Sans titre

George adjusted his tie and got comfortable in his chair as the IT guy tapped away on his computer, as head of marketing and sales he was eager to get this new AI assistant programme some of the other department heads had been raving about. It was said to make organisation, spread sheets, emails and data analysis a breeze.

"There we are Mr Harris, the programme is installed and I have done most of the set but I have left the customisation for you to finish. Mr Higgins down the hall went with a woman with a sweet, southern sounding voice but I think you can create an avatar and everything."

"An Avawhat?" George said while raising an eyebrow at the man about to leave. Who was about to answer before George's human assistant walked in.

You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.

"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"

"Jason is like totally the hottest."

"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."

"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"

You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.

"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"

The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.

“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"

"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.

"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.

The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"

You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.

"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"

Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.

"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"

"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"

"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.

"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."

"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"

You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.

"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.

"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.

"No shame in that, brah!"

You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.

"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"

Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"

"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"

The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.

"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.

"Chlorophyll."

"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"

Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"

The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.

"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.

"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"

You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."

"Correct!"

"Woah bro, nice one!"

Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.

"What the…?"

The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…

"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"

The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"

"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."

But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?

"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."

You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!

"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.

"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."

You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...

"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.

"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."

The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...

"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"

"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."

"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.

The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?

"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."

"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"

"Dead lifts..."

"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."

The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."

Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?

"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.

You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.

"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.

"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."

Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.

"The answer is hips, bro."

"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.

As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.

"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind- Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.

When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?

"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.

Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?

A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.

The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."

"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.

"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.

"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"

The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"

The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.

"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."

Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.

The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.

With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.

"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.

And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…

Stiles wasn’t phased by the strange girl emerging from the solid hedge and claiming to be a fairy. He’d seen weirder. But he was alarmed and embarrassed that, when she asked him his deepest desire, it immediately spilled out of him like water from cupped hands:

“I wish Derek was into me.”

As he said those words, Stiles pictured Derek waking up one day with his preferences suddenly shifted to include overly talkative skinny goofballs. The fairy pointed her finger at his chest, shooting a light that quickly enveloped his whole body.

Suddenly, Stiles’s mind was filled with vivid scenarios as Derek’s boyfriend. He’d become a disciplined workout partner, dedicating his body to everything Derek demanded of it. No longer belonging to himself, his body would be wholly possessed by Derek’s will, in every early morning run, every chin-up, and every bench press.

He’d even take whatever pills Derek would command him to take and bend over for whatever shots Derek wanted to push into his rear. He’d do anything to achieve a body truly worthy of collecting the Alpha’s seed.

Stiles would also give up all his own ambitions so he could fully serve Derek 24/7. He’d stay at home cooking all their meals. He’d keep Derek’s Camaro spotless. He’d shine Derek’s boots and condition his leather jacket. All while wearing short shorts and tight tanks (or no top at all) for Derek’s viewing pleasure.

As years’ worth of alternate memories reshaped Stiles’ brain, his body shifted with its new history. His shoulders widened, his biceps bulged, his pecs became pillowy enough to catch Derek’s member in the cleft between them. His tee shrank into a tank top, reflecting his new wardrobe.

Stiles blinked as he processed the girl’s question. He worried that she was expecting some abstract answer, and he was never good at those kinds of questions in school. But he also felt relief she wasn’t propositioning him, which happens all the time when you’re built like him. After a long pause he smiled once he realized he actually knew the answer to a question for once.

You're slumped on your ratty couch, the one with the mysterious stains that you've stopped trying to identify, scrolling through mind-numbing content on your phone.

The glow of the screen illuminates your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes and the perpetual frown etched onto your lips. Another Friday night wasted, another weekend of loneliness stretching before you like a desolate highway.

Your thumb hovers over a dating app before you scoff and toss the phone aside. What's the point? You're a pathetic excuse for a man, and you know it.

Without any real thought, as if guided by some desperate, primal impulse, you find yourself opening a notes app. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out a message to whatever cosmic entities might be bored enough to listen.

"Hey there, Mr. Trickster God or Imp God or whatever the fuck you call yourself. Yeah, you. The one who gets his kicks messing with mortals for shits and giggles.

I want to be the guy who gets laid daily, surrounded by other hot dudes who worship the ground I walk on. I want to live for the gym, love my job, and finally feel what it's like to not be a miserable piece of shit."

You hit send before you can chicken out, then immediately feel like an idiot. A cosmic DM? Really? You're losing your damn mind. You delete the message, convinced you've finally snapped.

I watch your pathetic message flicker into existence on the cosmic web. A grin splits my face, sharp and predatory. "Oh, this is rich," I chuckle, the sound like grinding glass. "Another mortal who thinks the universe is a fucking wishing well." My own celestial birthday is looming at the end of the month, and I'm feeling... charitable. Or maybe just bored.

My first instinct is pure, unadulterated mischief. I snap my fingers, and an image of your future forms in the air before me: you hairy, with a dad bod and a love of Christ, with most unimaginative boring life.

You're standing in a suburban lawn, screaming at a kid to get off your grass while your wife nags you about taking out the trash. "A boring suburban dad," I muse aloud. "I've been mighty keen on those lately. The sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity is just... chef's kiss." It would be so easy. A perfect, cruel twist of fate.

But then I sigh, a long, dramatic sound that echoes through the void. "Eh, fuck it. Against my better judgment, I'll give you exactly what you asked for. It's my birthday month, after all." I wave a hand, and your pathetic apartment winks out of existence, replaced by a scene I find much more entertaining. It's your birthday.

"Alright, you miserable little shit. Blow out those candles and make your wish. Make it count."

Saturday comes and goes, and nothing happens. Of course not. You spend your birthday alone, eating stale pizza and feeling sorry for yourself while your neighbors throw another party you're not invited to. What a joke.

But when you wake up Sunday morning, something's different. The air in your room feels strangely cold, but your body is burning up from the inside out. You're sweating buckets, your sheets soaked through, and your skin feels like it's stretching, shifting, changing in ways that defy biology.

"What the fuck?" you groan, the sound tearing from your throat like gravel. Your attempt to sit up is a pathetic failure; your body feels like it's been filled with wet concrete, heavy and alien and fundamentally wrong.

Every single nerve ending is screaming, a symphony of pure agony and something else... something sickeningly close to pleasure that makes your stomach churn with revulsion.

Your eyes snap open, and the first thing you see is your hand. But it's not your hand. Your fingers, usually nimble and pale, are swelling before your very eyes, thickening like rising bread dough, the knuckles becoming raw, calloused monuments to a violence you've never known.

You watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the skin stretches taut over expanding bone and sinew. A strange warmth spreads up your arm, a creeping fire that leaves a trail of molten change in its wake.

"No... no, this isn't... stop," you whimper, but the words are swallowed by a low, guttural moan that escapes your lips. Your vocal cords feel like they're being sandpapered and re-woven, each vibration coming out rougher, deeper, coated in a bovine, broish vocal fry that feels utterly foreign.

The heat intensifies, a furnace blazing in your core. Your spine arches violently off the bed, a searing pain lancing through it as vertebrae crack and pop, elongating, stretching you taller.

You can feel the individual bones in your legs shifting, your shins burning with an itch so deep you're convinced you're being torn apart from the inside. Your feet throb as they lengthen, stretching the fabric of your pajama pants until the seams scream in protest.

30... 28... 26... The numbers materialize in your mind, a countdown to your own erasure. With each number that falls, another piece of the old you is chipped away, replaced by something crude and simplistic.

Your chest suddenly explodes. It's not a gradual growth; it's a violent, painful blossoming. You gasp, your hands flying to your pecs as they surge forward, becoming two thick, meaty slabs of muscle.

The sensation is overwhelming—your sensitive nipples, now hard and rubbing against the fabric of your shirt, send jolts of electricity straight to your groin. Your waist cinches, stomach muscles clenching and carving themselves into a solid, undeniable six-pack.

Your memories begin to warp, the colors bleeding into each other. The face of your first boyfriend, a sweet, gentle man named Alex, dissolves like sugar in water. In its place, a new memory solidifies: you and your dad at a country club, him pointing out the "faggoty" waiter and laughing as you, a younger version of yourself, joins in with a cruel cackle that doesn't feel like yours but is.

25... 24... The mental reprogramming accelerates. The art gallery you loved becomes a sports bar you've frequented since you were old enough to fake an ID.

Your collection of classic literature is replaced by a mental library of locker room insults and crude jokes about women's bodies. A wave of intense, visceral disgust rolls through you at the mere thought of two men together, so potent it makes you want to puke.

"Fuckin' disgusting," you growl, the words tasting right in your new mouth. "Should all be put on an island somewhere."

Your hips buck as your dick suddenly engorges, thickening to the width of a beer can and shooting up to a solid, intimidating eight inches. It strains against the fabric of your shorts, a throbbing, insistent demand for attention.

A wave of pure, animalistic lust washes over you, so powerful it whites out your thoughts. All you can think about is fucking, burying this new monster cock in something warm and tight.

Images flash through your mind, but they're not of men anymore. They're of women—women with huge, bouncing tits, with plump asses and wet, eager mouths. Specifically, older women.

Your English professor, Mrs. Davison, with her tight sweaters and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Your best friend's hot mom, who always sunbathes in the backyard. The thought of them, of their experienced hands and bodies, makes your dick twitch violently.

"Fuck yeah, MILFs," you hear yourself say, a stupid grin spreading across your face. "But nobody over 30, though. That's just gross. Like, who wants to fuck a grandma?"

More memories flood in, replacing the old ones. You're not from the city anymore; you're from a wealthy, gated suburb. Your parents aren't liberal academics; they're conservative, country-club Republicans.

Your dad isn't a writer; he's a "businessman," a vague term that somehow translates to him being mayor or some other important shit. You remember him patting you on the back after you beat up a kid for looking at you "the wrong way."

23... 22... Your thoughts become simpler, coarser. Complex sentences dissolve into grunts and one-word answers. Your vocabulary shrinks, replaced by a lexicon of sports metaphors and misogynistic slurs.

"Bro," you say, testing the word. It feels good. Natural. "This is sick."

Your arms continue to swell, biceps becoming round, dense spheres of power. Your forearms thicken, veins popping like highways on a map of muscle. You run a hand through your hair, and it's different now—blonde, curly, damp with sweat. It feels right, feels like you.

Your face reshapes itself, your jawline becoming sharper, more angular. Your features soften into that all-American, boy-next-door look that's so disarming, so perfect for hiding the toxic asshole brewing underneath. A cocky, entitled smirk settles on your lips, as if by divine right.

21... 20... You're getting dumber, so much dumber, and you don't give a shit. In fact, it feels great. All that worrying, all that thinking... what a fucking waste of time. It's so much easier to just be a dumb, horny jock.

The room around you shimmers, the walls of your small, lonely apartment melting away to reveal a lavish dorm room, one that's clearly been paid for by someone with deep pockets. And beneath you, there's a woman. Not a girl—a woman, maybe 29, with glasses and brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun.

She looks smart, professional, but damn, what a rack. That's the first thought that cuts through the thick, soupy fog in your head. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, her brunette hair is pulled back into a tight, and she's probably got some fancy-ass degree from a school you've never even heard of.

But none of that matters, not really, because her tits are fucking phenomenal. They're straining against the fabric of her button-down blouse, two perfect, round globes of flesh that you just know would feel amazing wrapped around your cock.

"Fuck, Mrs. Davison," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural rumble that you barely recognize as your own. "Your tits are... fuck."

She blushes, a pretty pink creeping up her neck, and pushes her glasses up her nose. "Language, Tanner" she says, but there's no real heat in it. "And it's 'Professor Davison' in the classroom."

You laugh, a loud, obnoxious sound that makes her tits jiggle. "Yeah, whatever, Teach. But right now, you're just a MILF with a tight pussy that's begging for my dick."

You're not sure where the words are coming from. They're just... there, bubbling up from some dark, primitive place inside you. The old you, the one who was respectful and considerate, is gone, replaced by this... this thing. This vain, self-centered, entitled asshole who says whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants.

You thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cries out, her back arching. "Yes! Oh, god, yes!"

"That's right," you growl, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer. "Take it. Take all of it."

You can feel yourself changing, even as you're fucking her. Your thoughts are becoming simpler, more focused on the here and now, on the pleasure coursing through your veins. The world outside this room, with its books and its rules and its expectations, doesn't exist. All that matters is this, this moment, this feeling.

Memories continue to warp, the old ones dissolving like sugar in water. You remember your mom, not as the warm, loving woman who read you bedtime stories, but as a cold, distant figure who was more interested in her charity events and her tennis lessons than in her own son. You remember her looking at you with a mixture of disappointment and disgust, as if you were a bug she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.

"Is that all you are?" she'd say, her voice dripping with condescension. "A disappointment?"

The memory makes you angry, a hot, burning anger that fuels your thrusts. You'll show her. You'll show everyone. You're not a disappointment. You're a god. A fucking sex god with a giant dick and a body that's built for sin.

You look down at yourself, at your sweat-slicked muscles, at your thick, powerful thighs, at your massive, pistoning cock. You're perfect. A fucking Adonis. And you know it.

"Who's your daddy?" you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl.

"You are," she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. "You're my daddy."

"Damn right," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "And don't you forget it."

You can feel your balls tightening, a familiar pressure building at the base of your spine. You're close, so fucking close. You're going to cum, and you're going to fill her up with your seed, mark her as yours.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl. "I'm gonna fucking cum!"

"Do it," she cries, her nails digging into your back. "Cum inside me! Fill me up!"

You let out a roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph, and explode inside her, your hot, thick seed flooding her womb. It's the most intense, most powerful orgasm of your life, and it goes on and on, until you're completely spent, your body trembling with exhaustion.

You collapse on top of her, your weight crushing her, but you don't care. She's just a hole, a warm, wet hole for you to fuck. That's all she is, that's all any woman is.

You roll off of her, your body slick with sweat and cum. You lie there for a moment, your chest heaving, your mind a complete and utter blank. You're dumb, so fucking dumb, but you don't care. It's easier this way. No thinking, no worrying, just fucking and fighting and being the best.

"Fuck yeah," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "That's what I'm talking about."

You're Tanner. A dumb, horny, self-centered, entitled, misogynistic, homophobic, racist, classist piece of shit. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

You grab your dick, your hand stroking its length, and grin. Life is good when you're a brainless jock with a giant dick and a rich daddy.

Il letto maledetto - The cursed bed

🇮🇹 La gigantesca casa abbandonata in fondo al paese era un vero e proprio labirinto di stanze e corridoi; nessuno era mai riuscito a esplorarla tutta. Gli abitanti del posto avevano imparato a girarci al largo, e quei pochi che osavano avvicinarsi tornavano raccontando le cose più assurde — sempre che tornassero.

Gli amici di Michael lo avevano sfidato a passarci la notte e lui, per spavalderia, aveva accettato. Dopo aver gironzolato per una ventina di minuti, si imbatté in una stanza decisamente diversa dalle altre: non c'era un filo di polvere né un oggetto fuori posto, e le lenzuola del letto profumavano persino di bucato. Senza pensarci troppo, Michael decise che quello era il posto perfetto per dormire, si spogliò e si sdraiò.

Ma quel letto era maledetto e proiettò nella sua mente un'allucinazione vividissima: un ragazzo dalla pelle chiara gli succhiando l'uccello, ed era incredibilmente piacevole. Mentre si godeva il momento, rapito dal piacere dell'orgasmo imminente, il corpo di Michael iniziò a cambiare.

Quella stanza era infatti legata a una delle tante leggende della casa: chiunque si sdraiasse su quel letto avrebbe sognato di fare sesso con l'ultimo occupante, per poi trasformarsi fisicamente in lui. Quando Michael raggiunse il culmine e riaprì gli occhi, tornò alla realtà, ma realizzò subito che i suoi amici non gli avrebbero mai creduto. Ormai aveva l'aspetto di un perfetto sconosciuto.

🇬🇧 The gigantic abandoned house at the edge of the village was a literal labyrinth of rooms and corridors; no one had ever managed to explore it entirely. The locals had learned to steer clear of it, and those few who dared to approach returned telling the most absurd stories — assuming they returned at all.

Michael's friends had dared him to spend the night there and he, out of bravado, had accepted. After wandering around for about twenty minutes, he stumbled upon a room that was decidedly different from the others: there wasn't a speck of dust nor an object out of place, and the bedsheets even smelled of fresh laundry. Without thinking twice, Michael decided that was the perfect place to sleep, stripped down, and layed.

But that bed was cursed and projected a vivid hallucination into his mind: a fair-skinned boy was sucking his cock, and it was incredibly pleasurable. As he enjoyed the moment, captivated by the pleasure of the impending orgasm, Michael's body began to change.

My favorite stories of yours are the ones where some poor guy is in the wrong place at the wrong time and ends up becoming a cocky bastard (Gridirion Brew, Make Sense, Gone Fishing).

So how about a story about a needy twink looking for a cocky, dominant top… and a poor, recently engaged guy — studious, respectfull, devoted to his beautiful fiancée, — who crosses paths with the wrong person at the wrong time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, buddy,” Adam slowly shut the door to his best man's room. “Drink some water before you pass out this time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” somebody groaned from inside. “You’re about to be someone’s husband and still sound like my mom.”

Adam shook his head, smiling as he headed toward the elevators. His bachelor party had turned into exactly what he expected: too much drinking, too much yelling, and the people he loved most acting like complete idiots together... He’d loved every second of it.

“Wouldn’t trade those idiots for anything,” Adam muttered as he stepped into the elevator, scrolling through reels Claire had sent him.

The doors had barely started closing before hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Wait! Hold it!”

“Got you.” Adam stuck his arm out automatically.

“Oh, thank god,” the stranger breathed, his eyes lighting up the moment he saw Adam. “You seriously just saved my evening. I was starting to think I’d have to go upstairs alone.”

Adam laughed awkwardly, “I think you might’ve misunderstood something, I’m not looking for…”

“Shhhhh.” The guy stepped closer. “That’s okay. You’re gonna make me feel really fucking good tonight, stud.”

Adam blinked. “What?”

“Name's Nico,” he said lazily. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

Before Adam could answer, Nico leaned forward and kissed him. Adam's hands came up to shove him away, but he froze.

“I… sorry, I think you got the wrong...”

Then Adam looked at him again, words catching in his throat. His eyes dropped to Nico’s ass in those tight black jeans.

"You like?"

“Oh...” Adam swallowed hard. “No, I... I shouldn’t…” His thoughts raced. “I’m not into guys. I’m getting married…”

“Mhm.” Nico stepped closer again. “Go ahead, baby.”

“Oh fuck…” Adam panted suddenly as his hand grabbed a fistful of Nico’s ass.

Nico smiled instantly. “There you go.”

Nico's hands slipped beneath Adam’s shirt, cool palms dragging over his stomach and chest before squeezing a growing pec. Adam’s breath caught instantly, the kiss turning rougher before he even realized it.

“Mmm… fuck,” Nico sighed against his mouth.

Adam groaned, fingers kneading the firm curve of Nico’s ass, while rough stubble grew along his jaw with every slow squeeze.

“You’re really into this now.”

“No… Nico, I can’t…” Adam broke away, face flushed, hands still on Nico's ass. “Jesus Christ… I’m getting married…”

“Shhhh.” Nico smirked, sliding his hands up Adam's shirt and through the hair spreading across his chest, “Oh my god,” Nico breathed. “You feel so fucking good already.”

“Fuck…” Adam gripped his ass harder as nails scratched down his back. “I need dis…” The words hit his ears wrong. “No… what de hell...?”

"Follow me, big guy."

And he did. The second the elevator doors opened, Adam followed. Right to Nico's room. The guilt twisted hard through his stomach.

“Claire...” Adam shuddered. “Can never know... about dis… fuck… she can’t…”

"Oh she never will." Nico giggled and pulled Adam into his hotel room.

Clothes were quickly discarded and Adam groaned as Nico's smooth bare skin pressed against his increasingly bulkier, hairier, and sweatier form.

“Fuck…” Nico’s hands slid over the thickening muscle in Adam’s arms, “I needed a man like you tonight.” He buried his face against Adam’s increasingly hairier pit and inhaled. “Mmm… you smell incredible.”

With a grunt, he shoved Nico against a wall, hand wrapping around his bare ass. Warm skin flexed beneath his palm, impossibly soft without the denim in the way... smooth, firm, and perfect in a way Adam had never thought about another man's ass before.

“Oh fuck…” Adam groaned shakily against Nico’s throat. “Ya Allah… you're drivin' me crazy…”

Nico smiled lazily while grinding up against him. “Mmm. Been thinking about you fucking me since the elevator…”

The words hit Adam hard and Claire’s face flashed through his mind again... Unaware her fiancé was naked in a hotel room with another man. The guilt swelled, but Adam still shoved Nico onto the mattress.

“Yeah…” Adam breathed heavily. “You... like dis? You want dis?" Adam climbed over him, their eyes locking as dark brown rings spread slowly through Adam’s blue irises.

“Fuck…” Nico's hands slid across Adam’s sweaty, hairier pecs, “That’s it… come here, big guy…”

Nico shifted and rolled onto his front, raising his bare ass against Adam's throbbing cock. Adam’s breathing turned ragged, stomach twisting hard. He wasn't this kind of man... He was Claire's dependable fiancé. Her best friend. Her future husband... Not the man currently grinding his cheating cock against another man’s ass.

“Fuck…” Adam tightened his grip on Nico’s hips. “Dis isn’t me… 'uqsim, hadha lays 'ana." Adam froze... that language... he didn't...

"Huh? Wh... fuck... Wh-what did you say?" Nico smirked and looked over his shoulder, "Oh fuck..."

Adam felt it before he saw it. His cock throbbed and grew to a size beyond anything Adam ever possessed. His cock head emerging from a sheath of foreskin he knew shouldn't be there.

"Dere is no way..." He whispered, "It's so..." He moaned as he grew another inch, cock now pressing against Nico's tight entrance.

"Please... I need it." Nico begged, "It's all I need tonight."

Adam gasped suddenly as his pecs filled with muscle. And as they did, his new chest hairs suddenly curled longer and darkened toward black against his heavier muscle.

“Fuck…” Claire used to fall asleep with her head against his lean chest. But these heavier pecs were damp with sweat and dark curling hair now, nothing like the body she loved. “Ya Allah… look at dis… it just keeps gettin’ thicker…”

“Mmm…” Nico moaned, glancing back at him.

“Oh fuck… what’s dat smell?” Adam grimaced.

“That's… you big guy."

“Mustaheel…” Adam muttered, lifting an arm and grimacing at the thick musk clinging to his sweat-soaked, matted pit hair, “Y-you like dis…?”

"Fuck… yeah. Smell like a real man… mmm, so fucking hot…" Nico whimpered.

Adam shuddered hard at the words. Claire used to steal his hoodies because they smelled clean and comforting. She would’ve recoiled from this heavy masculine musk pouring off him now.

"You're perfect..." Nico groaned, pressing his ass against Adam's erection, "Just... fuck me already."

“Wallah…” Adam nearly obliged, but Claire’s smile flashed suddenly through his mind, "What de fuck is wrong wit me?”

He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, catching on something unfamiliar along his cheek. He touched his jaw again instinctively and recoiled. Stubble. Thick, perfect stubble. He'd always joke about never being able to grow a real beard. Claire always told him she loved his clean-shaven look.

"How de fuck....?" He watched as dark hair thickened across swelling forearms and olive blotches crept slowly over pale skin, "Wallah?"

The mirror caught him briefly and he froze. Damp blond hair darkened toward black while brown swallowed the blue in his eyes. Those eyes Claire adored. The hair she loved threading through her fingers.

"I... I want you inside me..." Nico moaned, "J-just..."

Adam looked down and back to the mirror. The man staring back at him still carried traces of Adam in places, but not enough. Not enough for his friends or best man to recognize him. Barely enough for Claire. Even his own mother would hesitate… And panic rose in his chest. He just wanted to go back downstairs, back to his friends, back to the man Claire loved, back to being Adam again. Because right now, Adam didn’t feel like Adam anymore.

He grunted suddenly before he could even process that thought. His cock leaked as a low groan vibrated deep through his chest before he could stop it.

“Ya Allah…” His rough hands spread Nico’s ass cheeks. “You’re gonna take all dis for me, yeah?” The words hadn’t felt chosen. Neither had the smug grin slowly pulling across his face while his heavier body settled more naturally over Nico.

“Mmm… there you are...” Nico whispered softly, sounding relieved.

He couldn't hold back any longer. With a guttural growl, he buried his cock deep into Nico's ass. The twink let out a choked cry, back arching sharply as he was impaled.

Thrust.

Dense muscle any gym bro would be proud of settled over him in all the right places. Stronger hands pinned Nico down instinctively while his pace roughened.

“Fuck… ya Allah…” He stared down at himself breathlessly. “Bro… look at dese… fuck… Havin’ a body like dis feels so fuckin' good…”

“Mmm… trust me...” Nico whimpered. “Feels even better underneath you.”

Thrust.

Warm olive swallowed the last pale traces across his skin while heavy musk and cheap cologne clung permanently to his body.

“Mmm… such a slut... for my scent.” He grunted.

“Fuck…” Nico whimpered. “I wanna bury my face in your pits so bad…”

Thrust.

The last traces of his old facial features disappeared forever behind the thick beard, dark brown eyes, and a permanent cocky grin devoid of his usual warmth.

“Mmm… dat’s right,” He smirked when Nico stared up at him breathlessly. “Keep lookin’ at me like dat while I fuck you…”

Thrust.

“Wh-what’s your name, big guy…?”

“Kareem,” he answered immediately.

“Mhmm… that name...is... always popular…”

“Den scream it for me."

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

Kareem slapped Nico's jiggling ass, “Mmm… dat’s right, habibi… take it,” he groaned smugly, "Fuck... Dis hole was... made for my... fat Arab cock... wasn't it?"

Thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust...

Kareem grunted, pace quickening. The engagement ring felt uncomfortable around his swollen finger, so he instinctively pulled it off and tossed it somewhere in the room.

“Mmm… fuckin' slut…” Kareem groaned, "Ya Allah… look at dis… all dis fuckin’ muscle… you fuckin' love it.” He slowed down, "You want me to finish?" He teased, "Want Kareem to fill you?"

"Pl-please..." Nico moaned into the mattress, "Kareem... oh fuck!"

"Ya Allah… you needed dis dick so bad.” Hands squeezing Nico’s hip harder. “Slut gets one real Arab guy smellin’ like dis on top of him and forgets his own name…”

"Kareem!" Nico moaned, "Kar... Kareem... oh fuck... please..."

Kareem buried himself deep inside Nico's ass, followed by a guttural roar as his cock erupted, flooding Nico's insides with thick, hot seed. 

"Take it all, bitch... fuckin' take it!" he growled, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

As the last pulses subsided, Kareem collapsed forward, his sweaty chest pressing against Nico. His softening cock still inside Nico. And Kareem's eyes closed.

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

He woke slowly beneath tangled sheets, groaning as dense muscle shifted across his chest and arms. He scratched at the dark hair on his chest, his nose twitching at the scent of sweat, cologne... of him. For a few moments, he stared at his body, processing the sight.

“Ya Allah…” Kareem smirked to himself, “Dat twink ain’t ever recoverin’ from me…”

“Oh, you’re awake.” Nico glanced up from his phone. “Yeah... you're one of my best works yet...”

“What da fuck does dat mean?”

“Nothing.” Nico shrugged casually. “Anyway, you should leave... like now.” The words landed and the larger man froze.

Kareem blinked, sitting up slowly. “W-wait…” Uncertainty cracked faintly through the swagger for the first time. “Where do I go? What should I...?”

“Always the same questions.” Nico smirked, unable to recall the number of times he'd heard them, “I dunno. There’s a gym down the street? Download Grindr? Yeah... You’re hot. Someone’ll take you in.”

“Dat’s it?”

“I don’t really care.”

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

Kareem stared in the mirror of a public restroom, wresting with the sense that he was supposed to be somewhere else doing something important. But without a phone, wallet, or anything else, he was lost.

But then he caught him. Some twink washing his hands, staring at him. And Kareem knew that look. The lust... A cocky grin spread across Kareem’s face.

“Mmm… you keep lookin’ at me like dat, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’.”

The guy flushed immediately. “S-sorry, I just…”

Kareem smiled lazily. Cute. Nervous. Kareem would have him wrapped around his finger easily.

I looked at the plane, everything seemed normal but I never flew British airways, but blame the damn airlines… my flight with my family was over booked… so they canceled my ticket and put me on this flight. Everything seemed like a normal flight as I boarded but that thought left once they locked the cabin. I look around and it was only men.. young men like mid 20s, odd… what are the chances.

Regardless it’s a long flight to London, I lay back in my seat, put my headphones in and drift to sleep. I wake up a few hours later, the plane is silent other then an Ed Sheeran song playing… in fact I heard it playing earlier too… take me back to London… it keeps going over and over. I get a weird pit in my stomach, I look around and see everyone sitting blankly, they almost look younger? I feel a weird shifting in my pants, it sends a chill down my spine, try to get up but can’t, it’s like there’s a force holding me down. I figure fuck it, nobody is watching, I pull down my sweats and see my boxers have somehow become… a Speedo?!

I look shocked and then feel somethjng even weirder, my cock.. something’s slithers on it, down it. I have no idea, I look around and say fuck it, I pull the Speedo up enough to see my cock as it pales, there’s something wrong with it, something growing? But as that’s growing my dicks shrinking… I quickly realize it’s a bloody foreskin…bloody? Did I just say bloody?! My head spins as my dick settles down, a nice small uncut cock for a proper lad. Lad? I shake my head… what’s going on. I don’t want a small dick… but it’s best for swimming, doesn’t get in the way on the dives… what?!

My brain is wracked, all this British slang bouncing around in my head, I try to make sense of it I don’t even notice my body on fire… burning off all my muscles, all my fat… all my body hair.. I lay back closing my eyes as my body rearranges, my feet shrunk down to a size 9… my legs thin out, arms thin out, chest deflates… all to a nice toned body fit for a swimmer… no a diver.

My body feels released almost and I can get up, as I do I look down and see I’m wearing some track suit, it says Great Britain on it with a flag. I blurt out “what the bloody hell is going on then?” When I do my blood goes cold, my voice… it’s different, higher pitched and a thick British accent. “Oy… this is loons” as I get to the bathroom I see the entire cabin of the plane is different, they’re all wearing similar outfits, all younger fit proper lads….

“Ben! Where are you going?! The planes about to land” someone grabs my arm, I look over and see the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Tom Daley.

I panic and run in the bathroom slam the door, as I do my lips puff out, getting massive, my hair gets poofy and curly and my face shifts right in front of my eyes… I reach out and touch it shocked. This is real… bollocks what do I do!

There’s a bang on the door, it’s Tom “get to your seat Ben!!” I pull my shirt up quickly to get a peak and my eyes almost explode, I’m skinny, hairless but fit. Fuck me.

I walk out of the bathroom and Tom lands a kiss on my lips “you took longer then the rest, I had to help” he grabs my junk and squeezes, I explode inside my Speedo… my brain goes haywire… I’m Benjamin Cutmore… Ben for short… born in 2003… 20 years old… Olympic diver from Cambridge england. All the memories of diving flash before me, knowing Tom. As the memories flood in my view of Tom changes, he no longer becomes hot, my gf does… gf?! I’m gay!! I blurt out

Tom: not anymore mate… except for me of course for getting you on the team.

Tom sits me down as the music blares “takeee me back to Londonnn” we land as my old self is gone.. the song saw to it that I became a full on British lad.. I get off the plane, seeing my gf I run to her and kiss her passionately, she’s gorgeous… she whispers in my ear “been waiting for you and your LITTLE man to get home all week” putting extra emphasis on little, I blush, she notices and goes “it’s ok Benny baby… 4 inches is perfect for me” I shrug, I can live with it.

That was a few weeks ago, now I’m fully living bens life and getting ready for the games next month. Cheers mate, enjoy the ride.

“Ok, we should be all set to go.”

“How long until the anesthesia wears off?”

“Any second now. Have you got the camera prepped?”

“I’ll start rolling once we see some movement.”

“Perfect. By the way, how does this guy relate to our target?”

“He’s the nephew. If our terms aren't accepted after this, then we move on to the son next.”

“Nice. You think he’ll actually fold?”

“They always do.”

—

The growing pain in Christopher’s stomach was what awoke him. It was a logarithmic ache, the type one got after eating too much at a holiday dinner. It took almost a full minute for the woozy young man to recognize the foreign surroundings. Why was he not in his bedroom? Judging that it was quite late at night–perhaps even into the early morning–Christopher was confused to find himself sitting in a folding chair all alone on the campus quad.

Christopher's first assumption was that this was some kind of elaborate prank. However, he did not really hang out with the type of people who played practical jokes like these. The Accounting majors were not exactly known for hijinks, and the majority of Christopher’s friends were online anyway. Before he had a chance to draft up another hypothesis, the cramping in his stomach began to expand across his entire midsection. Christopher groaned in discomfort, struggling to move from his seat.

Still a bit conked out, Christopher loosened up and succumbed to the pain. He was unable to interpret the strange gurgling that began to rumble from his torso. Gradually, the layers of fat began to melt away. The effects of late nights spent in front of the computer with snacks on standby dissipated, revealing toned abdominals. A rich end-of-summer tan began to bloom out from the hardened muscles, carrying along a trail of hair as it spread out across Christopher’s skin.

The progression continued across the rest of Christopher’s midsection. Edges tightened and curves reversed, sinking inwards to create taut angles. The previously unremarkable upper chest firmed into two solid pectorals, forcing the shoulder blades to protrude farther out to allow for a wider wingspan. These changes, while certainly noticeable, were partially blocked by Christopher’s outfit. The battered gray tee and used running shorts he had been clothed in would have never been found in his closet before, but they would become a staple of the new man being created.

While hair fluffed into Christopher’s pits and meat expanded into his arms, the progression had also begun to work downwards. After his waist was cinched nicely, Christopher’s reproductive system was launched into overdrive. His balls nearly doubled in size, descending from the newly-pungent bush protecting his manhood. The dick itself remained rather average, but its width increased dramatically. The girth became a bragging point, one that would later earn Christopher the nickname of “Beer Can” amongst his fraternity brothers.

Christopher blinked, stirred slightly by the new memory that appeared in his head. Fraternity brothers? He was not a part of any fraternity? Although he did appear at a lot of the parties. And he attended every single meeting. Wait, did he live there too? As Christopher considered this new fabricated reality, more memories began to emerge. The rapidly increasing amount of evidence began to sway Christopher towards this new background, unaware that with every passing second, a bit of his former reality melted away.

Once the changes finished plumping out each of Christopher’s fingers–making them incapable of holding any wooden pencil beside his musky own–the progression was rerouted towards the neck. Vocal chords were stretched thin, tearing away the rich character to create a tunnel that could only create the simplest of words and phrases. In the lower half, Christopher’s legs had been forced apart into a permanent manspread by two thick, hairy thighs. His calves grew shapely, creating a flawless shape that symbolized athletic ease and innate young masculine perfection.

By now, the drug that had been forced into Christopher’s system had cleared out over half of his previous existence. A newly clefted chin ushered in a natural cocky attitude. A trendy haircut brought forth a desire for other males’ approval. Bushier eyebrows showcased a lack of tolerance and empathy. Even his feet, which were quickly filling out the large dirtied socks in their equally large dirty slides, helped construct a presence crafted solely by machismo and nothing else.

All of these were overwriting any of Christopher’s former potential. With his intelligence rapidly decreasing and aspirations drastically reduced, Christopher’s future lacked the promise of any high-ranking positions. He would not able to rise the ranks and become a CEO, nor would he be offered a spot in any executive suite. And most certainly, Christopher would now never be considered to become his uncle’s successor.

Thanks to the drug, Christopher’s promising, yet unforeseen destiny had now become predictable and standardized. He would remain in the fraternity for another year after failing to graduate on time (although he would claim that it was to prioritize his “social obligations”). After knocking up too many sorority chicks (leading to an onslaught of unwanted kids and child support), Christopher would settle down with “the one” (who he would stay married to for decades despite having numerous affairs). Golf, high school football games, and maintaining his upper-middle class home would be his main priorities until retirement, having never achieved anything besides a decent amount of cash from simply being a straight, white man.

The ultimate conclusion came out as a lackluster, yet heavy glob of semen into the new frat bro’s shorts. Nothing life-changing or extraordinary, just a thick splat. The jock remained unphased as two men dressed head-to-toe in black appeared from the bushes in front of him. The pain he had experienced gradually subsided, allowing him to interpret the scene playing out before him. One of the men was taking apart a camera attached onto a tripod. The camera had been recording the jock the whole time, but he did not mind.

“How are you feeling, Christopher?” the second man asked. His approach was guarded, but composed, as if he was repeating dialogue he had gone through many times before.

“It’s just Topher, bro.” Topher did not care who these men were, or why he was out in the quad at this time of night. 

“Do you remember how you got here?”

Topher shook his head.

“You can blame your fraternity brothers. They hired us.”

Topher nodded, smirking. They were always pranking each other. 

"I must've drank too much…” The words fell out with a dull thump. "Guess I gotta like, get back to the bros or somethin’.”

Satisfied, the second man turned back to the first, who had packed the camera away and was ready to depart. With a nod, they made their exit, disappearing into the night. Topher quickly forgot about the men and how he got into his current situation. No matter the time, there was almost always a party going at his frat house. And if there was a party, that meant there would be some ladies too. 

I’d been dreaming about studying abroad in Europe since I was twelve years old. So when the acceptance email hit my inbox at the end of my second year at the University of Calgary, I actually screamed in the middle of the library. A full year in Portugal? Sun-drenched streets, pastel buildings, ocean air, and actual European boys who probably knew how to kiss properly? Sign me the fuck up.

The only weird part was my school’s so-called “Immersion Exchange Program,” which was run by some educational company called Arterra. Every study abroad advisor that explained the program kept using the same weirdly specific language: “You’ll be living the life of a local student.” They said it with these bright, unnerving smiles. When I asked what that actually meant, they waved it off.

“Oh, you’ll understand once you’re there. It’s the deepest possible cultural integration. You’ll come back completely changed.”

The fourth-years who had already done the program were even cagier. I’d corner a couple of them after class and they’d just smirk, eyes glazing over like they were remembering something filthy.

“Changed my life,” one girl named Maya told me, twirling a strand of hair. “You have no idea how much.”

Another guy, Ethan, just laughed low and said, “Trust me, Liv. You’ll have the best time.”

It was strange, though. I could’ve sworn most of them had never actually left campus for a semester abroad. And every time I tried to dig, they changed the subject or suddenly remembered they had somewhere to be.

When I asked the international office about flights, housing, student visas, what to pack, all the normal stuff, they just smiled again and said, “We handle everything. Just show up at the Arterra Exchange Facility on August 29th at 11 a.m. sharp. Everything will be taken care of.”

So I spent the whole summer slinging overpriced leggings and iced lattes at the mall in Calgary, counting down the days. No confirmation email about my Portuguese class start date. No housing assignment. No flight itinerary. Every time I emailed, the reply was the same cheerful bullshit: “All arrangements are in hand. Don’t worry! Just show up on the 29th with a valid passport and your house keys and we will take care of the rest. No need to even pack a bag.”

By the time August rolled around I was low-key panicking, but I still showed up at the address they gave me. I assume they would just be giving me an airport transfer from here. I still thought was weird not to bring anything with me, but maybe they had clothes for me to make sure I dressed like a local too? Who knows?

The actual facility looked less like a travel office and more like a high-end medical clinic—sleek glass doors, soft lighting, and a faint smell of something citrusy in the air.

The receptionist checked my name off a tablet and motioned for me to follow her down a quiet hallway.

“Right in here, Olivia,” she said, opening the door to a small, windowless room. The walls had this strange sheen, like they were made of something that wasn’t quite drywall. A single padded chair sat in the center. “Just have a seat and relax. The process will begin shortly.”

“Process?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought this was just orientation or paperwork or—”

She was already stepping back out. “You’ll be fine. Most students find it… exhilarating.”

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound. I stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring at the weird glowing walls. This felt off. Like, sci-fi movie off.

Before I could even knock on the door and demand answers, the lights overhead flickered once, twice—

A sudden, intense burning sensation ripped through my entire body, like every nerve had been lit on fire at the same time. My knees buckled. I tried to grab the chair but missed. The room spun violently, colors bleeding together, and then—

Everything went black

---

When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the silence. No more flickering lights, no burning. Just the low hum of air conditioning.

I groaned and pushed myself up in the chair, blinking hard. My arms felt… wrong. Heavier. Longer. The sleeves of my hoodie rode up on forearms that were definitely not mine—dusted with dark hair, veins standing out a little, and way more muscle than I’d ever had in my life. I looked down.

My chest was flat. Broad. The soft curve of my breasts was gone, replaced by solid pectorals under a dark blue sweatshirt. My thighs pressed against the fabric of my jeans in a completely different way—thicker, stronger, the kind of legs that filled out pants instead of just sliding into them. Between them, there was an unmistakable, heavy weight that made my stomach drop.

I wasn’t Olivia anymore.

I was a guy.

A very real, very male guy.

Before I could even process the panic rising in my throat, the door opened again. This time a different woman stepped in—mid-thirties, sharp blazer, clipboard in hand, and the same unnervingly calm smile everyone here seemed to wear.

“Olá, Nuno,” she said gently, then switched to English with only a light accent. “Or… should I still call you Olivia for now? I’m so sorry for the abrupt transition. Most students handle the awakening a little better, but we understand this can be disorienting.”

I stared at her, mouth open. My voice—when it finally came out—was deeper, rougher, but still perfect English. “What the actual fuck did you do to me?”

She didn’t flinch. “You’ve been successfully exchanged. Welcome to Lisbon! Our program is designed for true cultural immersion: you live in your partner’s body, attend their classes, meet their friends, speak their language. It’s the only way to really learn about local life.”

I laughed, but it came out shaky and too loud. “You swapped me? Into a dude? Are you serious right now?”

She nodded, completely unfazed. “Your case is a little unusual, I’ll admit. There’s been quite a bit of foreign demand for Portuguese students this year but not nearly as much domestic interest in Canadian students I’m afraid. We could not find a local girl that met our requirements to swap with you, but Nuno here was offered a generous incentive—several thousand euros—to participate. He’s from a very small village to the south of here and wanted the money to move to the city properly.”

I ran a hand through my new hair—short, thick, dark brown—and felt the unfamiliar scratch of stubble on my jaw.

“Wait… so he wasn’t even a student here?” I asked, voice cracking a little in that new register.

“No, he wasn’t,” she confirmed. “And so we actually had to enroll you as an international student on study abroad. But don’t worry—it will still be an excellent experience. You’ll have full access to the university, the city, everything. And your knowledge of Portuguese will start filtering in naturally over the next few days as the neural integration settles. You’ll feel more like yourself—well, more like Nuno—soon.”

I stood up on legs that felt too long, too powerful. The movement sent an odd, warm shift through my groin that made my cheeks burn. “You should’ve just let me come as myself, then. Like fucking hell.”

She gave me a sympathetic tilt of her head. “We understand you’re upset. Many students feel that way at first. But give it a little time. You’ll settle in. Most of them say it’s the best year of their lives.”

They handed me a small envelope with keys, a student ID card that already had what I assume was my—Nuno’s—face on it, and directions to “my” flat.

By the time I stepped outside, it was night. The August daylight I’d left behind in Calgary had vanished. Lisbon glowed around me—warm streetlights and the distant hum of scooters.

The flat they’d assigned me was only a ten-minute walk from the main university buildings. When I let myself in, I was surprised at how nice it was: clean white walls, big windows overlooking a quiet street, a small balcony, and a nicely styled bedroom. Posters of famous Portuguese athletes hung on the wall and a guitar leaned in the corner.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed, heart still racing.

I caught my full reflection in the mirror across the room for the first time—Nuno’s reflection. Broad shoulders filling out the sweatshirt, that easy, bright smile still lingering on the face even though I wasn’t trying to smile. He was cute. I mean objectively speaking.

The exhaustion hit me like a truck—jet lag, body lag, whatever the hell this was. I stripped down to just a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs, then flopped back onto the sheets.

---

A few hours later I jolted awake in the pitch-dark apartment, heart pounding for no reason. The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 a.m. My mouth was bone-dry. But that wasn’t even the most urgent problem.

There was a hard-on tenting the front of my underwear. My new thick cock pressed insistently against the soft cotton, throbbing with every heartbeat. I could feel the weight of it, the way it curved slightly upward, the sensitive head already leaking a little and making a small wet spot. Heat flushed up my neck.

I lay there for a second, breathing shallow, trying to ignore it. But the thirst was overpowering. Curiosity won out first, though. Just a quick look.

I hooked my thumb under the elastic waistband and tugged it down just enough to let it spring free. It slapped lightly against my lower stomach, thick and flushed, veins standing out along the shaft. Fuck, it was bigger than I expected—maybe 18 cm, heavy, with a slight upward curve and a nice pair of balls hanging below.

I stared for a long moment, pulse hammering. It twitched under my gaze, another bead of precum welling up and sliding down the side.

Okay. Drink first.

I tucked myself back in and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The tile was cool under my feet. I yanked open the fridge and the little light inside lit up the modest contents, which included a big carton of passionfruit juice. Perfect. I poured myself a massive glass and downed the whole thing in several long gulps.

I set the empty glass on the counter and turned to head back to bed when my reflection again caught my eye in the narrow mirror hanging by the kitchen doorway.

Broad shoulders. Strong neck. The way the white t-shirt stretched across a chest with the faint outline of pecs. My new jaw looked sharper in the low light, dark stubble shadowing it. I stepped closer without thinking, turning my head side to side.

Curiosity pulled me in deeper. I reached up and rubbed my jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble under my fingers. It sent a little spark straight down my spine. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the hem of the t-shirt and peeled it off, tossing it onto the counter.

Nuno’s torso stared back at me—lean but defined, smooth olive skin, a light trail of dark hair running down the center of his abs and disappearing into the waistband of the boxers. The shoulders were wide, biceps nicely rounded even when relaxed. I rolled them back experimentally and flexed, watching the muscle pop under the skin.

My cock strained hard against the underwear again, the fabric tenting obscenely. It felt… good. Really fucking good. A warm pulse of pleasure rolled through me as the material rubbed against the sensitive head.

One thing led to another.

I shoved the boxers down my thighs, letting them pool at my ankles. I wrapped my hand around my cock and gave one slow stroke from base to tip.

“Oh… shit,” I muttered in that new, deeper voice. It came out husky.

I did it again, slower this time, thumb spreading the precum. My other hand roamed up my chest, feeling the firm muscle, pinching a nipple that sent an unexpected jolt straight to my cock. I leaned back against the counter, legs spreading a little as I started stroking in earnest—long, firm pulls that made my balls tighten and my abs clench. Everything felt amplified. I watched myself in the mirror the whole time: this hot Portuguese guy with messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and a thick, leaking, uncut cock in his fist. It was me. I was him. And it was turning me on more than anything ever had in my old body.

I sped up, hips starting to buck forward into my hand. When I came, it was euphoric—nothing like the softer, slower orgasms I was used to. My cock pulsed hard in my grip, shooting thick ropes of cum across the kitchen floor in messy, powerful spurts. I kept stroking through it, milking every last drop while my knees shook and my vision whited out for a second. The groan that tore out of me was loud and shameless. “Fuuuuck…”

I stood there panting afterward, cum still dripping from the tip of my softening dick onto the tile.

With a sheepish laugh, I grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the mess on the floor, still half-naked and glowing with aftershocks. My legs felt wobbly. My new cock gave one last lazy twitch as I wiped everything down. I tossed the towels, washed my hands, and headed back to bed, collapsing onto the sheets with a satisfied sigh.

---

The next few days were a blur. I spent way too much time in front of that narrow kitchen mirror, shirt off, hands roaming slowly over Nuno’s body. I’d flex my arms just to watch the biceps tighten, trace the light trail of dark hair down my abs with my fingertips, and let my palms slide lower until I was gripping that thick cock again. The orgasms were intense, almost addictive; thick ropes of cum that left me panting and grinning at my own reflection like an idiot.

By the time orientation rolled around, some Portuguese had started trickling into my brain. Basic phrases, greetings, even a few slang words. But luckily I hadn't lost any of my English and still had my Canadian accent. That was a relief, because even after all the hassle, the program still expected me to play the part of a Canadian exchange student.

Orientation was held in a big lecture hall at the university, packed wall-to-wall with international students. Mostly loud Americans in backwards caps, a solid crew of fellow Canadians, clusters of chatty Latin Americans, tall Germans, stylish Italians, and a random mix of other Europeans. None of them had the slightest clue I wasn’t the real Nuno. The Arterra Exchange Facility had made that crystal clear before I left the building: the swap program was 100% confidential. No one outside the actual participants was ever supposed to know.

When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stood up with a casual grin and said, “Hey, I’m Nuno Seguro, from Calgary.”

“Dude, your name sounds super Portuguese,” one American girl laughed. “And you definitely look it.”

I shrugged easily, the lie sliding out smoother than I expected. “Yeah, my mom’s Portuguese. She basically guilt-tripped me into coming here to connect with the heritage and all that. I’m not even mad about it though—Portuguese classes are gonna be a breeze since I grew up speaking it.”

They bought it.

---

The first couple of weeks were actually lit.

Classes were laughably easy—designed for international students who were clearly here more for the party scene than actual academics. Professors barely assigned homework, lectures were short and chill. Meanwhile, the social life was nonstop. Parties every single night: rooftop bars with insane views of the Tagus sweaty little hidden clubs tucked away in Bairro Alto, cheap bottles of vinho verde.

The other internationals were jealous as hell that I had my own nice little apartment instead of cramped shared dorms or sketchy hostels. Within a week, my place had become the default hangout spot. People would text me at 8 p.m. saying “Pre-game at Nuno’s?” and suddenly there’d be ten of us on the balcony, blasting music, passing around bottles of cheap wine and beer. Someone always ended up crashing on the couch. Someone else always brought a speaker that made the walls shake. I’d lean against the railing in just a tank top and shorts, feeling the warm night air on my skin and the way people’s eyes lingered on my shoulders and arms a little longer than necessary.

I eventually decided Nuno’s original look needed an upgrade. He was already a good-looking guy—strong jaw, warm brown eyes, that easy smile—but his style had been stuck somewhere between “small-village casual” and “whatever was clean.” I wasn’t about to waste a year in Lisbon looking basic.

So I made a couple of changes.

First, I let the facial hair grow. Within a couple of weeks I had a thick, dark mustache that framed my smile just right, the kind that looked effortlessly cool and made my teeth flash brighter when I grinned. It suited the face perfectly—gave me this warm, slightly cocky vibe that turned heads.

Then I booked a cut at a trendy little barbershop in Chiado. I told the guy exactly what I wanted: a modern mullet, short and tight on the sides, longer and curly in the back, just like so many of the local guys and the Spanish and Italian exchange students were rocking.When I walked out, the breeze hitting the longer curls at the nape of my neck felt ridiculously good. Fuck, I’d always thought those cuts looked so hot on guys. Now I was the one wearing it, and every time I caught my reflection in a shop window I had to fight the urge to smirk.

Next, I made friends with this really fashionable Estonian guy named Karl in the international crowd—always dressed like he’d stepped out of a European fashion shoot. I was pretty sure he was gay and definitely into me and I wasn’t above flirting a little to borrow some of his clothes. A couple of flirty texts and suddenly I had access to his closet: fitted button-downs that hugged my shoulders just right, slim dark jeans that made my ass and thighs look incredible, a sleek leather jacket, and some expensive jewelry.

The other Canadians, Americans, and Latin American crew ended up traveling around Europe together nonstop—Rome, Budapest, Paris, Prague, Madrid. We did all the classic study-abroad shit: hitting every tourist trap and monument during the day, then drinking cheap local beer and wine until we were loud and sloppy at night.

Back in Lisbon, a bunch of us got cheap gym passes at a nearby university facility. Lifting felt incredible in this body. I could throw around weights I never would’ve dreamed of touching as Olivia. I’d bench numbers that made the other guys whistle and shake their heads, deadlift until my back and legs burned in that deep, addictive way. Every session left me pumped—veins popping along my arms and shoulders, sweat dripping down the light trail of dark hair on my abs, my tank top clinging to my chest. The mirror in the gym changing room became another favorite spot. I’d stand there flexing, admiring the way my new mullet looked messy and sexy after a workout, that thick mustache framing my cocky grin while my cock half-hardened in my shorts from the pure rush of it all.

I started taking a lot of really douchey mirror selfies—especially in the apartment elevator. I posted some of the tamer ones on the new Instagram I’d made for Nuno and kept the spicier ones just for myself, saved in a hidden folder where I could scroll through them late at night, stroking slowly while I replayed how good this body felt.

---

One of the international girls from Brazil, Isabela, had caught my eye early on. She was stunning—curvy in all the right places, long dark wavy hair, golden-brown skin, and a smile that could stop traffic. We started flirting almost immediately, and pretty soon we were exclusively speaking in Portuguese with each other. It drove the rest of the group insane, especially this tall German guy named Lukas who had been obviously pining after her since day one. He’d sit there with his arms crossed, trying (and failing) to follow our rapid-fire conversations, his face getting redder every time she laughed at something I said.

One night at a crowded rooftop party, Isabela land I were chatting.

“Vocês portugueses todos falam como se fossem russos ou algo assim,” she complained with a dramatic sigh, her Brazilian lilt turning every word into a melody. “It’s like you have this heavy Slavic thing going on. So serious!”

I grinned, letting my hand rest lightly on her waist as I fired back in perfect Portuguese. “E você, brasileira? Parece que está cantando uma música em vez de falar. Tudo soa tão doce e dramático. Como se estivesse sempre flertando, mesmo quando reclama.”

She laughed, shoving my chest playfully, but her eyes sparkled with clear interest. The teasing only made the tension between us thicker. The German guy shot me a death glare from across the table, but I just raised my glass to him with a smirk.

One thing led to another and later that night Isabela ended up back at my apartment. The second the door clicked shut we were on each other—hands everywhere, mouths hungry. pushed her up against the wall first, kissing down her neck while she moaned softly.

We barely made it to the bedroom.

When I finally got her out of her dress and onto the bed, I took my time peeling off my own clothes, letting her watch. Her eyes widened when my cock sprang free—already rock-hard, thick, and leaking for her. “Nossa…” she whispered, biting her lip.

This was my first time having actual sex as Nuno, and it was on a completely different level from the months I’d spent happily jerking off in this body or making out in clubs.

I climbed over her, kissing her deeply as I lined up. The moment I pushed inside her—slow, deep, feeling her tight, wet heat stretch around every inch of my cock—was euphoric. The sensation was so much more intense than anything I’d experienced before: the slick grip, the way her walls fluttered and clenched, the raw physical power in my hips as I started thrusting. My balls slapped against her with each deep stroke.

“Porra, Nuno… você é tão grosso,” she gasped, nails digging into my back.

I fucked her harder, finding a steady rhythm that had her arching off the bed. I flipped her onto all fours at one point, gripping her hips with both hands and pounding into her from behind. The view was insane—her ass rippling with every impact, my thick cock disappearing into her again and again.

When I came, I buried myself deep, groaning loud and raw as my cock pulsed and spilled inside her in thick, powerful ropes. The orgasm seemed to last forever, wave after wave of intense pleasure ripping through me while her pussy clenched around me, milking every drop. I kept thrusting through it, riding the high until we both collapsed in a sweaty, panting heap.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest as she traced lazy circles over my abs with her finger.

“Você foi incrível,” she murmured sleepily, pressing a kiss to my skin.

I just smirked, still glowing from the aftershocks, my cock giving one last lazy twitch against her thigh.

Yeah. This body was fucking dangerous.

---

A couple of months into the semester I took a quick weekend trip south to visit Nuno’s family in their small village. They knew he had moved up to Lisbon for “work opportunities,” but they had zero clue where the sudden money had come from. I played it safe the entire time—kept my answers vague, smiled a lot, and let the Portuguese flow naturally. His mom hugged me tight and kept pushing food on me, while his dad clapped me on the shoulder and asked about “the big city.” They had no idea their son wasn’t really their son anymore. I felt a tiny pang of guilt, but mostly I just felt relieved that the secret was still safe.

---

By the end of the first semester, the other international students started packing up for home. There were teary goodbyes at the train station—Isabela cried a little and made me promise to visit her in São Paulo someday, Lukas gave me a grudging bro-hug, and the whole crew swore we’d stay in touch. I hugged them back, genuinely sad to see them go, but I had opted for the full year, so I was staying.

Or at least… I thought I was.

A few days later an email from the study abroad facility popped into my inbox:

“Dear Nuno,

Please report to the Arterra Exchange Facility on January 15th for scheduled return transfer. Your semester exchange has concluded.”

My stomach dropped. I fired back an immediate reply explaining that I had clearly opted for the full academic year. Their response came fast:

“We apologize for the miscommunication. Your partner only agreed to a one-semester term. We are required to facilitate the return swap at this time.”

Fuck. No. I couldn’t go back now. I typed out a careful reply asking for at least a few extra days “to settle my affairs and say proper goodbyes.” They agreed, reluctantly, giving me until the end of the week.

In those few days the money they'd promised Nuno hit his bank account. It was more than enough to cover several months of rent and give me breathing room to figure shit out.

I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the balance for a long time, heart racing. First thing I did was go through all my new socials and blocked my old accounts. Then I packed a bag with the essentials, left most of the apartment, and got on the first train heading north t. Lisbon was too risky now; if the facility came looking, they’d start here. I needed to disappear, at least for a while.

As the train rattled through the Portuguese countryside, I leaned my head against the window and watched the hills roll by. My reflection stared back at me—dark mullet a little messy from the morning, thick mustache framing my mouth, broad shoulders filling out the hoodie. I caught myself smiling, just a little.

This body was mine now.

And I wasn’t giving it back.

—

Five years later, the swap facility still hadn’t found me.

After leaving Lisbon in a hurry, I bounced around for a few months before finally settling in Coimbra with a couple of guys my age who were renting a cheap, grimy apartment. It was nowhere near as nice as the one I'd left in Lisbon, but I didn't mind. I had what was important.

I worked for a while at a small, loud bar packed with local students, pouring cheap beers, flirting shamelessly, and closing the place down most nights. The tips were decent and nobody ever asked me too many probing questions.

Eventually I knew I needed to get back to Lisbon. The city had gotten under my skin. So I talked my new gym buddy Rui—a tall, easygoing guy who had just graduated from university in Coimbra—into moving back with me. We found a decent shared flat in the Alfama district with a killer view, and within a couple of months I managed to get admitted to one of the other universities in the city.

Isabela came to visit me a few times over the years. We’d spend a few wild days and nights together—fucking like rabbits in my room while Rui pretended not to hear anything through the thin walls—but I made it clear I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I was having way too much fun playing the field, especially when the new wave of international students rolled in every semester.

God, it felt like every semester i got even sexier and those hot international girls (and a few guys) wanted me more and more. They were so pent up and horny it was crazy and not to mention i really had learned how to use my cock. They’d show up at parties already buzzing, eyes lingering on my arms and chest, and half the time they barely made me wear a condom—or didn’t complain at all when I slid it off halfway through so I could feel them raw. The way they gasped and clenched around me when I fucked them deep and bare was addictive. I loved the risk, the heat, the way their legs would shake when I filled them up.

Between all that, I actually managed to graduate with a degree in engineering. Late nights studying engineering diagrams mixed with even later nights out drinking and hooking up, but I wasn’t mad about any of it. I thrived on it—commanding the classroom during group projects with that calm, deep voice, then commanding attention at the bars afterward.

Now I’m due to start work at a green energy firm in a few months. The salary is excellent, the benefits are solid, and the office is full of sharp, ambitious people who seem to like me already.

Life is good.

I still catch my reflection sometimes—in the elevator of my new building, in the gym mirror, or in the window of a tram—and I grin at the guy staring back. Thick mustache, sharp jaw, confident eyes. Nuno.

He’s me now. Completely.

And I wouldn’t trade this body, this life, or this city for anything.

“I’m just gonna hang around a little longer,” Mike informed me. “I need to take a few readings once the unit gets going and make sure it’s pumping out cool air for you.”

“Can I get you anything?” I offered, stopping myself from offering up my ass to him. “A cold glass of water?” 

“Christ, a glass of ice water would be wonderful,” he smiled, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his forearm. 

Leading him into the kitchen, I filled a large glass with ice and then cold water from the tap before handing it to him. I fixed myself a glass, too, needing to cool down in my own way. 

“It’s a sick twist of fate that AC units always give out on the hottest day of the year,” Mike shared, gulping down the water, filling up the glass again from the kitchen sink. “It’s hot as fuck out there.”

“You certainly look hot,” I observed, not shying away from the ballsy pun, my eyes traversing his incredible body. “You want to use my shower while you wait to check the unit?”

“That would be great,” he smiled broadly. “You’re my last repair of the day, and my wife hates when I come home all sweaty and stanky.”

“That’s a shame,” I shook my head. “I love me some man funk.”

“What—?” he cocked his head to one side. “I didn’t clock you as—”

“A faggot?” I interrupted. 

“I was going to say gay,” Mike laughed. “My mama taught me better manners than to use that word.”

“Mmm—I love me a mama’s boy,” I licked my lips. 

“Now cut that out. I’m a married man,” he admonished playfully, placing his emptied water glass on the counter. “Now where’s that shower you promised?”

“Right this way,” I led him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor. Passing through my bedroom, the tour ended at the roomy shower in my bathroom. 

“There’s plenty of shampoo and body wash in there,” I gestured into the shower. “And fresh towels on that shelf over there.”

“Looks good,” he smiled, tossing his sweat-soaked shirt onto the tiled floor. I watched as he unzipped his pants with zero modesty, peeling them off his sweaty body, his massive cock hanging between his hairy thighs. 

“Yeah, it’s a big one,” Mike winked, not oblivious to my stare as he gave his big dick a quick tug. 

“I—uh—I’ll just leave you to it,” I turned to leave the bathroom. Although I had flirted unabashedly with this sexy hunk, I didn’t want to deal with the rejection that would undoubtedly follow from offering up my ass to a happily married man. 

“Where you going?“ he called out to stop me as he reached to turn on the water. “You’re not going to join me in this big shower? Isn’t that why you asked me up here—to get me off?”

“You—you want to play around with me?” I asked, shocked that my sordid fantasy was becoming a reality. 

“No, I don’t want to play around with you,” he clarified, stepping into the shower. “I want to fuck you. Now get your ass in here with me.”

Quickly, I stripped out of my clothes just in time before his muscular arm reached out and pulled me into the shower with him, the water enveloping our bodies. “I’m just a bit surprised that you fuck guys,” I confessed. 

“When I was training to be an AC repairman,” Mike explained, soaping up his hairy chest with body wash, “nobody warned me that customers would proposition me all the time. Desperate housewives, horny gay dudes. It’s outrageous how often I’m offered easy sex while on the job.”

“Well, you’re hot as fuck,” I remarked, watching as he soaped up his huge cock, wondering how long before it would be inside me. “You’re kinda irresistible.”

“Thanks,” he smiled bashfully. “But for the longest time, I always turned down the frequent offers for sex. I’m married. I wasn’t looking to cheat on my wife.”

“Then what changed?” 

“About a year ago, my wife and I had argued over something trivial. She then held out on me for a few weeks—not giving up her pussy in retaliation,” Mike shared. “And I was on a repair job when a gay dude offered up his ass to me—fucking begged me to rail him.”

“And so you railed his ass?”

“Nah, I didn’t just rail him,” Mike smiled deviously, his soapy cock growing rock hard before my eyes. “I fucked the ever-living shit out of him.”

And then it was like a switch had been flipped. Mike suddenly pulled me into him, his hairy body pressed against me as his muscular arms encircled my body. His hand moved down my back, traveling over my rounded ass until his soapy finger found my eager hole. 

“Damn, you’re tight,” he marveled, his breath hot at my ear, his thick finger working my hole, readying me for him. 

“It’s—it’s been a long time since I’ve been fucked,” I admitted sheepishly. “I really don’t hookup all that often.”

“I don’t believe you. A hot, little stud like you?” he withdrew his finger. “Well, I’m gonna make sure to fuck you extra good in that case.”

And then Mike spun me around, his strong arms pushing me up against the shower wall, my face pressed against the cool tiles. His hands went to my hips, digging into me as his rounded cock head found my puckered hole. And then he shoved inside me. 

“FUCK,” I screamed, my hole torn in two, his huge cock a red-hot fire poker in my bowels. “You’re so fucking big.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he gloated, smacking my ass with his open palm. He then shoved deep within me, his balls mashed against my sphincter. 

Brutally, he began to fuck me. His big dick routed my depths as he pummeled my hole at a frenzied pace. I braced my hands against the shower wall, trying to absorb the shock of his force. Over and over he pounded his body into mine, ravaging me. 

And then it happened, a second penetration occurring within me, a sudden shockwave of pleasure coursing through my body. “I felt that,” Mike remarked, his meaty cock head pushing past my inner-sphincter. “I can tell I’m getting you good.”

It was more than good—it was fucking insane. My eyes rolled back into my head, Mike’s cock battering inside my deepest void. My cock was rock hard, a pressure building within me. Instantly, my body began to convulse, my balls throbbing for release as Mike continued to abuse my guts. 

“FUCK,” I gasped, my cock pulsing rapidly, my thick load spraying against the tiled wall, rapidly traveling towards the shower drain. 

“Damn, that’s hot,” Mike remarked, my sphincter gripping him rhythmically from within as my load continued to discharge. “I love when I can make a dude shoot his wad with my dick inside him.”

Riding my orgasm, Mike began to zero in on his own climax, jackhammering the shit out of me. “Breed me,” I begged, his big cock swelling inside of me, expanding against the walls of my fuck canal. “Shoot that load in me.”

“You’re about to get it,” he warned, his hands moving to my shoulders as his cock began to throb within me. “OH FUCK,” he barked urgently. “Here it comes—YEAH—YEAH—FUCK.”

It felt like a firehose was blasting my bowels as his cock discharged within me, his load spewing into my void. “Mmm, yeah, seed me,” I moaned, a warmth emanating from deep in my body he flooded my guts. 

I wanted to revel in that moment forever—the feeling of this hunky man inside of me, his big cock spreading his seed within me. But all good things must come to an end. 

“Damn, you’ve gotta sweet cunt,” Mike pulled out of me abruptly, his warm load gushing out of my gaping hole. “That was one of the best fucks I’ve had in a long time.”

“Thanks,” I replied, my abused body sliding down the shower wall, sinking to my knees as I tried to catch my breath. His copious load continued to exit my wrecked hole, chasing my own load down the shower drain. 

“It feels nice and cool out here,” Mike observed, stepping out of the shower, his spent cock swinging between his hairy thighs. “Your AC is definitely working again,” he reached for a clean towel and began to dry himself. 

“Great,” I replied, forcing myself back onto my feet as I turned off the water and tried to exit the shower on my wobbly legs. “I’m glad you got it fixed.”

“I often suggest our annual maintenance plan to keep your AC unit in working order,” Mike handed me a towel. “But I’m thinking you might require maintenance a little more often than that.”

“Oh really?” I ventured, toweling myself dry. “How often do you think?”

“I think you need weekly maintenance,” Mike smiled deviously. “And maybe I oughta give your unit one more deep probing right now,” he pulled me out of the bathroom and towards my bed. “I want to make sure you’re a happy customer when I leave here today.”

The air in the gym locker room was thick with the scent of old iron, eucalyptus, and the lingering humidity of the showers. Peter sat on the bench and examined his thin muscles. He was lanky, his ribs visible with every breath, and his pale arms looked like little more than kindling.

“No girl is ever going to want this,” he muttered to himself, a familiar bitterness rising in his throat. He felt invisible, a ghost in a temple of stone-carved bodies.

From the corner of the room, John watched. John was a powerhouse—a muscular bear in his prime, with a salt-and-pepper beard and muscles that seemed to strain against the very atmosphere. He didn’t just occupy space; he commanded it. He saw the boy’s despair and felt a pull of protective, primal interest.

Hello everyone!! First of all, thank you all so much for your ideas and submissions. The choice was really hard to make, and I have to admit I couldn’t narrow it down to just 3. So without further ado, here are the 4 prompts I’ve selected for my 30th birthday event:

A follow-up to my Alexa story with more about Simon and Michael’s story, and of course the perfectly glitchy Alexa…

Two best friends discover a genie who can only grant wishes for each other. What starts as harmless, generous wishes soon twists into something darker, transforming their friendship in ways they never imagined.

A nervous new office worker receives a strange email in an unknown language. Against his better judgment, he opens it and sees a perfect tropical vacation resort. He doesn’t know it yet… but it’s already too late.

On his 30th birthday, a lonely man receives a mysterious unmarked package. Inside is a pair of old, sandy Birkenstocks that smell faintly of the ocean. He throws them out immediately… but the thought of them keeps pulling him back.

Once again, thank you for all your ideas, messages, and asks. I really enjoyed reading every single one, and the decision was tough. Not being picked today doesn’t mean I won’t come back to your idea later if inspiration strikes :) See you all in 3 days for the results, I can’t wait to see what you pick!

Hello everyone!! First of all, thank you all so much for your ideas and submissions. The choice was really hard to make, and I have to admit I couldn’t narrow it down to just 3. So without further ado, here are the 4 prompts I’ve selected for my 30th birthday event:

A follow-up to my Alexa story with more about Simon and Michael’s story, and of course the perfectly glitchy Alexa…

Two best friends discover a genie who can only grant wishes for each other. What starts as harmless, generous wishes soon twists into something darker, transforming their friendship in ways they never imagined.

A nervous new office worker receives a strange email in an unknown language. Against his better judgment, he opens it and sees a perfect tropical vacation resort. He doesn’t know it yet… but it’s already too late.

On his 30th birthday, a lonely man receives a mysterious unmarked package. Inside is a pair of old, sandy Birkenstocks that smell faintly of the ocean. He throws them out immediately… but the thought of them keeps pulling him back.

Once again, thank you for all your ideas, messages, and asks. I really enjoyed reading every single one, and the decision was tough. Not being picked today doesn’t mean I won’t come back to your idea later if inspiration strikes :) See you all in 3 days for the results, I can’t wait to see what you pick!