw Ethan in nothing but a pair of tight sweatpants.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s the lacrosse kid?”

“Yeah. CRW-57F.”

The younger guy kept staring. “Still got some of that frat-boy face left.”

“Not for too long.”

The younger rep shook his head slowly. “Weird seeing one this young.”

“Don’t worry,” the older rep said casually. “Give it a week and you won’t even be able to pick 'em out from the others.”

Ethan strained against the paralysis hard enough that his jaw twitched once.

“You know what’s crazy?” the younger rep continued. “Six months from now he’ll be drinking beer after shifts talking about kids that don’t exist like the rest of ’em.”

“Yeah well, the whole family-man thing makes clients comfortable. People trust workers who look settled.”

One of them glanced toward the empty Busch Light cans beside the bed.

“Damn,” he muttered. “He’s already self-reinforcing.”

“Good sign.”

Ethan let out another whimper as he tried to reach for his phone, but his arm wouldn't budge.

“Oh shit,” the younger rep said suddenly. “You think he knows what we’re saying?”

“Nah,” the older rep replied casually. “The lab guys say there's not much left going on upstairs during standby.”

Ethan felt something cold settle quietly in his chest. The older rep finally looked directly at him and nodded toward the hallway.

“C’mon CRW-57F," He tossed him his old lacrosse hoodie, "Housing assignment’s ready.”

Ethan stood automatically.

------------

Ethan barely remembered the drive to the facility. He had been packed into a van shoulder-to-shoulder with a few other hirsute guys sporting beer guts. His eyes remained fixed on the man across from him, and Ethan realized with growing dread that it was like looking in a mirror.

"There's been a mistake!" He tried to call out, but the words in his head wouldn't leave his mouth, "Please..."

When they did finally arrive at the facility, he was walked to a featureless room with a table and a few bins.

"This is CRW-57F." A man said to his colleague, entering the room, "Originally Ethan Walsh. Signed up for the program for an injured knee." He looked down at his clipboard, "Worker identity is officially Joe Mercer."

"Joe Mercer? That's not..." He thought, but the name Ethan was already starting to feel distant.

"Alright, let's get him in the system." The man continued, "We're going to need your personal belongings, CRW-57F."

Joe felt as he reached into his pocket and gripped his phone. He quickly dropped it into one of the bins, along with his keys, wallet, student ID.

"Oh shit, that's the college kid?" One of the men said, looking down at the ID.

"Yeah, lacrosse player, if you can believe it now."

"Damn, that drug did a number on him." The man sighed, "Okay, CRW-57F, need the clothes too."

Ethan winced as he gripped his team's lacrosse hoodie and yanked it off. Cool air hit the thick hair covering his chest and stomach, and he heard one of the employees exhale quietly through his nose.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Hope the knee was worth it.”

"Update on the apartment?"

"Cleaning crew is taking care of that, lease will terminate tomorrow."

"N-No..." Ethan thought, imagining them clearing it out. His team photo. His lacrosse gear. The clothes crammed into the closet. Every piece of evidence that Ethan Walsh had ever existed.

"Family updated?" The other man nodded, "And..."

"What do you think? Took it poorly." The other man sighed, "Kid’s barely old enough to drink and now he’s gonna look older than his dad."

"Visitation scheduled?"

"In a month."

Ethan felt his stomach twist. The thought of his parents seeing him like this made him want to disappear.

"By then he'll be settled enough that it won't matter much." The rep muttered, "They all stop trying eventually."

One of them picked up Ethan's student ID and looked at the picture for a second before tossing it into the bin with the rest of his belongings.

"Poor kid."

"Yeah."

The lid snapped shut. A folded stack of clothes landed in Ethan’s arms a second later. Gray work shirt. Plain jeans. Steel-toe boots. The employee checked another box on his clipboard.

“Alright CRW-57F,” he said casually. “let's get you downstairs.”

------------

Ethan barely slept.

The worker housing smelled like sweat, musk, sawdust, and stale beer. The bed made his back ache. Men wandered the halls at all hours wearing gray shirts and work pants, scratching at thick stomachs or rubbing sleep from heavy eyes while they talked about wives, back pain, football games, and their kids.

“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”

“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!”

Ethan sat quietly on the edge of his bed with a Busch Light in his hand, staring toward the floor while his body moved through routines his brain still hadn’t fully accepted. Every few hours that same pressure built behind his eyes again, and afterward his thoughts always came back slower.

"Who are these people?" He wondered, "They all look... the same..."

But when he looked down, he realized how much he looked like them too. Even more than the night he was brought to the facility. The gut, the hair, the beard, the weathered skin... what the fuck had they done to him?

“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”

Ethan looked up slowly. A different pair of workers stood near the vending machines now.

“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!” The exact same laugh followed.

Ethan felt his stomach tighten. It was the same conversation, the same cadence… the same everything. They all talked like that. All looked the same. Nothing to distinguish them...

"Lacrosse." He thought suddenly.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the locker room. The smell of the gear. The roar after a clean save. He could almost see the jersey. Blue. Or green? No... Red?

Ethan shuddered and took another swig of his beer.

------------

He couldn't recall the drive out here. One moment he was climbing into his assigned bunk, the next he was hauling lumber across a chaotic job site. Sweat drenched the thick hair across his torso. He reeked, too... of sawdust, exhaustion, and that stale musk clinging like the rest of them. He craved a shower, but knew better. Management preferred them this way.

"57F?" Two reps walked past him, "Still not meeting his quotas."

"Really? You'd think with him having been a star athlete..."

"Eh, you would think." The rep muttered, "We've found it really doesn't."

"Shame. We'll ship him out to Ohio tomorrow then, they're looking for more men and he's slowing us down."

He continued to work, but their words kept repeating in his head. A month ago, he was a star. Always getting positive feedback, always being commended. Now, he was failing at whatever this nightmare was.

"Joe?" He turned immediately to see one of the workers approach him, "You remember my boy, yeah?" The man smiled, "Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man."

"Yeah?" The word left his mouth before he could even think about it. In fact, he didn't even really process it. Everything slowed suddenly, simplified in his brain. Lacrosse? Old apartment? Friends? Suddenly, it felt far from reach, "Mine just turned thirteen." He'd heard those words before from the other workers. The exact same words. Delivered in the same cadence, with the same gravely voice. Now... those words were coming from him, "Kid's eating me out of house and home already!"

Both men laughed. But as the other worker stepped away, Ethan's eyes widened.

"Fuck... no..." His thoughts were slower than they had been just two minutes prior. But so was his anxiety. Everything suddenly felt so much simpler, "La-lacrosse... lacrosse... not this..." He repeated for as long as his mind let him.

The pressure behind his eyes returned immediately. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the lumber until his knuckles turned white. He tried to hold onto the panic, tried to hold onto the certainty that something terrible was happening to him, but even that feeling seemed to be slipping away. The fear was still there. He could feel it. Yet every second it felt smaller, duller, less important than the work waiting around him.

"Joe!" He looked up automatically. One of the workers waved him over, "Quit daydreaming. Grab this end."

He did as he was told and the pressure vanished. Relief flooded him, washing away the confusion, the panic...

"Appreciate it," the worker said.

"No problem." The answer came naturally, "I ain't no slacker."

The two men carried the load across the site together while talking about football, kids, weekend plans, and just how good the cold beer at the end of the day would taste. Across the yard, one of the reps glanced up from his clipboard.

"Huh... Looks like Ohio's getting him just in time."

"I guess so..."

Joe adjusted the lumber on his shoulder and laughed at something one of the other workers said. The sound blended effortlessly with the rest of the crew as they disappeared into the noise of the job site.

"I'm not sure I understand. Uh.. Sir"

I smile gently. It's understandable that he'd have a hard time. The drug must be taking quite a toll on his brain, enough that he did not acknowledge his changing body.

"I'm saying the job is yours, its just not quite the job that was in the paper"

He just looks at me with round eyes. I can see his face starting to change a bit, and I bite my lips. He's going to be so hot when he's done.

"Have you ever heard of anthro Anthony?"

He shakes his head.

"Anthros are humans that are a also a mix of animals. Like a minotaur. And now you're gonna become one."

I see he is still not fully understanding. Rather he looks distracted, one hand on his cock I know is probably rock hard by now. I've seen it hundreds of time, and once the transformation has started there's always a few days where they are completely overrun by lust and sex drive. Then they get back some mental capacity and have to come to term with their new reality. Of course, it's easier for the stupider or lustier animals. I've never had a pig or a donkey have an existential crisis.

I can see he's starting to be too lost to even listen to me, so I don't bother. I get up and seize him gently by the shoulders, prompting him up. He hunches, just like a true monkey. I take his hand and leads him to my car.

The drive is not too long, but by the time we arrive at the appartment complex I call the den he can barely contain himself. By the time he's passed the first doors he's out of his clothes, and marveling stupidly at his growing tail.

I guide him to his new place, smiling at the other inhabitants that are hanging out in the corridors. Some are talking, some are fucking, there's even a horse guy pissing in a pup's mouth as we go up.

When he enters, the other monkeys immediately come and say hi, and I can see everyone trying to decide where the newcomer will fit in the hierarchy. Most likely today he both is going to fuck a lot and get fucked a lot. Nothing wrong with that.

I close the door behind me, sighing in satisfaction at a job well done. I know a lot of people think my cruel, but I really do think I offer these young men a great life. Especially the monkeys. They get to live in a community, they're smart enough also to be able to act normally when they go outside, it really is the best of both world. A few of them even have part time jobs outside the den.

"I'm not sure I understand. Uh.. Sir"

I smile gently. It's understandable that he'd have a hard time. The drug must be taking quite a toll on his brain, enough that he did not acknowledge his changing body.

"I'm saying the job is yours, its just not quite the job that was in the paper"

He just looks at me with round eyes. I can see his face starting to change a bit, and I bite my lips. He's going to be so hot when he's done.

"Have you ever heard of anthro Anthony?"

He shakes his head.

"Anthros are humans that are a also a mix of animals. Like a minotaur. And now you're gonna become one."

I see he is still not fully understanding. Rather he looks distracted, one hand on his cock I know is probably rock hard by now. I've seen it hundreds of time, and once the transformation has started there's always a few days where they are completely overrun by lust and sex drive. Then they get back some mental capacity and have to come to term with their new reality. Of course, it's easier for the stupider or lustier animals. I've never had a pig or a donkey have an existential crisis.

I can see he's starting to be too lost to even listen to me, so I don't bother. I get up and seize him gently by the shoulders, prompting him up. He hunches, just like a true monkey. I take his hand and leads him to my car.

The drive is not too long, but by the time we arrive at the appartment complex I call the den he can barely contain himself. By the time he's passed the first doors he's out of his clothes, and marveling stupidly at his growing tail.

I guide him to his new place, smiling at the other inhabitants that are hanging out in the corridors. Some are talking, some are fucking, there's even a horse guy pissing in a pup's mouth as we go up.

When he enters, the other monkeys immediately come and say hi, and I can see everyone trying to decide where the newcomer will fit in the hierarchy. Most likely today he both is going to fuck a lot and get fucked a lot. Nothing wrong with that.

I close the door behind me, sighing in satisfaction at a job well done. I know a lot of people think my cruel, but I really do think I offer these young men a great life. Especially the monkeys. They get to live in a community, they're smart enough also to be able to act normally when they go outside, it really is the best of both world. A few of them even have part time jobs outside the den.

Me and my best friend Luke are almost the same person. Except I’m white and gay and he’s black and straight. Also his name is Luke and my name is Aaron. We both love soccer, we both are pretty dumb and we both spend a lot of time at the gym. We’re basically the same person. And then there’s one more BIG difference.

I invited Luke over for a sleepover tonight, not a gay thing just a friend thing, chill. We stayed up playing video games and texting and talking about stupid things. At one point, Luke decided to go to bathroom. Me, being into the video game must have not noticed and decided I needed to go aswell. I walked into the bathroom and saw Luke jerking off to a picture of a nude woman. We both screamed, him because I had walked in on him, but me because he had the biggest dick I had ever seen. I was already tenting in my pants from the couple seconds I had seen it. It had to be at least a foot long.

I went outside and was freaking out and trying to not have an erection. I finially calmed and came back inside and he was acting like nothing happened. I decided to do the same. We played for about 2 more hours and he decided he wanted to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I just kept thinking about the snake inside of Luke’s pants I didn’t know about. I wanted it. Not like I normally do, like to have sex with him, but I want to have a dick as long as his.

I decided to make a wish. “I wish I had Luke’s dick.” I would come to regret that choice of words later. That must have worked to help me sleep because immediately after I saw a white light and got knocked out. 

I woke up feeling groggy and walked into the bathroom to see my best friend staring back at me in the mirror. I shrieked and walked back out. Sure enough, there was the old me sleeping soundly. I woke myself up and we both screamed not knowing how or why this happened. 

We decided since now I had already seen his dick and he had seen mine a long while back we could take showers and not worry about seeing each others cocks. He took one first and it was especially quick. Once he came out, I went in. I knew exactly what I wanted to do so I looked up porn he would’ve liked to have watched and waited. But I couldn’t get aroused. So I looked up gay porn and sure enough I got hard in seconds. All 12 inches of his massive cock in its glory. I went to town and massaged this massive meat. I busted a load all over the bathroom so I cleaned it up and took my shower. 

As I left the shower I saw a note I was sure wasn’t there when I got in. “Hope you’re enjoying your gift. You get a day in Luke’s body with his cock you wanted. The spell will wear off as you sleep. I also swapped your orientations  so you don’t have to worry about liking women

P.S. do NOT masturbate or the swap will be sealed. You may have sex but you can’t cum by yourself.

Love, your guardian angel.”

I started panicking. How was I gonna tell Aaron, I mean Luke?

I just decided not to and I left the bathroom.

“Hey Luke, took long enough bro”

“Huh?” confused why he called me Luke.

“What were you watching gay porn? Don’t worry I don’t judge just because I’m straight”

Luke had completely forgotten he used to be me. In an instant, Luke’s old memories came into my head. I could play it off like I was always him. Now, Luke is black and gay and me. And Aaron is a white straight guy with a small cock. But, Aaron got us to the championships. So, fair trade I think.