The Butterfly Effect

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…

When Madison finally arrived at the gym, he found himself underwhelmed. He had never held a membership before–the raffle granted free entry for the duration of the program–so he was unfamiliar with how monotone fitness facilities could be. The indoor track back in his collegiate days had held some color; a muddy reddish brown for the inner loop and a sturdy forest green for the outer. This gym however lacked any such character: a factory-like gray box with machines scattered around like a child’s toys. The personality was dictated by composite wood and mirrors upon every available wall. Somehow, even the small puddle a few feet away from Madison was a hazy white, perfectly matching the aesthetic.

When Madison had pulled up, he had gone and double checked the address on his phone. The building was located on a forgotten suburban side street, sticking out like a sore thumb between the rows of older houses. There was not even a parking lot, forcing his sedan onto the curb. Everything inside at least met the standard gym protocols. A first scan identified various machines, mats, and industrial fans to efficiently cool everything down. Everything looked clean, besides a layer of dust over the treadmills.

“Looks like our raffle winner finally made it.”

Madison's eyes fell upon the person approaching him. Although of similar age and almost a head shorter than Madison’s even six feet, this man nearly doubled his weight in musculature. A step below bodybuilding, the presumed personal trainer was straight from a fitness magazine. Natural good looks, singular earbud glued in. He was bulging in all the right places, the name brand black tank and shorts displaying massive shoulders, bulbous pectorals, and husky legs to support the sturdy frame.

“Mason, right?” His voice held a natural confidence, one that assumed it was always correct.

“Madison,”

“Yeah,” the personal trainer did not falter. “I went and scrolled through your social media. It’s great that you’re already familiar with exercise.”

Madison was a bit embarrassed at first, but he realized it was completely logical for the man to have done some research. Madison had not really updated his feed since his college days, which had been years ago, but he was still slim, yet not bony, as his daily runs had kept him in shape.

“Usually the guys that come in aren’t familiar with the gym at all, not attending our church if you know what I mean,” the man illustrated. “But a former track star, now that will be a fun challenge! Gonna spend these next three days trying to convert you.”

The metaphor was strange, but it worked. “I guess it’ll be nice to try something besides just cardio.”

“Not just something: everything, bro.” The man threw out an arm as if he was surveying conquerable land. “Our X-Treme All-Out UltraTestosterone Bundle offers you unlimited access to our playground and promises to make a real man out of you in less than 72 hours!” 

The man’s energetic voice burst out as if the pair were at a monster truck rally: loud, macho, and boisterous.

“Lucas,” the man offered his hand. Its size easily dwarfed Madison’s own. “What made you sign up for the gym’s raffle anyway?”

Seeing that Madison was already in his workout clothes–a bright blue long sleeve that suctioned itself to his body and a pair of white shorts that loosely flowed around the stickish legs–Lucas began to lead him towards the machines. Madison's lucky necklace bounced with every step, a small golden key inspired by one of his favorite romance novels. While not a big box venture like some of the cheaper options out there, the gym itself was still sizable. Because of this, Madison was perplexed to realize that there was no one else there. Were Friday afternoons always so quiet?

“Um, I don’t know if I have any specific reason,” Mason started. “The ad came up on my feed and once I realized it was all free, I just kind of went for it? I don’t know, I’ve always been active but I wanted to try something different. And it would be nice to put on a little muscle, just to bring something new to the dating scene. I guess there are a lot of factors…”

Lucas chuckled freely. “Since you’ll be with me this whole weekend, I can guarantee you will be experiencing a lot of new things.”

Madison liked the sound of that. He was highly skeptical that he would actually see any results, but thankful that he would at least learn a thing or two.

“I’ll just need you to trust me, bro. Be along with me every step of the way. Remember, I’m your trainer, aka to train you. Not embarrass you or break you, but to make you better. Got that?”

“Sure, I guess,” Madison replied. He did not know if he believed Lucas because of the miniature speech or because of the giant muscles. Either way, the trainer certainly knew what he was doing.

The only thing more embarrassing than a bad Halloween costume is no Halloween costume. You knew you should have picked up something on the way, a shitty t-shirt, or at the very least a mask. But now here you are, costume-less, amongst a crowd of hot guys, bouncing around in their sexy, revealing outfits.

You migrate to the bar, hoping to hide your humiliation behind a cold drink. As you do, you spot something shiny on the floor next to you. Careful not to shove into too many guy’s asses, you reach down to pick it up.

It’s a badge. Shiny and heavy, clearly not a toy from a costume shop. You look around to see if anyone dropped it, but the damn thing is so big, you doubt anyone could fit it in their skimpy pockets.

Well, you think, it’s better than nothing. You pin the badge onto your t-shirt, immediately feeling an electric rush of energy from your chest down to your toes. It stops, than continues to pulse. You shake as the badge sends wave after wave of heat through your arms, your back and shoulders, up to your head.

You reach for a drink, hoping to calm your nerves, and that’s when you notice your forearm expanding. The skin hardens, rough from years of work on the force, and your biceps tear at the edge of your t-shirt as they solidify into two solid slabs of muscle.

What the…? but before you know it, your chest shoots out. You knock over some guy’s drink. He spins around to tell you off, but stops when he sees how big your body is becoming.

“Damn man,” the guy says with a wink, “great costume.”

“What costume?” you ask, as the words become deep and authoritative in your throat. Just then, your t-shirt repairs itself, the fabric becoming hard and dark as a utility belt appears around your waist. You look down just in time to see your jeans become grey pants, three sizes larger to accommodate your massive legs. Finally, a pair of cop boots plant themselves on top of your sneakers. By now, you don’t need to convince anybody that you’re a cop; you already are.

As you patrol the party, checking for drugs and outbreaks of drunken violence, you start to take notice of some of the guys checking you out. Eyeing your hard bubble ass through your tight fitting pants. You crack a grin, imagining what it would be like to throw them down in the back of your patrol car, tear off those flimsy costumes, and tear their asses apart.

Just as an erection starts to form in your pants, several guys in superhero outfits rush past you. “Hold this,” one of them says, throwing something into your hand. You spin around to yell, when you notice the object now heavy in your right fist.

Thor’s hammer. It seems to gain in weight with every second you hold onto it, as if transforming from a shitty costume prop into the actual Norse weapon.

As the hammer grows heavier  you feel your body shifting and changing to accommodate the new weight. Your muscles grow thicker but leaner, your skin finer and finer until it seems to shine in the dancing lights all around you. You watch as your clothes begin to vanish, the badge and the shirt disappearing to reveal a shelf of pecs worthy of the gods, and a pack of abs that would take a normal bodybuilder years to obtain. But you don’t need to worry about working out anymore, because you’re Thor, the god of thunder.

Wait, you think to yourself, I’m not… OH! At that moment, you feel your height jump by three inches. In your pants (though it wouldn’t be fair to call them “pants” at this point), you feel your dick continue to grow, aroused by the mere sight and feeling of your own adonis body. You lift a mighty hand to brush the long blonde hair falling in front of your perfect face, and run it across your newfound nordic scruff.

By now, everybody is looking at you. Every eye in the club is staring at your shining pack of abs as they shimmer out onto the dance floor, your clambering feet awkwardly lumbering around to avoid stomping on the toes of every twink too distracted to watch where they’re stepping.

Turns out dancing isn’t really your forte. Conquering all of the seven realms, maybe. But not dancing. And it doesn’t help that the raging boner in your pants is growling larger and larger, rendering all kinds of movement impossible.

Frantically, you look around for some way out. But the guys have formed a wall around every corner of the floor, eager to catch of glimpse of that muscle body in action. What that action is going to be, however, you don’t know.

But that’s when you see it: a red hat, lazily perched atop some dude’s head. Something inside of you tells you to grab it, to put it on, and start dancing.

“Hey!” the guy protests as you remove his hat and put it onto your own head. But his voice falls silent the second he sees you begin to dance, the movements gyrating from the top of your head like trickling water.

Everything comes so naturally after that. Your hips swinging and your chest rolling with astonishing ease as the crowd around your grows larger and larger and larger. By now, there’s no hiding that dick, but you don’t care. You were born to show off this package, your body was made to pop and lock. You don’t even notice the hair recede up into your head, or the muscles thin out as they become drenched with sweat.

Before you know it, you’re Magic fucking Mike, and before the night is over, you’ll have your choice of every guy at the party to bring home. But then again, why would you need to? You seem pretty happy right here.

The mid-morning sun blazed over the Springfield college campus on a Sunday morning. Just off the main road, on a winding side street stood the well worn home of the Omega X Phi boys. A towering construction with multiple towers hanging on a wraparound porch. Three stories tall, whitewashed wood covering every wall. Multiple 20 something men were passed out on the front lawn from last night's rager.

A sharp knocking sound rang as a hand rapped the brass Greek letter knocker. The sound grew louder and more incessant when no one came to the door. Finally a hunky freshman by the name of Terence roused himself from his spot on the foyer. He stumbled upstairs, opening and closing the doors till he found the fraternity president. Johnathan or JB was sound asleep, sandwiched between a busty blonde girl and a bodybuilder type guy. Terence shook him awake.

“Yo, like, someone’s at the door. Think it’s some kinda narcs, bro.”

JB blinked awake, trying to calm his jittery brother. “Hey it’s fine, let’s go see what this about.”

He carefully climbed out of bed and gestured for Terence to follow him. As they climbed down the stairs JB kicked two other frat members awake. Chad and Kip, both recent additions to Omega X Phi. They opened the door, squinting in the bright light that helped their hangovers very little. 

Standing on the chipped wood of the porch, from left to right stood a varied and disgruntled group. First was the young athletic coach of the girls sports team, none of the hungover males could recall what sport. But who really cared about women’s sports anyway?  Besides her looking like the total opposite of the coach was a middle aged southern woman. Her hair clearly dyed to keep away the gray and her yellow blouse cut perfectly to her figure. Three more people stood huddled together, two willowly young men, a little too young to be on a college campus. They had both been dragged by the older girl in front of them, she was clearly in charge of them by the way they looked at her, a mixture of fear and respect. She had a fierce expression on her face, at odds with her nerd girl outfit. The skinny dude on the end looked very uncomfortable to be around the others. He didn’t seem to have such an obvious dislike of the frat. All of them had come, however for the same reason, the rumors of the frat's “unorthodox” approach to recruiting, especially after it had been linked to several missing people. 

Now let me clear something up: Omega X Phi had a long slightly magical history. Since the founding in the late 80s the frat had been linked to numerous missing persons cases. But those people were never harmed, all of them turned out happier in the end. Not that anyone ever figured out the truth, to be a member was to be sworn to secrecy but to be given powers beyond comprehension. Not very creative thinkers, they just used these abilities to create more frat brothers. JB, the newest president had immediately hit the ground running, but it seemed the frats' activities hadn’t been as discreet as he would have liked. 

“Yo can I help you guys,” JB said as jovially as he could through his hangover. 

“Help! Help! You turned half of my team into guys, I barely have enough left to field a team!” Yelled the coach.

The mom next to her broke in “And my daughter was the captain, set to be on the national team. Now he’s chugging effing beers all night.”

“Ugh, who cares about dumb sports,” broke in the nerd girl. “I just want my genius boyfriend back.” 

She kicked the boys next to her in the shins till they squeaked out similar sentiments. “Yeah, give us back our big bro.” “Give him back, give him back” 

The guy on the left shuffled his feet, “I’m not with them, I just want… um, ya know.”

JB looked at the guys around him, his gaze loaded with words only his fellow bros understood. And simultaneously the bros picked a target and lunched forward, way too fast for a hangover.

“God, I’m way too drunk for this!”

JB grabbed a football off of one of the sagging chairs and tossed it to the coach. She caught it with one hand. 

“What the hell is this!” She snapped annoyed

But suddenly a surge of energy shot up her arm, her veins thickening. Muscles becoming massive and dense, and her frame broadening. Her height shot up, legs becoming long and thick, covered in a scattering of light hair. Her skin darkened and became a dark tan, as if she was outside daily. 

“W-what’s happe-ning tooo me,” she yelled through clenched teeth. Her voice deeper as her neck grew a sizable Adam’s Apple.

Her body continued to grow as she desperately tried to stop the changes. Her breast pushed back into her chest, leaving a smooth hard pectoral shelf. A small treasure trail grows on top of her already defined abs. Her hair began to ripple, sifting into a short spiked style. Her face broadened, becoming something distinctly male. She felt a strange feeling in her pants, reaching a hand unconsciously in. She freaked out upon feeling a small still-growing male prostrate. 

“What- is this a…?” She trailed off

“A dick, yep,” JB chuckled. “Every football star needs one, how else are you supposed to fuck the cheerleaders.” 

“Football star?” She now sputtered as his changing hormones fueled a growing hornyness. 

He couldn’t help but touch his new dick as it grew erect, filling him with an unfamiliar pleasure. His school branded polo vanished as his shorts reformed into an old pair of blue sweatpants, long enough to benefit her new size. His feet grow to massive proportions, breaking free of his tennis shoes. 

A sharp pain rang through his head, as if a dozen hangovers had all hit at once. The pain so great he wasn’t aware as his mind was rewritten. Memories of growing up in a home of girls, advocating for female representation, and getting her dream coaching position replaced with flashes of growing up with a single dad who taught him how to throw his first football, playing varsity all through high school, and being accepted as the starting quarterback for Springfield College. His hormones changed as new desires coursed through his brain, the urge to run off the last nights partying, the scattered feeling of screwing the guy cheerleaders in the locker room. 

JB looked to his right to see Chad in a huge argument with his mother. 

“I’m a dude, mom. This is what I want, why can’t you just fucking accept that!”

“No, sweetie. They changed you, this isn’t what you want, you loved being a girl. Don’t you remember…” she said, her voice raising in high pitched panic. 

“No, I remember you dragging me along on shopping trips I didn’t want to go on, I remember you forcing me into sports. I don’t care what you think, this is what I want to be.”

Chad finished his winded speech with finality refusing to listen to the rest of his moms desperate pleas. 

“You’ll get it soon, ma,” He muttered.

Suddenly she stopped ranting and fell silent as she felt  a strange bout of nausea. And she too began to change.

Her transformation was quite different from the coach’s. She didn’t regress down at all, in fact she stayed the same middle age. Yet she seemed to become older due to her desperate attempts at staying young reversing. That couldn’t have been more clear as wrinkles began to come into existence on her face. Making her look older and more distinguished. Her hair began to darken, not graying dispite her age just turning her original brown. Her delicate manicured hands not escaping the change, they thickened into massive meaty mits. Years of labor making them broad and tough, her pink nails cracking off revealing bitten down nails at the end of stubby fingers. 

Her thin body began to grow at a rapid rate, her while body becoming enlarged with a both fat and dormant muscle. Her arms, legs, chest, and back growing to fit a lengthening bone structure. She could feel the change in strangth in her body, she rarely worked out and so the new found muscle was disorienting. She could feel the power with each muscle that grew, as she began to wobble with unfamiliar height.

Finally looking her middle age and feeling more comfortable in her skin then she had for years. Her body had become nearly double the size, packing on even more as time went on. Breasts already traded for hard earned chest muscles. Thighs touching from the thickness of both muscle and fat. His ass now far more soild, but still the same large size she had prided herself on. 

“Son.. stop this. Ugh.” She ground out, not even noticing the causal change of pronoun reference.

Chad just watched the transformation continue. A thick layer of body hair began to sprout in every visible place, which was quite a lot as her body had outgrown her former clothing. It spread down her legs and over her forearms. Coating her ass and rippled  abdomen. But her chest had the densest forest of manly fur growing out of it. As it happened her fomor nips become smaller and smaller, growing ever so slightly erect. Meanwhile the perfectly styled hair she’d kept since high school began receded all the way back into a tight crew cut followed by her nonexistent faical hairmbecoming a sparse mature beard. 

Finally the headache subsided, bringing forth the mental shift. The changes flooded her mind just as it had with the former coach and everything unnecessary vanished from existence. Detaching her from her former life completely before installing new wants, needs and goals into her brain. Forcing him to think like a man and think of herself as a man. As this new thought popped into his mind, a thick girthy manhood grew under a newly formed jockstarp. His brain forged newfound obsessions with drinking and american football that he couldn’t wait to indulge in. Filling his memory bank with endless amounts of dad jokes. Implanting an irresistible urge to work out enough to keep him thick and hot. And of course we can’t forget an insatiable desire for sex.

Chadwick sir blinked groggily, Chad grinned up at his dad.

“Told ya not to drink that much, you just can’t keep up with us young blood anymore.”

Terence on the other hand was being barraded by his former girlfriend and brothers.

“Baby, this isn’t you, please come back.” She begged through tears, the brothers echoed her sentiments.

“Just be smart again, big bro.”

“Yeah, we miss our bro.”

Terence rubbed his hands through his messy brown curls. “Look, I don’t need a girlfriend anymore, ya know. And you bros are always welcome in my life, you know that.”

“No!!! You will not fag out on ME!” Terence’s ex screamed, making him lose any sense of regret for what he had to do. His brothers saw the change in his face and tried to shut her up to no anvil. 

They all felt a sudden drop in their stomachs and smelled something gross. It smelled like a mixture of old socks and moldy cheese. They wrinkled their noses as the stink invaded their minds. They recoiled but couldn’t help but sniff more, as if to discover the source of such a disgusting smell.

The transformation hit them like a lightning. First all of their bodies shot up, becoming the indentical height of exactly 6”. Next thing they felt was their chest shifting, her breasts vanished in favor of wide man nipples. Hard pectorals began to develop and punched their way unto place on chests. Beneath their clothing soild sets of washboard abs formed out of fat layers. Under said abs, the girls transformation took on a slightly different form then the boys, as her vingia reformed into a average sized disk weighed down by usually large testicles. 

Their legs also began to change, making them steadier in thier changing bodies. One of the boys made a slight gasping noise as his quads began to tense into solid muscle, perfect for the running they’d be doing every day. As soon as their thighs were done blowing up, their calves followed. Expanding with solid muscle on top of more muscle. She felt her butt flatten slightly to match the other two’s smaller asses. Their arm’s transformation mirrored the rest of their bodies. Years worth of muscle work pumped into thier arms, their biceps and triceps expanding to melon like proportions. Their hands expanding to become a natural size for gripping a beer or dabbing up. 

Once their hands had reached full size their feet’s changes kicked into high gear.  They could feel them expanding, toes becoming little meaty sausages, until their shoes collapsed form the pressure. Revealing massive stompers, thick with vain and muscle. 

“Ya know, maybe it’d be, like, cool to join the frat.” One of Terence’s brothers remarked. 

The others two tried to speak but couldn’t through the thickness in their expanding throut. All of them moaning deeply and sniffing desperately at this point, trying to inhale as much of that glorious stink as possible. By the time their necks reach maximum thickness they sounded like the deep tones of masculine jocks. Till this point thier transformations had been almost identical, now’s as the changes spread to their necks they began to diverge in appearance. 

The girlfriend’s head began to stretch longer and thicker. Her hair began to turn blond, her tight bun just vanishing completely. Her remaining hair fluffing out the sides and growing out on top. As soon as it stopped growing, a hat plopped unto her head. One of the boys felt his cheekbones move up and his chin pushing down, causing his cheeks to suck themselves in. The remaining brother’s nose shrank a slightly and both of thier lips grew a little wider. Both of the boys kept their hair colors of blonde and brown respectively, but it was now styled in a more jockish style. All of thier eyes took on a dull glare, making thier resemblance to Terence even more apparent.

Their sniffing become even more intense as the origins of the smell slowly became apparent. They began to feel slightly itchy, looking down they realized a faint dusting of hair was coming in across their body. Heavily covering everything, arms, legs, chest, even in thier butts. The thickest places was the dense bushes on their gargantuan feet and the dense forest of armpit hair. Once the hair had stopped growing thier bodies began to produce the powerful musk. The small but mighty scatterings of body hair were currently stink factories working overtime. 

Terence laughed as he watched the now three boys desperately huffed each other. Tearing of each others clothing that reformed as quickly as it went. Their pants becomibg shirts in varying colors, black, green, and white. One gained a worn gray t-shirt, the fomor girl a sleeveless hoddie, giving the last, adorned in a mesh jersey, full access to his musky pits. Worn sneakers grow over thier massive feet and two gained a pair of sunglasses that made them look like the dochebags they had become. 

The more they greedily laped up each other scent, the more thier minds began to dull. Blankness becaming their default mood, Memories of family and high school began to disappear and respawn as memories of tons of friends, girlfriends, and secret relationships with other bros all perfect copies of each other. The fomor girlfriend’s memories of late night studying were now replaced with drunken homecoming bashes and late night bangs identical to his new brothers. All thier intellectual thoughts and ideas began to flow out of them, becoming a physical thing in the form of hypnotic musk. 4.0’s slowly became B’s, which dragged into C’s, and in turn dragged into barely even graduating. They remembered that dispite thier academic difficulties they where eagerly accepted on lacrosse scholarship. Making them able to enter collage at the same time as their big bro. Dispite the year difference, Terence had gotten held back twice and the triplets only once. 

The slim guy watched all this happen with excitement, and trembled with anticipation when Kip approached him, the gentle giant seaside nothing, instead raising his fist for the man to bump. 

Once there first touched, an explosion of color flooded the man’s vision. His body spasmed as his frame shot up to the sky, broad shoulders and long legs making him a massive 6,3”. muscle flooded into his new body. Rippling muscle twisted on his arms, in which plump vains swelled. Biceps and triceps gaining a powerful new roundness, ending in long fingered hands, also swelled thick with vains. Thick pectorals grew like balloons  his chest. Defined muscluler abs appearing out of thin air, leading teasingly down below. 

Speaking of down below, his formerly small member swelled to easily 8”. Hair growing over a heavy balls sack, the tests filling with testosterone and sperm. The growth continued down his legs. His thighs swelling as large as beer kegs, so large they rubbed against each other.  Spreading down, his calves bulked with soild muscle. And his feet expanding, becoming massive and sweaty. Filling with vein too, his feet stopped growing around a size 16. 

“Yessss, bye bye skinny boo.” He yelled as his transformation continued. 

His face began to change, gaining classically handsome features. A sharp jawline, proud nose, puffy lips, and natural bedroom eyes. His buzz cut grew out into effortlessly messy fringe, making him look like a tic-tok wanna be. Covered quickly by a backwards baseball cap. His black hoddie and sweats reshaped, becoming a tight fitting gray tank top and black shorts showing off the slight hair on his muscular legs. To complete the physical change, he flelt a slight weight on his neck in the form of a thick silver chain and a matching bracelet. 

He felt his brain fog over, years of low self esteem and social isolation replaced by partying all night and fucking long into the morning. He felt his strangth of mind replaced by strangth of body. As if all his smarts and awareness had been transmuted into physical form. Details filled in the blanks, growing up in an athletic family, coming out as gay at a young age, and fulfilling his life long dream of becoming a frat boy freshmen year. Once the final changes clicked in place, a hysterical smile grew on his lips. 

“Hello, big dick frat boi bf!”

JB looked around at the new frat brothers around him. The quarterback started to talk excitedly to him.

“I’m going to need way more bros for the team. Got, like, lots of ideas bro.” He said. 

Chad was trying to get his hungover father into the frat house. Muttering curses under his breath for not making his mom into a younger brother like Terence. Terence stood, however, dealing with his own issues.

“We’re so fuckin hot now, bros,” one of the triplets remarked.

“I’m obviously the hotest tho’,” another muttered.

“Hey,” yelled the last, “it’s me,”.

“You dudes are hopeless. Legit, y’all are identical.” Terence said, exasperated beyond belief.

As the day went on the new bros began to fade into the rhythm of the fraternity. That night they huddled on the roof, drunk, watching the sun set over the collage campus. Sending a clear message into the ether, Omega X Phi would never go fucking down, bro.

Which is funny, because nobody in my life would ever pick that one for me.

I’m in my thirties. Graduate student in an intense field. Type A to the point it feels pathological sometimes. My calendar is color-coded. My apartment is clean. I answer emails too fast. I say yes when people need help even when I’m already drowning. I optimize everything. Sleep, workouts, study schedules, meal prep, networking. I built an entire personality around being dependable because the second I stop moving, I feel guilty.

And I’m so, so tired.

Not “need a vacation” tired. I mean soul-deep exhaustion. The kind where I fantasize about missing deadlines on purpose. About letting dishes rot in the sink. About ignoring texts. About staying in bed while my phone dies and the world burns without me for once.

My boyfriend says I don’t know how to relax. He’s right. Because if I stop being useful, productive, impressive, I genuinely don’t know who I am.

The ugly truth? Sometimes I envy lazy people. Deeply. Bitterly. The guys who drift through life without ambition or shame. The ones who nap at noon, skip class, smoke on the balcony, laugh things off, let somebody else take care of it. I hate how badly I want that sometimes.

I think if you gave me permission to stop trying, I’d collapse into it completely.

And part of me is terrified I wouldn’t ever come back.

You're staring at your ceiling at 3 AM, your mind racing with the thousand things you should be doing instead of sleeping. Your dissertation isn't writing itself, but you can't make your fingers type another word.

You feel something shift in the room—a cold spot that smells of ozone and damp earth. "You want to stop trying so hard, don't you?" a voice whispers, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

You sit up, heart pounding, as a figure materializes at the foot of your bed—tall, unnaturally handsome, with eyes like polished obsidian and hair the color of midnight. Oberon, the fairy king you'd read about in some obscure folklore text. "I can grant you what you truly desire," he says, extending a hand. "The freedom to be useless."

Before you can respond, he's gone, but the air still crackles with his presence. You fall back into a restless sleep, dreaming of deadlines you've missed and opportunities you've squandered.

When your alarm blares at 7 AM, you slam it off without a second thought—something you've never done before.

As you stumble to the bathroom, you catch your reflection and freeze. Your face looks... softer. Younger. The fine lines around your eyes have vanished. You run a hand through your hair, which suddenly feels thicker, coarser. "What the fuck?" you mutter, your voice sounding deeper than usual.

You stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. The spray hit your skin, and a groan escaped your lips. It wasn't pain. It was pure, ecstatic pleasure. You watched, mesmerized, as your body began to reshape itself.

Your lean, runner's physique swelled. Shoulders broadened, bursting outward with new mass. Your chest expanded, pecs becoming thick, heavy slabs of muscle, soft but powerful. A dusting of dark hair sprouted across your torso, swirling around your nipples and thickening into a treacherous trail that plunged down toward your groin.

Your stomach, once flat and disciplined, grew warm and padded, the definition blurring into a solid, lived-in gut. You looked powerful in a careless, animal way, like a bear that had spent its life gorging and sleeping.

"Whoa..." you grunted, running a hand over your new, solid stomach. "Sick."

You stayed in the shower for what felt like hours, just letting the water cascade over your new form. The steam filled the small room, mingling with a new, stronger smell. It was the scent of your own body, but it was different now.

It was musky, rank, the sharp odor of unwashed male. It should have disgusted you. Instead, you inhaled deeply, a primal sense of satisfaction rolling through you. Yeah. That's the smell of a real man.

When you finally stepped out, the bathroom mirror was completely fogged. You wiped a clear spot with your hand and stared. The face looking back was almost entirely new. You were maybe twenty-two, with a heavy brow, a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken, and dark, hooded eyes that held a vacant, entitled gleam.

Your hair was longer, a mess of damp, dark curls that fell across your forehead. Your arms were the most shocking part—they were no longer lean. They were bulky, veined, and almost completely covered in a chaotic tapestry of dark tattoos that snaked from your shoulders down to your wrists. They looked like weapons.

"Damn, bro," you said to your reflection, a smirk twisting your new mouth. "You look like you could fuck some shit up."

The voice in your head—the old you—was screaming. What is happening?! This isn't me! I have a boyfriend! I have a life! But the thought was distant, muffled, like hearing someone shout from underwater.

The new you, the stronger you, just laughed. Boyfriend? Nah, man. I'm not a fag. I love tits. The thought was so simple, so absolute, it was instantly true. You tried to picture your boyfriend's face, his kind smile, but all you could see was a blur, replaced by the image of a pair of large, tanned breasts spilling out of a bikini top. Your dick, which had been impressively altered along with the rest of you, twitched and began to harden.

You walked out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the floor, and stopped dead. Your apartment was... different. The sleek, Scandinavian furniture was gone. In its place was a massive, worn leather couch covered in stains.

The floor was littered with empty pizza boxes, beer cans, and discarded clothes. Your pristine bookshelves were now sagging under the weight of tubs of protein powder, cheap liquor bottles, and bongs. The beautiful view of the city skyline was the same, but the room itself looked like a frat house after a particularly destructive party.

"Holy shit," you breathed. "This place is a fucking dump."

And you loved it.

You ambled over to the coffee table, your new, heavy gait feeling natural. You ignored the glass of water you'd intended to get and picked up a packed bong. You didn't hesitate. You put the mouthpiece to your lips, flicked a lighter, and inhaled deeply.

The acrid smoke filled your lungs, and with it, the last of your old self was scoured away. Your mind, once a fortress of logic and reason, became a swamp of lazy, simple thoughts. Chicks. Working out. Beer. Football. That was about it. You coughed out a massive cloud of smoke, laughing as you did. "Duuuude," you said to no one. "I'm so high."

The old voice made one last, pathetic attempt. We were in love! He was gentle and kind!

You snorted, a disgusting, phlegmy sound. "Fuck that. Fags are gross." The thought was accompanied by a wave of visceral disgust, so powerful and real it made your stomach turn. You were straight. So fucking straight. The idea of being with a man was repulsive. The idea of a woman on her knees for you? That was nature. That was right.

You scratched your balls idly, then your ass. A faint itch reminded you of something. Oh, yeah. Gotta hit the clinic tomorrow. That bitch from St. Patrick's Day gave me the clap. You didn't feel shame or worry. It was just an inconvenient fact, like needing to buy more beer.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open. A girl stood there, barely wrapped in a tiny, threadbare towel that did little to hide her curves. She had that bleached-blonde, slightly used look that you'd always found inexplicably compelling. Her eyes, heavy with last night's makeup, raked over your new, muscular body, and a slow, predatory smile spread across her face.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she purred, her voice a husky rasp. "You're finally up, you lazy fuck. I was about to start without you."

She dropped the towel. It pooled at her feet, revealing a body that was tanned, toned, and generously gifted in the areas that mattered most to you. Your already hard dick strained, thickening painfully against your thigh. All higher brain function ceased. There was only one thing in the universe, and it was standing naked in your doorway, waiting for you.

"Get over here," you growled, your voice a low, commanding rumble you didn't recognize but instantly owned.

She didn't need to be told twice. She launched herself at you, a tanned, perfumed missile of desire. Her legs wrapped around your waist, her arms around your neck, and her mouth was on yours, all wet heat and probing tongue.

You stumbled back, slamming her against the wall with enough force to make a picture frame crash to the floor. You didn't care. You bit her lip, not gently, and she moaned into your mouth, a sound that vibrated straight to your cock.

You entered her in one brutal thrust, sheathing yourself to the hilt. She was wet, ready, and she took all of you with a guttural grunt that sounded like victory. You didn't make love. You didn't even really fuck. You claimed. You possessed. Each movement was a statement of ownership, a physical declaration of your dominance. The apartment, this girl, this life—it was all yours by right of conquest.

"Fuck, yes," you snarled, pistoning your hips. The smell of her cheap perfume mixed with the rank, musky sweat pouring off your body, creating a miasma of pure, unadulterated sex. You were an animal, rutting in your own filth, and it was the most alive you had ever felt.

The old you was a distant, fading echo, a ghost screaming into a hurricane. This is wrong! This is a violation! We loved someone! We had a purpose! The thought was so pathetic, so weak, that the new you—the real you—almost felt pity. Almost. But then the girl arched her back, her perfect tits pressed against your chest, and the last ember of that old life was snuffed out forever.

"Harder," she gasped, her nails digging bloody furrows into your back. "You fucking asshole, harder!"

You obliged. You grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. You bit down on the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, marking her. She screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was the sweetest music you had ever heard. You felt yourself getting close, the pressure building at the base of your spine.

"What's my name, bitch?" you demanded, your voice ragged.

"Tyler!" she cried out, her body convulsing around you. "Tyler, Tyler, TYLER!"

The name was a key turning in a lock. It was a baptism. As you erupted inside her, a volcanic release that seemed to drain every last drop of your old self, the name became law. You were Tyler. You had always been Tyler.

The memory of a color-coded calendar, of a loving boyfriend, of academic anxiety—it was all just a weird, confusing dream you'd had. This, the sweat, the sex, the stink of your own body, the mind-numbing high, the absolute certainty of your own superiority—this was reality.

You pulled out, staggering back, your chest heaving. You looked around the trashed apartment, at the girl slumped against the wall, at your own magnificent, tattooed body. A slow, stupid grin spread across your face. This was it. This was heaven.

You were a twenty-two-year-old college dropout who'd never worked a real day in his life. You were a heavy drinker, a recreational drug user, a toxic, homophobic, sexist douchebag. You were a frat bro legacy, a lazy, entitled piece of shit who would never amount to anything... and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Your phone, a cheap Android with a cracked screen, buzzed on the counter. You picked it up and swiped it open. A string of texts from a group chat named "FIJI BROS 4 LYFE" lit up the screen.

Chad: Yo Ty where u at? Pre-game at my place starts NOW Brad: Bring that fire ass weed u got last time Zack: Dude I saw Stacy from Alpha Delta is single again, we gotta lock that shit down tonight

You grinned, typing back with clumsy thumbs.

Tyler: omw. got the goods. and stacy can suck my dick. be there in 10.

You looked at the girl, who was already pulling on a tiny skirt. "You coming?" you asked, already losing interest.

"Nah, I gotta work," she said, fishing a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her purse. "Have fun, though. Don't fuck any fatties."

You just laughed, grabbing a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the counter and taking a long, burning swig. You didn't bother with a shirt. Why would you? You grabbed your keys and headed for the door, leaving the girl and the wreckage of your morning behind. The sun was high in the sky, and you had a party to get to. Life was good.

Constantly annoyed by his androgyny, David stumbles onto a spam ad that leads to his first facial hair and unknowingly condemns his latest overly masc ex to the twinkdom he's leaving behind.

Pretty standard role swap/masc theft! Twinky bottom to hairy top though much of the opposite changes happen off screen. At any rate, hope you enjoy this tale of Twink Theft! -Occam

And so began the same argument that has led to the end of each and every one of David’s previous relationships. Sure, he knows he’s beautiful. Angelic many of his one night stands and observers from afar frequently point out. He’s a model by default and his face card is perfect bait for men to just fall at his feet.

David frequently finds himself with men almost stereotypically masculine, alpha bros and DL hoes are always drawn to his androgyny. But rarely do they ever consider anything but his looks. When the cherubic man can no longer hold back his ire at being considered just a pretty face they fight and then abandon him for some other waifish twink. Leaving him feeling like nothing more than a soft-skinned doll for them to play with and abandon.

Curled up in the passenger seat of his current horndog fling’s car, David looks from underneath his tangle of perfectly coiffed curls as Mattias just stares down the open road. Glancing at the hairy jungles covering the man’s torso and pits, David yearns to feel the scratch of hair against his body. The closest thing he can ever experience to growing it himself.

For half a moment the model believes that perhaps Mattias is reflecting, thinking about their argument. Considering David’s point of view at all. When a hand drifts to adjust a bulge clearly visible in his pants it’s clear there’s only one thing on his mind. And David is certainly not going to let that happen tonight. 

Monotony wasn't something you were bothered by. On the contrary, a life consisting mostly of repetition felt rather comfortable and safe. But, as it tends to happen, such environments do produce some longing to discover what the big wide somewhere could offer.

You had just arrived home after a busy day. Classes, internship, and office work. Even if your body wasn't exhausted, your brain certainly begged for some kind of rest. It had gotten to the extreme of seeing Excel columns and formulas any time you closed your eyes.

Some relaxation was in order, pronto.

Yet, not always we get what we want. Relaxation seemed to leave as soon as you entered. Since you had barely gotten inside when you saw them.

Brownies. On your kitchen counter. With a note next to it saying from which store it was: Mr. Hexum's pastry shop. And while you had ordered from said store, you didn't remember receiving the brownies themselves. So exactly why were they there, unpacked? You certainly hadn't done this. And there wasn't anyone else that could.

Right?

Getting closer you inspected the brownies. They smelled like chocolate. And something else, of which you couldn't really be precise about. Something so appealing, so mouth watering, you caught yourself drooling. Embarrassed, you cleaned the saliva with the back of your hand. Normally you weren't like this. You were disciplined! This was completely out of character.

Yet, this momentary setback hadn't diminished in any way your temptation. At all. You had already forgotten you were supposed to be wary of the brownies. If they were this appealing, obviously they couldn't be bad... Hopefully.

You took one. Eating it wouldn't hurt, right? There was nothing to be afraid of...

Never had you been so relaxed as when you tasted it. Sweet just in the perfect measure, with the slight hint of bitterness that balanced and enhanced the sweetness. And, there was something herbal about the aftertaste. Nothing invasive, it was so subtle missing it would be easy. But you had noticed it. It was the best part. It made everything feel even better, somehow.

Still, you couldn't figure why your brownies would have such an aftertaste, however. Alas! It was pleasant, so incredibly pleasant. You not only didn't mind it, but you enjoyed it quite a lot. Could it be your new favorite taste? Most likely, you thought.

"Maybe I should rest my eyes a bit," you said with a yawn, after finishing the first brownie. Four remained untouched.

Yet moving proved a lot of effort suddenly. So, slowly, laughing at nothing, staring at the distance as if there was something there worth anyone's attention, you basically floated until reaching your own bed.

You didn't remember falling asleep.

No alarm woke you up. On the contrary, you felt the sun all over your face. With a groan, you turned around, seeking the shade to continue sleeping. But then horror struck. The sun? No alarm? What had happened?

Your phone was on the nightstand. Missed alarms. Missed calls. It was 1 PM. Somehow you had slept through it all. You had missed all morning classes, and you barely had enough time to get to your internship. And that was if you got lucky on the drive there.

Running like a madman, while trying to convince yourself that missing a day of class wasn't the end of the world, you tried to get ready. Quickest shower you ever took; shaving in record time, somehow evading to cut yourself in the process; and then taking one of the suits you had prepared during the weekend.

Only that it didn't fit.

That was odd. You had stopped growing a while ago, and definitely you hadn't gain any significant weight lately. So how was this possible? Whatever the answer was, you took the suit off and tried another one. The same thing happened. You tried again, only to experience the same outcome.

With a deep breath, and with plenty of annoyance, you took off the third suit and tried to put on the same clothes as yesterday... And they didn't fit either.

Going to the full length mirror in your room, you realized why nothing was fitting. Over night, you had changed. Not much, not really that noticeable at first glance—explaining why you hadn't noticed until now —. But it was there.

You were taller. A few inches. Your shoulders were just slightly broader, your posture a few degrees straighter and cockier. The slim physique you were used to looked just a bit more filled out with muscle.

"What the...?" you asked, touching your face as you leaned towards your reflection.

Even your face was different. A bit more structured, broader. As if someone had injected you charisma overnight. It was like looking at an edited photo of yourself but in real time.

Then a text. You took your phone, still confused by all this weird changes you had no explanation for. The office where you did the internship gave you the day free. You didn't continue reading to see why.

Well... That's handy, isn't it? You thought, trembling as you sat in your bed. It didn't feel right, specially when you has missed your classes. Suddenly the world was upside down, and you didn't know what to do.

It seemed ridiculous to think you had ruined your life but... Why did it feel like that was the case? You just... Would have never done something like this. You didn't feel like yourself at all.

On the other hand... Maybe this wasn't so bad. You were pretty tired from doing so much work, barely stopping unless you had no choice but to. Wouldn't it be nice to just... Rest? Chill for today? It wasn't like you were going to throw your future to the trash because you had one free day to do nothing... Even if it felt that way.

Putting on something more comfortable—some exercising clothes that were too big for you yesterday, but now fit perfectly, that you had gotten on a unlucky online purchase—, you went to the kitchen. After your stomach rumbled, you took another brownie and ate it.

Somehow it tasted even better than yesterday. Probably because the herbal taste was even more intense. It was just so good. Made you feel so free and relaxed...

While this would have been a perfect opportunity to study, or try to help yourself with improving at work, there was an itch in you to do something entirely different. And so, you soon found yourself at the nearest gym. Something called you to it.

Before today you really hadn't worked out much. There was little need for it, and your time was already accounted for more important things. Studying, talking with teachers, your internship, networking... In a way, this was you reclaiming the freedom your had lost to your obligations. It wouldn't hurt to go to the gym, would it? It was healthy and all... Just a place to disconnect your brain and let your body do everything it needed to do...

A rest for the brain and a workout for the body. The opposite of your usual day, where you sat all day and used your mind endlessly.

It was already sunset when you remembered to check the time. You had worked out all afternoon. Completely covered in sweat, and somehow barely tired. It didn't make sense, you had used every machine the gym offered. For a novice you should be begging to go to bed. Yet, you felt you could continue going for hours.

Shaking your head, you decided to go to the showers. You took off your tank top, feeling the need to stupidly putting it over your head. Was it funny? Normally you would say no, yet now you couldn't help but chuckle... You never were this ridiculous. Always too self conscious. This was what freedom was all about, bro!

Something made you stop dead. Your reflection... It wasn't you. Well, it was, but it had changed so much compared to who you were yesterday...

Taller, hairier, more handsome. With clear muscle mass you certainly shouldn't have been able to produce on a singular day. There was still some essence of who you used to be, but it was barely there. Even you had trouble recognizing yourself.

I look good, damn... Despite knowing this was bad, that you should be panicking, your mind was as serene as a still lake. It was hard to be mad about this involuntary transformation when you were turning out so hot. Literally getting all the benefits of working out without the need of putting so much of the effort...

Why did you need to be so disciplined at everything? Why couldn't just relax a bit? Be free... Be free of all responsibilities? Be free of thinking all the time?

That wasn't right. You decided to stop marveling at your new reflection, and quickly ran to the showers. The stink from your sweaty body was intense, almost making you nauseous. How could you be so stinky? You never were before. This new body felt so different from your usual clean cut self...

Once naked, you wondered if you really needed to shower... Wouldn't it be nice to just go home like this? But you ignored the call of laziness, and got inside. Plus, wasn't this a great opportunity to explore this new physique?

You began looking down, while water fell over your head. Feet were bigger, wider. Enough to wonder why they weren't hurting while using your sneakers. Had they changed as well? It didn't really matter at the moment. You just hoped they would fit when you put them back on... Way more interesting were your calves. They were so well built. Clearly, you weren't missing leg day... Or whatever magic that was responsible for this wasn't missing it.

Being precise about the subject made your head ache. Whatever was causing this was way too complicated to understand it. It was better to ignore it and just accept it was happening. Logic wasn't there to help you, just make you put unnecessary effort you didn't want to make.

Your thighs were so beautifully thick. Mostly muscle. Quads rubbing each other any moment you moved your legs. It was strangely erotic. As if each thigh had became a lover's hand obsessed with the most intimate of caresses.

This new body felt so much more sexual. Like it was made to be fucked in a way your original self had never been...

Butt cheeks were also better than before, like your calves. They were ubbly, with enough fat to bounce, and with enough muscle to keep a firm shape. You now owned the type of ass that you had always adored on other men. An ass that you now got to worship any time you wanted... To grab any time you were alone. Maybe with a mirror behind you...

Sadly, your cock had remained the same, for the most part. Was it perhaps a little thicker? Or was it just wishful thinking? Truth was, you couldn't say for certain.

Eventually you left the gym. It was dark outside.

Back home you decided to eat another brownie. You knew you shouldn't, but they were so good... So relaxing... You hadn't eaten a proper meal all day. And brownies weren't a good way of maintaining your new muscles.

Now there was only two brownies left.

But cooking... That felt like too much work. So, as you ate the brownie, you ordered some take out. Booting up a game on your otherwise work only laptop while you waited. It was your free day! And you hadn't played in so long...

Pizza aarrived later. After paying you immediately got to eat, your hands all greasy as you continued playing the game. You weren't good at it. Both from a lack of practice and skill. Your brain felt slower than usual, and you got distracted so easily... It didn't matter, however. This wasn't about being good, it was about having fun. Using your free time as you wanted to.

Waking up was confusing the next day. For one, you didn't remember when you went to sleep, in the same way you hadn't yesterday. But something else was weird too. You weren't laying on the same bed you always had. Instead, you were on a mattress laying directly over the floor.

It didn't smell good.

Looking around you saw you weren't at your room. But rather, at a familiar basement. Your parents' basement, to be precise. How was that possible? You had moved away years ago already. And even if you had visited them overnight, without remembering you did so, why wouldn't you stay in your childhood bedroom?

It wasn't adding up... And yet, you didn't care. You were fine, so... Did it even matter how you got here?

You didn't want to leave the bed. Somehow you felt it was way too early to do so. Lazily, you rolled towards your charging phone. It was about 2 PM. You had missed class again. And you were definitely late for your internship.

"Ugh, they'll understand... It's not like I have to go every day..." you said, yawning. How late had you been gaming? Truly, you couldn't tell. You deserved the rest, anyhow.

Your losing streak definitely needed some recovery time. Having greasy meaty fingers and a slower brain didn't make an E-sports player. Of that you were sure.

Going upstairs you were met with a cold breakfast. Your parents had left for work, but clearly loved you enough to make something for you. There were still some brownies available too. Seemingly, your parents hadn't tried any of them. Weird... They're delicious... They don't know what they're missing...

You heated up whatever needed to be warm, while eating another brownie. You needed the calories, alright? Besides, you had to finish them eventually. Now there were only one left.

As you finished eating the chocolate pastry, you began to giggle. You didn't know what was so funny. And thinking felt so much slower... Even more than before... How had you gotten so far in life? College took so much effort... And an internship? So boring, so hard... Why did you even bother?

"Gotta work out, bro," you said, grinning. No one but you was there. There was no need to announce it. No one but you cared.

Soon you were back at the gym. Well, a different one. Close to your parents house instead of the place you used to live at but yesterday.

It was only when you were hours into your workout you remembered that you hadn't warned the office you wouldn't go today. Not like you had a real excuse for your absence. Sure, somehow you had moved back your parents' house overnight without realizing it, but like that didn't have to affect work, right? People moved all the time.

And you were farther from the office. But like, not terribly so...

Realistically, you knew you should probably be a bit more responsible. You should have at least sent a message, even if to lie. But since you hadn't... Well, then you should at least keep what you were doing a secret, no? There wasn't a better way of losing your internship than to get caught actively missing work.

But... You wanted to record and shoot photos of yourself. You were so hot! And it was easy... Easy money too, you hoped... With a body like yours, you could get any guy to spend a few bucks on you, right?

Using the chance that this new gym had a sauna, you decided take at least some few pics there. Cropped to the exact millimeter to be acceptable online.

After all, you were all sweaty... Your hair was a mess. Even though these were photos, you could tell you stank. Which you did. You so did. It was the smell of a real man... Of a real guy who knew how to use his body... Not like a boring guy wanting to work on an office and who couldn't even pop his pecs... Or flex his biceps... Or lift weights...

Despite your stench and the glimmering sweat over your skin, you didn't consider showering this time. It was too much of an effort, really. And besides, you only remembered you could shower when you had already left the gym.

Plus, your manly smell was like a reward. Not something to get rid off. Perhaps when you got successful enough you could sell bottles with your sweat...

Back home, you felt so horny. Maybe it was the manly musk from your own body. Or perhaps it was that you hadn't jerked off in a while. The reason didn't matter, not really. You just wanted to get into bed and goon.

Only one brownie was left. Still on the kitchen counter. Still as appealing as the day it just arrived. Fuck, it made you hungry. You were hungry and horny, and that needed to be resolved at once.

You took the brownie with you down to the basement you now called home.

Undressing, you threw yourself in bed with a satisfied sound. Looking for a porn video to watch on your phone, while the other held the yet to be eaten brownie. Once you found the video, pressing play with high anticipation, your left the phone at a side. Your now free hand going for your already hard pecker.

Stroking yourself, listening more than watching the video, you also began eating the last brownie. It may be messy, leaving crumbs all over the mattress, but it was the dream. The dream, bro! You were finally free to indulge on these slobby whims of yours. Without thinking about anything else but your worldly pleasures.

But things weren't as simple as you had hoped for.

As your hand went up and down, your cock... Well, didn't seem to remain the same. It wasn't going soft, of that you were sure. You'd never felt this horny before. But the tip of your cock didn't reach the same heights anymore...

Was it shrinking?

The thought almost made you stop. But you realized you didn't really care. It's way less effort to jerk off with a smaller cock anyway. And it made your muscles look even bigger! Perhaps it was even a good thing.

It wasn't like hot guys like yourself need big cocks. You had muscles, and that's was way better. Or was it backwards? Who cares, bro?

Soon you were ignoring the video. Instead watching as your cock retracted into itself without losing its rigidity. Your foreskin was growing back, covering the head more and more with each stroke.

Eventually your hand was too big. Your fist completely eclipsing your dick. You should have been terrified. Or upset. But it was the hottest thing that had ever happened to you. Another bite of the brownie, and your cock grew even shorter.

About to cum, you opened your fist. Your cock was now so small your palm was simply too big to use it to stroke yourself. Your dick threatened to slip out from your grip, and your mini strokes weren't helping much with relieving yourself. Mad comfy, though.

So you finally used just your index and thumb, at the same time you ate the last bit of the brownie. One final stroke, and you came.

It changed everything. Even more than anything that came before.

Ropes of cum shot upwards as you began to drool. As if your seed carried your intelligence alongside it. Your thoughts were slowing down. They were so slow, so spaced out. It was hard to believe you had put some much effort into academics just a few days before. Your brain wouldn't be able to handle such things anymore. You took pride on that. It was way better to be a dumb gym rat, right?

Your room grew messier. Stinkier. Sporty clothes everywhere. Unwashed, wrinkled, at least one on every surface. Your bed was undone, with brownie crumbs over the messy sheets. Workout equipment appeared on the room. For when you were too lazy to leave the house.

Notifications came from your phone. Your social media was now more important than before. Not that it was successful. Barely over 50 followers. Most of them older or overweight men who loved your content showing yourself be a sweaty gym rat.

One of them, however, was different.

An older man, yes, but wealthy. One who could spare giving you enough money to not work a single day in your life. One who was quite content with being a voyeur, of simply watching you waste your life.

He was your best follower. More of a client now, rather than a fan. He was the one who paid for everything you owned, almost.

What did he want from you? Videos. Photos. Private streams were you just did stuff for him to watch: touching yourself; working out: eating food you shouldn't be eating yet somehow had not affected your definition. Anything that showed your superficiality and slobby laziness.

And tonight? Tonight he was going to visit you, at last.

You hadn't cleaned. He wouldn't have liked it, and you couldn't be bothered anyway. Your parents had apparently left for a work trip. Or so you remembered now. The house was for yourself tonight. For yourself and this guy. Gene was his name.

A knock. You went to the front door, and opened it. He was there. Tall, well dressed. A successful and clean cut man. Outwardly the kind of successful individual you wanted to be... Before you became this muscle slob. Wasn't he...? Damn! He was the guy who owned the office you worked at!

How did you not remember him being this hot?

"You haven't showered, huh?" he said, smiling. Cupping your face with a possessiveness and condescension that made you hard instead of mad. "You could be so much more, but you don't want to. You won't put the effort in. You just want to be free, don't you? Free of thinking, free of responsibilities, free of being someone. You just want to exist like the dumb muscle slut that you are."

A nod. Dumb smile on your face. Gene closed the door behind himself. His eyes going all over you. Noticing you hadn't even bothered to dress. To clean yourself. Cum was all over your chest. And you stank so much.

"Is like there's nothing going in there," he said, looking at your eyes. "Completely empty. I always loved dumb men. But dear, you take the cake. Don't worry, I'll take care of you. You'll be free forever. You'll never worry about anything anymore. Just never change. Be mine. Be my little dirty boy, my slobby muscle slut..."

He then took a box from his pocket. Joints. Gene had weed. Damn, you wanted it. I need to chill... Need a joint, bro... You had never smoked weed. But now, it felt like a need.

Only then you realized the obvious. The brownies. The herbal taste... It was weed. Not normal weed, perhaps. But it was weed. You had been tricked! This wasn't you! It was a plot all along! Maybe there's still time to...

"Shhh," Gene said, passing a joint under your nose. It was enough to distract you. "Calm down, my dirty boy. I'll give you all the weed you want, if you behave. No need to get so agitated. Doesn't suit you, dear."

You nodded. Smiling again. Was there anything you ever needed to worry about? Gene had more brains that you ever would. He could just decide things for you. He was giving you money. And now he's giving you weed!

This man was a saint. A sex saint. One who thought you were hot and was going to give you the world to keep you dumb and high.

In other words, Gene wanted you to live the dream!

"Now open that mouth wide, dirty boy. Show me how dumb you actually are. Drool, and show me that mouth. If you're good you get to suck my cock, and I'll give you all these weed too. Isn't that a wonderful deal for you? It's literally a win win. You get everything in this deal. Is like the best deal in your life, is it not?"

It was, it so was.

And you were happy to obey:

---

Weeks later, by mere chance, you looked at your emails. A few of them caught your attention. One saying you were failing all your classes, due to absences and never doing any of the assignments and required tests. The other one saying you got kicked out of your internship, because not only had your grades gone down, you also hadn't showed up for way too long. Especially after discovering your thirst trap TikTok account.

You weren't professional anymore. And they didn't want you tarnishing the company name.

Old you would have been devastated. But new you? He only laughed stupidly. You didn't care about this stuff anymore.

"Good riddance, I ain't a thinker anyway," you said, deleting the emails. You lighted up a joint, laying in bed. "Gene thinks for me, and gets me weed. So, like, who needs a job? Not me, that's for sure."

You had finally received the freedom you longed for. To the world you were a dumb stoner who only worked on his body and nothing else. A guy with a tiny brain and even smaller cock that knew nothing but how to waste his life with weed and porn.

A man who loved to serve other men, because there was nothing else he was good for. You were lucky Gene let you suck his dick. He was such a generous soul. He didn't ask anything of you, and he gave you everything you wanted. How glad you were of being a dirty gym rat and stoner just for him!

Whoever you used to be was gone. Perhaps forever. But hey, at least you were free now. Free to continue wasting your life on mundane pleasures, never amounting to anything of substance. Free of the responsabilities and discipline that had once given your life meaning.

The date ended with a handshake. Not a kiss, not even a hug. Just a polite, firm handshake at her door.

"You're a great guy, Sebastian," she said, her smile pitying. "You're... safe."

Safe. The word felt like a castration.

Back in his bathroom, Sebastian stared at himself in the mirror. He was thirty-two, a newly appointed assistant Professor, and perfectly healthy. But the reflection showed a man who was functionally invisible. His chest was flat. His arms were thin wires. He had zero presence. He wasn't ugly; he was just... blank.

He didn't need to be a muscle monster. He just needed to stop being "safe."

———————————————————————————————

The gym was called Metrics. It was located in the basement of a modern office building.

Sebastian walked in, feeling out of place in his brand-new, loose-fitting workout clothes.

"Help you?"

The voice was deep, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning.

Sebastian turned. A man was wiping down a bench press.

Marcus. He looked to be in his forties, but he was in peak condition. He wasn't one of those bloated steroid users on magazine covers. He was thick. His neck was wide, his shoulders broad and heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms tightly, showing off dense, mature muscle. He had a short beard, black with specks of gray, and he smelled of clean sweat and expensive cedar soap.

"I'm looking for a trainer," Sebastian said, straightening his back, trying to look taller. "I assume that's you."

Marcus walked over slowly. He didn't smile. He just looked at Sebastian with dark, calm eyes. It felt like being scanned.

"I'm Marcus."

"Sebastian," he replied. "Look, I'll be blunt. I'm an academic. I don't have time to waste. I want to build muscle. I want to look... better." He gestured vaguely at his own thin frame, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice to mask his insecurity. "But I don't want to turn into one of those mindless meatheads. I just need the aesthetics."

He expected Marcus to be offended. Instead, Marcus just stared at him, his gaze dropping to Sebastian's narrow shoulders, then back to his eyes. There was a flicker of amusement in that look. Like a wolf looking at a very noisy rabbit.

"Aesthetics," Marcus repeated. His voice was flat, unreadable. "We can do that."

He stepped closer, invading Sebastian's personal space. The smell of him—musk and authority—was sudden and overwhelming.

"You want the look without the lifestyle. But the iron doesn't care about your PhD. It only cares if you can handle the weight." Marcus paused, looking at Sebastian's soft hands. "It’s going to hurt. A lot. Still want to proceed?"

Sebastian didn't understand the depth of the warning. He just wanted to fix the reflection in the mirror.

"Just tell me what to lift."

Marcus smirked.

"Fine. Let's see what you're made of." ————————————————————————————————

The first session was brutal.

Sebastian had read about "progressive overload," but reading about it and feeling gravity try to crush your chest were two very different things.

He was on the bench press. Marcus hadn't loaded it with anything crazy—just a 25lb plate on each side—but for Sebastian's untrained arms, it felt like a building.

"Elbows in," Marcus said from above.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, lowering the bar. His arms started to shake on the way up. He stalled halfway. The bar hovered, refusing to move. Panic started to creep in. He was going to drop it. He was going to die under 95 pounds in front of a stranger.

Then, Marcus leaned over to spot him. He didn't grab the bar immediately. He just hovered, his chest inches from Sebastian's face.

"Push," Marcus said.

The proximity was sudden. Sebastian was hit by a wave of heat radiating from the older man. It wasn't a bad smell—just intense. It smelled of hard work, sweat, and a distinct, deep musk that was unmistakably male.

It didn't make him gag. It flooded his senses. For a second, Sebastian's brain stopped worrying about the angle of his wrists. The fear, the heat, and that overwhelming scent mixed into a sudden spike of adrenaline.

He didn't know where the strength came from, but he shoved the bar up. It clanged into the rack.

Sebastian lay there, chest heaving, staring up at Marcus.

Marcus looked down, unblinking. "See? You had it. You just needed to stop thinking."

He pulled out his phone. "Download this. Gymini. It’s an app we use here."

Sebastian sat up, wiping his forehead, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief. "Is it a tracker?"

"Sort of," Marcus said, putting the phone away. "It uses an algorithm to adjust your routine based on how you feel. It takes the guesswork out. Just do what it says."

Sebastian nodded, still lightheaded, and scanned the code.

By the time Sebastian got home, he was wrecked. His arms felt like jelly. He collapsed onto his sofa, too tired to even turn on the TV.

He opened the app. The interface was simple, dark mode by default.

USER: SEBASTIAN

GOAL: AESTHETICS / TONED

He typed a question: What should I eat for dinner?

The reply popped up instantly: Grilled chicken breast, one cup of rice, large glass of water.

Simple. Sensible. He liked that.

He ate, showered, and lay in bed, but his mind was still racing. The soreness was already starting. He picked up his phone again.

Is there any way to speed up the results?

The three dots danced for a moment. Then a notification appeared.

TIP OF THE DAY:

PHEROMONE RECOVERY HACK.

DO NOT WASH YOUR GYM CLOTHES TONIGHT.

SLEEPING NEAR THE SCENT OF EXERTION CAN TRICK YOUR BODY INTO MAINTAINING TESTOSTERONE LEVELS DURING REM CYCLES.

Sebastian stared at the screen. It sounded like bro-science. Ridiculous.

He looked over at the laundry basket in the corner. His gym shirt was sitting right on top.

"Pseudoscientific nonsense," he muttered.

But he was tired. And honestly, after today... he felt different.

He got up, walked to the basket, and picked up the shirt. It was damp. He brought it closer to his face. It smelled of his own sweat, the metallic tang of the gym, and... yes, a faint, lingering trace of Marcus. That same warm, musky scent from the bench press.

It wasn't gross. It was just... real.

Sebastian hesitated, then tossed the shirt onto the empty pillow next to him.

"Just to test the algorithm," he whispered to himself.

He turned off the lamp. In the dark, the scent was stronger. He breathed it in, deeply. Surprisingly, it didn't keep him awake. It made him feel heavy. Safe.

He was asleep in minutes.

————————————————————————————————

Three weeks later, the apartment felt different.

The stacks of literary journals on the coffee table were still there, but they were now used as coasters for protein shakers. The air, once smelling of old paper and espresso, now carried the faint, sweet chemical scent of vanilla whey.

Sebastian stood in his bedroom, staring at his phone. Gymini was open.

It had become a reflex. He didn't agonize over choices anymore. He just checked the feed.

Outfit for Tuesday. Graduate Seminar.

The app loaded instantly.

NAVY POLO. SIZE M. TIGHTER FIT IMPROVES MUSCLE MIND-CONNECTION. LET THE BODY BREATHE.

Sebastian frowned. The Medium polo? He hadn't worn that size since he was an undergrad. It would be snug.

"Muscle mind-connection," he muttered. It sounded like bro-science, but he didn't hate the logic.

He put it on.

The fabric didn't just sit on him; it clung. The sleeves gripped his biceps—which were currently pumped from yesterday’s arm session. The buttons across his chest pulled slightly. It felt... aggressive.

But when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see a stressed academic worrying about tenure. He saw a man who had shape.

"Fine," he said, grabbing his bag. "Medium it is."

The lecture hall was warm. Sebastian was thirty minutes into a graduate seminar on Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author.

"Barthes argues that the text is a multidimensional space," Sebastian said, turning to write on the blackboard.

As he reached up, he felt the polo shirt ride up his back. The seam dug into his armpit. The friction against his nipples was constant, distracting, and... grounding.

He caught the eye of a student in the front row—a girl who usually took diligent notes. She wasn't writing. She was staring at his arms.

Sebastian paused. The old Sebastian—the one desperate to be taken seriously as a scholar—would have been mortified.

The new Sebastian felt a sudden, hot spike of gratification. She sees it.

"Professor?" another student asked. "You said the author is a 'scriptor'?"

Sebastian blinked. The academic definition floated just out of reach. His brain felt foggy, like it was wrapped in cotton. But his body felt incredibly sharp.

"Right," Sebastian said, checking his watch. "The scriptor. Look, the theory is dense. Just... don't overthink it. The text exists. That's what matters."

Don't overthink it.

He realized, with a jolt, that he was quoting Marcus.

He dismissed the class ten minutes early. He needed to hit the gym.

The transition was seamless.

Sebastian stripped down in the locker room and pulled on the new gear Gymini had suggested: a compression top.

It was black, synthetic, and merciless. It squeezed his torso, forcing him to stand straighter. He looked at himself. He looked like a tool. He looked great.

When he walked onto the gym floor, Marcus was waiting by the cable machine.

The older man didn't say hello. He just nodded at Sebastian's chest, his eyes tracing the lines of the compression shirt.

"Good," Marcus grunted. "Finally showing it off."

Sebastian adjusted his glasses, feeling a flush of pride. "Gymini suggested it."

"Smart app," Marcus said. He pointed to the machine. "Back day. We need width."

Sebastian sat at the machine. He reached up, gripping the bar.

"Pull."

Sebastian pulled. The weight was heavier than last week, but he didn't question it.

"No," Marcus corrected, his voice right behind Sebastian's ear. "You're pulling with your arms. Use the lats."

Marcus moved in. He placed his large hands on the sides of Sebastian's back, his thumbs digging into the muscle just under the armpits.

"Here," Marcus whispered. "Squeeze my hands."

The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of Marcus's body radiating behind him, the smell of old spice and musk enveloping him.

Sebastian’s brain—the one that held a PhD and was fighting for tenure—went quiet.

There was no theory. There was only the weight, the sweat, and the man controlling him.

He pulled. He felt his back muscles engage, hard and distinct against Marcus’s fingers.

"Good boy," Marcus murmured.

The praise hit Sebastian harder than any faculty approval ever could. His dick twitched in his compression shorts. He didn't even feel ashamed.

He just wanted to do another rep.

Later, in the locker room, Sebastian peeled off the soaked compression shirt. His skin was red from the friction, his muscles swollen. He felt stupid, tired, and happy.

Sebastian sat on the wooden bench, a towel draped over his lap. He was exhausted. His lats felt wide, swollen with blood, pulsing with a dull, pleasurable ache. But his mind was in chaos.

He replayed the moment at the cable machine. Marcus’s chest pressed against his back. The heat. The thumbs digging into his muscle. And those two words.

"Good boy."

It had triggered a reaction so visceral, so immediate, that Sebastian was still trying to rationalize it. His erection had pushed against the compression shorts with humiliating force. It was still semi-hard now, throbbing against the damp towel.

"Adrenaline," he whispered, staring at the floor tiles. "Just a cortisol-dopamine spike. Misattribution of arousal."

He picked up his phone. Gymini was already open.

He typed rapidly, his thumbs hitting the glass with defensive urgency.

Experienced sexual arousal during training. Is this a side effect of the pre-workout?

The screen flashed once. No processing animation. Just raw text.

ANALYSIS: NEGATIVE.

CAUSE: ATTRACTION TO SUPERIOR GENETICS.

STATUS: SEXUAL IMPRINTING DETECTED.

Sebastian frowned. Sexual imprinting?

He typed again: I am doing this to attract women. This reaction is counter-productive.

The text on the screen didn't scroll; it just changed. The previous words vanished and were instantly replaced by new, blocky capitals. It felt aggressive.

ERROR: OBJECTIVE INVALID.

BIOLOGICAL DATA CONTRADICTS USER INPUT.

WOMEN ARE IRRELEVANT.

"Irrelevant?" Sebastian scoffed, his voice rising slightly in the empty room. "That's the whole point."

He tried to type Correction: My goal is... but the keyboard didn't appear. The input field was gone. The app had locked him out of writing. It was only broadcasting now.

NEW DIRECTIVE: FIXATION.

TARGET: MARCUS.

RANK: APEX.

Sebastian stared. The screen flashed red, then settled back to black.

INSTRUCTION:

TO ACQUIRE THE PHYSIQUE, YOU MUST INTERNALIZE THE SOURCE.

YOU DO NOT JUST WANT HIS MUSCLE.

YOU WANT HIM.

"I respect him," Sebastian muttered, his thumb hovering over the close button. "That's all."

FALSE.

HEART RATE ELEVATED.

BLOOD FLOW DIRECTED TO GENITALS.

YOU ARE AROUSED BY HIS AUTHORITY.

Sebastian’s breath hitched. The app was reading his biometrics against his denial. It was using his own body as evidence against him.

LOGIC REWRITE IN PROGRESS...

ADMIRATION IS A WEAK WORD FOR HUNGER.

YOU WANT TO BE LIKE HIM.

YOU WANT TO BE WITH HIM.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

"No," Sebastian whispered. "I'm straight. I have a history of..."

DATA CORRUPTED.

HISTORY DELETED.

ONLY THE CURRENT STATE MATTERS.

CURRENT STATE: ERECT.

CURRENT STATE: OBEDIENT.

Sebastian froze. The logic was cold, circular, and terrifyingly accurate. He was erect. He had been obedient.

He looked down at his crotch. The towel shifted.

"This is... brainwashing," he said. But he didn't close the app. He couldn't. It was like watching a car crash.

ACCEPTANCE REQUIRED.

VISUALIZE THE TARGET.

SMELL THE TARGET.

DO NOT RESIST THE IMPULSE.

The screen went black, leaving only his reflection staring back—flushed, sweaty, and wide-eyed.

Sebastian sat there for a long time. The smell of the locker room—sweat, steam, and men—suddenly felt overwhelming. It filled his lungs.

He slowly dressed, his movements automatic. He tried to think about the blonde girl. He tried to picture her face.

Glitch.

Her face wouldn't hold. Every time he focused, the image distorted. Her soft skin hardened into rough stubble. Her perfume turned into the thick, musky scent of Old Spice and iron. Her eyes turned dark, heavy, and demanding.

Marcus.

Sebastian shook his head violently. "Stop it."

He walked home in a daze. When he crawled into bed, he felt feverish.

He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. But Gymini wasn't done. The text he had seen burned behind his eyelids.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

In the dark, his hand drifted down. He didn't want to touch himself, but his body had its own instructions now. He thought about the weight of the lat pulldown bar. He thought about the heavy hands on his back.

"Marcus," he breathed out, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

He jerked his hand away, shocked. "No."

He turned over, burying his face in the pillow. But the pillow smelled like the shirt he had slept with weeks ago. It smelled like him.

As Sebastian finally drifted into a restless sleep, his conscious mind shut down, but the new code kept running in the background.

Status: Rewriting mind set...

————————————————————————————————

Sebastian blinked.

The world rushed back in a blur of noise and gray concrete. The clank of iron. The heavy thud of dumbbells hitting the rubber floor.

He was sitting on the edge of a bench. His hands were gripping the vinyl padding so hard his knuckles were white. He was sweating—profusely. His chest heaved, gasping for air.

Where... when is this?

He remembered waking up. He remembered coffee. But the commute? The changing room? It was gone. A blank space in his memory. One moment he was tying his shoes, and now, he was here. Mid-set.

"You're drifting, Sebastian."

The voice came from above. Deep. Resonant.

Sebastian looked up. Marcus was standing over him.

The trainer looked colossal from this angle. He was wearing a gray tank top that was soaked through dark with sweat, clinging to his pectorals like a second skin. His arms were crossed, veins snaking down his forearms like roadmap lines.

"I..." Sebastian stammered. He tried to summon his academic voice, the one that commanded lecture halls. It wasn't there. "I don't remember getting here."

Marcus didn't look surprised. He stepped closer. He stepped between Sebastian's spread knees.

"The body knows where it belongs," Marcus said softly. "The mind is just luggage. Sometimes it gets left behind."

He was close now. Too close. Sebastian’s knees were touching Marcus’s thighs. The heat radiating from the older man was intense, a physical weight pressing against Sebastian’s face.

"Are you okay?" Marcus asked. It was a question, but his tone wasn't concerned. It was testing.

Sebastian looked at Marcus’s face. The salt-and-pepper beard. The dark, unyielding eyes.

Three weeks ago, Sebastian would have felt threatened. He would have stood up and backed away.

But now?

His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear, but with a sick, heavy excitement. The Gymini programming initiated the night before was running hot in his blood.

Target: Marcus. Obsession: Verified.

"I feel..." Sebastian swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I feel lightheaded."

"Good," Marcus murmured. He reached out and placed a heavy hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck. His fingers were rough, calloused. They squeezed the sensitive skin at the base of the skull. "That means you've finally stopped overthinking. That means the resistance is gone."

Marcus applied pressure, forcing Sebastian to look up at him.

"You've been doing well, Sebastian. The app shows me your metrics. You're growing." Marcus’s thumb stroked the line of Sebastian’s jaw. "You're becoming obedient. Does that feel good?"

Sebastian wanted to say No. He wanted to say I am a scholar, I am an intellectual.

"Yes," Sebastian whispered. The truth slipped out before he could catch it.

Marcus smiled. It was a predatory, satisfied smile.

"I knew it. You were never meant to think, were you? You were meant to lift. To sweat. To follow."

Marcus moved his hand from Sebastian’s neck to his chest, then lower, resting flat on Sebastian’s heaving stomach. Then, he took a half-step forward.

His crotch was now inches from Sebastian’s face.

The smell hit Sebastian like a physical blow.

It wasn't leather or cologne. It was the heavy, biological scent of a dominant male in his prime. It was thick, pungent, and intoxicating. It smelled of testosterone, aggressive sweat, and the sharp, salty tang of skin that had been working hard.

It was the smell Sebastian had slept with last night. It was the smell of authority.

Sebastian’s brain short-circuited. The "Professor" part of his mind screamed This is inappropriate! This is sexual harassment!

But the instinctive part—the part Gymini had cultivated—inhaled greedily.

Smell the target. Internalize the source.

"Breathe it in," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Don't hold your breath. This is what a real man smells like. This is what you want to be. Isn't it?"

Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned forward, drawn in by a magnetic force he couldn't fight. His nose brushed against the damp gray fabric of Marcus’s shorts.

"I..." Sebastian moaned, a shameful, needy sound. "I want..."

"What do you want?" Marcus asked. He didn't pull away. He pressed his hips forward, just slightly, rubbing the bulge of his crotch against Sebastian’s cheek. "Tell me. Use your words."

"I want... to be yours," Sebastian gasped. "I want to be a good boy."

"You are a good boy," Marcus growled. "But good boys need to be fed."

The sound of a zipper was the loudest thing in the gym.

Marcus reached down and pulled the waistband of his shorts down. He wasn't wearing underwear.

The release of the scent was overwhelming. It was raw. It was undeniable. It obliterated the last shred of Sebastian’s logic.

There was no hesitation. There was no "Am I gay?" There was no "What about my tenure?"

There was only the Man in front of him. And the need to serve.

Sebastian’s hands came up, trembling, to grip Marcus’s massive thighs. He looked up, eyes wide with a mix of terror and adoration.

"Open," Marcus ordered.

Sebastian opened his mouth.

Marcus guided himself in. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't violent. It was necessary.

As Sebastian took him in, tasting the salt and the skin, a final notification seemed to ping in his mind, clear as day.

PHASE COMPLETE.

COGNITIVE RESISTANCE: NULL.

CONTROL TRANSFER: TRAINER MARCUS.

————————————————————————————————

Three months blurred into a haze of iron, protein shakes, and Marcus.

Sebastian was still technically a professor, but the man walking into the lecture hall looked like he had eaten the previous one.

He was wearing a graphic t-shirt that was two sizes too small. The sleeves were rolled up, cutting into his biceps, turning his arms into veiny, swollen slabs of meat. His shorts were inappropriate for a gym, let alone a university—gray sweat material, tight enough to outline every muscle in his thighs and the heavy bulge between them.

He didn't carry a briefcase anymore. He carried a gallon jug of water mixed with Marcus’s "special blend."

Sebastian stood at the podium. He stared at the text on the projector: Derrida’s Structure, Sign, and Play.

The words looked like alien hieroglyphs. Signifier. Signified. Discourse.

"Ugh," Sebastian grunted, the sound amplifying over the microphone.

He tried to read the first sentence. "The... center is not the center..."

His brain stalled. It felt like trying to run through mud. The complex neural pathways that used to process philosophy were gone, paved over by Gymini’s new code: Lift. Eat. Sleep. Obey.

"Professor?"

It was the blonde student again. She looked at him, not with admiration, but with confusion. Maybe even pity. "You’ve been staring at that slide for five minutes. Are we going to discuss the reading?"

Sebastian looked at her. He felt a flash of irritation. Why was she talking so much? Why were there so many words?

"It's boring," Sebastian said flatly. His voice was deeper now, a permanent rasp.

"Excuse me?"

"The book," Sebastian gestured vaguely with a massive arm. "It's just words. Who cares? It doesn't... do anything."

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room.

Sebastian didn't hear it. His mind had already drifted. He was thinking about Marcus. He was thinking about the text he got ten minutes ago: Leg day tonight. Wear the jockstrap.

The thought hit him like a drug. He visualized Marcus waiting for him. The smell of the gym. The heavy weight on his back.

Under the podium, his dick surged. It grew hard and heavy, straining against the tight gray fabric of his shorts. He didn't try to hide it. He almost wanted them to see.

Real men don't read, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded like Gymini, but it felt like his own thought. Real men grow.

"Class dismissed," Sebastian muttered.

"But we still have forty minutes!"

"I said go," Sebastian growled, grabbing his water jug. "I have somewhere to be."

He walked out of the hall, leaving his tenure, his reputation, and his career behind. He didn't look back. He was already unzipping his phone to check the route to Home.

————————————————————————————————

One month later.

The apartment was warm. It smelled of cedarwood, musk, and sex.

Sebastian—no, the man formerly known as Sebastian—lay sprawled on the leather sofa. His head was resting on Marcus’s thick thighs.

He had been fired two weeks ago. "Gross incompetence," the letter said. "Behavior unbecoming of faculty."

He hadn't even finished reading it before Marcus threw it in the trash. Paper is for wiping, Marcus had said. You don't need it.

And Marcus was right.

The man looked up at his owner. Marcus was scrolling through a tablet, his other hand idly stroking the man’s hair, scratching behind the ears like he was petting a prize-winning retriever.

"The numbers are good," Marcus said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "Your preview video already has five hundred subscribers. They like the size. They like how... empty you look."

The man on the sofa smiled. It was a wide, vacuous grin. His eyes were clear, free of the anxiety that used to plague the Professor.

"Empty is good," he murmured. "Thinking hurts."

"Exactly," Marcus said. He put the tablet down and looked at the man. "We need to rebrand, though. 'Sebastian' is too long. Too syllables. It sounds like a librarian."

Marcus squeezed the back of the man’s neck.

"You look like a Stan."

The man blinked. He rolled the name around in his head. Stan. One syllable. Hard. Simple. It sounded like a command. It sounded like a tool.

"Stan," he repeated.

It felt right. Sebastian was the guy who worried about tenure and syntax. Stan was the guy who lived on this sofa, lifted heavy weights, and did whatever Daddy said.

"I like Stan," he said.

"Good," Marcus smirked. "Because Stan has work to do."

Marcus shifted his legs, spreading them slightly. The implication was obvious.

"We need to record the welcome video for the VIP tier," Marcus said. "Show them what a good boy you are."

Stan didn't need to ask what the script was. Gymini had deleted the need for scripts.

He sat up, his massive shoulders eclipsing the window light. He crawled between Marcus’s legs, his movements fluid and practiced.

"Lights on?" Stan asked, his voice thick with anticipation.

"Lights on," Marcus confirmed. "Action."

Stan grinned, a look of pure, mindless bliss on his face. He leaned down, burying his face in the source of his new reality, ready to serve.

"Dude, I'm screwed," Marcus groaned, tapping his head against the desk. "Coach is gonna bench me if I don't show I'm worth during next game, but I don't have time to train or do anything because of this shit ass exam. I fucking hate organic chemistry. I wish I had full sports scholarship so I wouldn't have to worry about this stuff"

Devin looked up from his desk. "You're being dramatic. You did well on all exams this semester. And you are a good player. You'll do well. I believe in you" he said trying to be a bit more supportive towards his friend.

"Yeah, but that's all thanks to you and your tutoring. Seriously, thanks dude. I don't know what would I do without you " Marcus said, grabbing his own bicep. "Look at this. I'm 6'2 and weigh, what, 175 soaking wet? I get bodied every time I drive the lane. I need to put on some weight."

"You could just… eat more?" Devin suggested ignorantly.

"Bro, I eat. It doesn't stick. If only it was that easy" Marcus sighed. "If I was like 185, maybe I could actually hold my own down low. Get some rebounds. Be a little more physical."

Devin pulled out his phone, half-listening. He'd downloaded some weird app his old roommate sent him. He was given a free trial to test it out. Supposedly you could type things and they'd happen. Probably bullshit, but whatever. He just wanted to test it and this seemed like a good time for it.

Marcus weighs 185 pounds.

Marcus was still talking, but something was different. Looking at him, his shoulders looked broader under his tank top. His arms, usually wiry, now had visible definition. Not huge, but… solid.

"-and then I could actually finish through contact, you know? Like if I was 195, man. That's the dream. Just ten more pounds of muscle and I'd be unstoppable on the field."

"Wait," Devin blinked. "You said you just wanted to be 185."

"185?" Marcus laughed. "Nah, I hit 185 few months ago, your math is wrong. Keep up, man." He stretched a bit , his shirt definitely a lot tigher than it used to be "Been stuck at 185 for months though. Plateau is real. But I don't think I could get that big and continue playing basketball. These babies would just be too big" he added flexing his biceps that was now definitely more noticable.

Devin looked down at his phone. Then back at Marcus. Then at the phone.

Marcus weighs 195 pounds.

"That's why I switched to football, honestly. Able to get a lot bigger"

Devin's head snapped up. "Football? But didn't you play basketball"

Marcus was bigger now. Noticeably bigger. His tank top was straining. His neck had thickened, his chest pushing the fabric outward. He cracked his neck and kept going like nothing had changed.

"Yeah, played. Past tense dude. Back in highschool. You are supposed to be the smart one here" he laughed, his voice deeper "But I could never get this big and stay at basketball" Marcus leaned forward, and Devin could see the way his pecs bunched together. The tank top seams were working overtime. "I've been playing football since freshman year of college. You literally came to the homecoming game. Sat in the front row."

Devin had no memory of this. But it felt real. It felt true. Shaking his head after acquiring a new memory, Devin focused on more pressing matters... "You want to get even bigger?" He asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Bigger?" Marcus stood up and stretched. The tank top rode up, revealing a tight stomach with the outline of his abs. "I mean… yeah. Honestly? If I could hit 220, I'd be a monster on the field. Tight ends are getting bigger every year. The guys I'm blocking are like 240, 250. I feel small half the time."

"Small." Devin's voice was flat. "You feel small."

"Bro, you don't get it because you don't play." Marcus turned as he heard a small rip. Looking at his tank top, he paused, frowning. "Fuck. I could swear this fit better the other day. I keep outgrowing my clothes lately." He said like it's the most normal thing that kept happening to him. Still, he quickly went back to the original topic... "220 is the goal. But 230?" His eyes got a little dreamy. "At 230 I could play defensive end. Always wanted to rush the passer. Just destroy quarterbacks."

Devin was already typing. He noticed the pattern so he was already a step ahead of Marcus. There was no way anyone would be disatisfied with 250.

Marcus weighs 250 pounds.

And Devin marveled at the change. Marcus's shoulders flared outward, his lats pushing his arms away from his body as the tank top gave up completely. His quads thickened, forcing his stance a little wider as his sweatpants almost tore apart. His chest expended every time he inhaled, but it didn't seem to get smaller when he exhaled. No... Instead it kept on getting bigger. His massive pecs forming a shelf that casted a shadow ober his abs. His jaw looked sharper, more defined. Everything about him was just… more. Was he taller? Perhaps the app changed his size a bit to make room for more muscle...

"Yeah," Marcus said, his voice dropping just slightly, like it had gained some bass. "Honestly being 250 is great. Defensive end is where it's at. The quarterback never sees me coming. Last game I had three sacks. The Coach said some scouts are already asking about me. NFL here I come" He grinned, and even his smile looked more confident.

Devin meanwhile stared at the man in front of him...the broad chest, the thick arms, the way he seemed to fill the room just by standing in it. He'd started this conversation with a lanky basketball player. Now there was a defensive end standing in his dorm room, talking about the NFL like it was inevitable. He couldn't help himself as his thumb hovered over the screen. Marcus was already massive. A 250 pounds of muscle packed into a torn tank top, looking like he could bulldoze through a brick wall. That was enough... at least for now. But Devin's mind started to wonder. What else could this app do?

Marcus caught him staring. "What are you looking at, bro?" He said putting on a new shirt since the last tank top gave up, casually flexing his bicep as it grew to the size of a football. "You've been on your phone all night. Texting some girl?"

"Something like that," Devin muttered. Looking at this muscle hunk he had just created, Devin got a little greedy. Marcus was looking so good, he had to adda few more things-

Marcus has a massive bulge. He's extremely well endowed. He's not shy about it.

"You know what's funny," Marcus said, shifting his weight and spreading his legs a little wider as he sat down, not seemingly not wearing any shorts. He was done with studying for tonight. "Playing D-end, you get a lot of attention. Girls love the big guys." He gestured down at himself and smirked.

Devin's eyes involuntarily dropped. The underwear that Marcus was wearing were suddenly… full. Very full. There was a prominent, thick outline of his bulge running down his thigh that definitely hadn't been there a minute ago. Devin felt his face get hot.

"Dude, my eyes are up here," Marcus laughed, but he didn't sound offended. If anything, he sounded proud. He leaned back on his hands, which only made the situation more obvious. "Not my fault I got blessed, you know? Genetics, man. Some guys get this or that. But I got it all. Muscle, height, dick. What more could man ask for" The man simply smirked

"Right," Devin choked out. "Genetics."

"I mean, you've seen it in the showers. You know what I'm working with." Marcus said it so casually, like it was common knowledge, as he stood up, moving to the bed behind them and the poor chair made a sound in relief. And suddenly... There was another memory in Devin's head. His brain supplied the picture. He had seen it. Marcus was famous for it on the team. Guys joked that he had to tape it down before games. A third leg. That's what they called him.

"Anyway" Marcus continued, adjusting himself without a hint of shame, "Coach wants me to move to offensive line. Says at my size I could be a hell of a left tackle. Protect the quarterback's blind side." He cracked his knuckles. "But I don't know. D-end is more fun. You get to be aggressive."

Devin was only half-listening. His eyes kept drifting down to Marcus's lap, where the thick outline seemed to pulse slightly every time the big man shifted his weight. It was hypnotic. It was also giving Devin ideas.

Marcus is extremely horny all the time. He talks about it openly.

"-and the thing about offensive line is the stance," Marcus was saying, then paused. He let out a low groan and adjusted himself again, more forcefully this time. "Sorry bro. I've been so damn worked up lately. It's annoying."

"Yeah?" Devin's voice came out squeakier than he intended.

"Dude, it's constant. I wake up ready to go. Practice is brutal because I'm chafing in my cup half the time. Showers after? Forget about it. I have to wait till everyone leaves or I'll poke someone's eye out." He laughed, but there was smugness in his expression. "Coach says it's all the testosterone. Guy at my size, lifting as heavy as I do, eating as much as I do… it simply natural"

"So you just… walk around like that?" He said pointing at the hard on he was having at the moment.

"Pretty much." Marcus didn't look embarrassed. If anything, he looked proud of it, like it was just another muscle he'd built. "Girlfriends love it at first. Then they get tired. I had one tell me I was 'too much to handle.'" He made air quotes with his thick fingers, before starting to casually stroke himself. Loking back at Devin, as if he wasn't just pleasuring himself, Marcus smirked again "You've got that look on your face."

"What look?" Devin asked, quickly shaking his head as he looked up from Marcus obvious bulge that was being stroked by those rough and collosal hands. He could see the thick outline of his new dick and the raging libido that came with it. It was... Mesmerizing. But he couldn't just stare at it-!

"The one where you're thinking too hard about something." Marcus studied him with those dark eyes... had they always been that deep brown? "You always do that. It's kind of cute, actually."

"Cute?" Devin's voice cracked. Did his straight roommate call him cute? He could feel it... The blood flowing through him and making his face fed.

"Yeah. That's the word." Marcus said it with a shrug. "You get all flustered. Your ears turn red. It's endearing." He leaned forward, hands still in his underwear . "Any girl would be lucky to have you."

'I'm not into girls' Devin thought as he looked as his phone, already with an idea on how to solve this situation. His thumb hesitated over the screen. Then he typed.

Marcus is bisexual. He prefers men. Specifically, he is deeply attracted to Devin.

A strange look crossed Marcus's face. He blinked slowly, as if seeing something or someone for the very first time. His gaze traveled from Devin's face down and back up again. The casual energy in the room shifted, grew charged.

"You know what?" Marcus said, his voice dropping into a lower register, "Scratch that. Any girl is the wrong thing to say." He stopped stroking himself as he stood up from the bed, all 6'5" of him, packed with 250 pounds of muscle, and crossed the small distance between them. "What I meant to say is... I've been thinking about you differently lately, Devin."

"You have?" Devin's voice was barely a whisper as he couldn't believe what was happening. He saw what the app could do, but this... This was on another level... Was he being too greedy with these changes? It startered out of joke, then goodwill but at the end was only fuffling his fantasies...

"Mm." Marcus was very close now, his face inches away from Devin's "I have. You're always here for me. You're smart. You're funny. And honestly..." He reached out and gently took the phone from Devin's nervous fingers, setting it aside on the desk without even glancing at it. "I find you incredibly attractive. I was just afraid to say it before. But this feels like the right moment, doesn't it? It feels... right." His hand came up, warm and solid, to cup Devin's "Tell me if I'm reading this wrong. Tell me you don't feel it too, and I'll back off. We'll go back to just being friends. No weirdness."

Devin's mind was racing through everything that had changed in the last fifteen minutes. The size, the height, the whole impossible wave of transformations. But looking up into those dark... And huge pecs, he found it hard to care about consequences. "You're not reading it wrong," he said quietly.

"Great." Marcus smiled "Because I was hoping that's what this meant" he said jokingly pointing out small bulge in Devin's pants and the smaller boy immediately blushed even harder. Taking him to bed, Marcus simply smiled "Since you are on board... I've got some ideas about what we should do tonight. And none of them involve studying."

*Anon, this was so hot to write* Blake sat at his kitchen island, brow furrowed over his iPhone, thumb jabbing at the screen with growing frustration. “Siri, change language back to English,” he groaned in morning voice

Siri responded in a silky baritone: “Tut mir leid, ich habe dich nicht verstanden.” “Ugh. what? Again?!”

It was the third time that morning. First, Spotify had started playing what sounded like deep house remixes with German lyrics. Then the grocery list app autocorrected every item into “Bananen,” “Quark,” and “Bratwurst.” Now even his GPS called him “Herr Müller.”

As he reset the settings again,

he missed the faint shimmer that passed over his arms. The soft dark hair that dusted his forearms vanished, smooth tan skin stretching slightly tighter over a growing curve of muscle.

A subtle pop echoed from his wrist, bone structure realigning. He barely flinched, blinking hard and shrugging it off like a sore joint.

The doorbell rang. Package delivery. Finally, maybe it was the valentines present he had picked out for Emily, He was trying to get everything ready early.

The delivery man filled the doorframe, maybe 6’3”

Man, those shorts were tiny.

“Danke,” the delivery guy said with a smirk as he handed Blake the box. Blake blinked at him, Confused. “What... nevermind, thanks man.”

He Shut the door,

Harder than he meant to

or thought he could.

not noticing the label on the box said

Trainingskleidung - Größe L.

Blake ripped it open and pulled out a ribbed grey tank top that he definitely hadn’t ordered. He held it up.

"What the fuck?"

Muscle-cut, low sides, weirdly thick material.

This looked way to big.

....

He stripped his tee and slipped it on.

It clung to his chest.

His flat pecs suddenly felt… not flat. He looked down, jaw slack. Was the fabric padded? His fingers pressed against the tank, then deeper. No padding. Just meat. Hard, round, heavy. He poked one pec and it twitched,

huh

twitched.

Bounced

like it had been trained for years. He staggered, the shirt pulling tight across his wide back.

“Blake…” Siri purred from the counter. “Möchtest du dein Training starten?”

He stumbled toward the phone, pants tighter now

quads visibly swelling with every confused step.

“What? no, I don’t.... Man stop speaking German, dammit!”

But the moment the word German left his lips, the kitchen radio cut on by itself, blasting a sweaty Berlin techno set.

Silently, his heartbeat synced to the beat.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

His head lulled forward.

With each thud, his body pulsed. His abs pushed forward, carving themselves beneath his skin,

his mind felt slow.

firm ridges pressing against the tank. His spine cracked, posture pulling upright, chest out, arms hanging heavier.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the window reflection.

His face looked… off. Amazing. Cheekbones high. Lips full. Blonde roots were already eating through his brown hair.

He stared.

Something was wrong. ....

Right?

“Shit. What was I doing?” he muttered, voice an octave deeper than usual.

He shook his head, confused. He couldn’t remember why he felt so off. Just that he was supposed to… go somewhere?

The phone chimed. “Erinnerung: Gym Sauna - 18:00 Uhr.”

Blake he blinked. Of course. The gym. Time to sweat it out.

*****

The gym was only five blocks away, but Blake he barely made it halfway before he registered how tight his joggers were.

Each stride made the thick seams groan, the fabric clinging to his thighs like shrink-wrap, every step caused friction. He tugged at the waistband, but even that felt stretched.

Why wasn't he wearing underwear?

….

His ass jutted now, two firm globes packed with dense, bouncing muscle.

He passed a street sign. Berlinerstraße.

That wasn’t right, was it?

Was it?

He pushed through the gym’s glass doors, greeted by a young man at the front desk.

“Willkommen zurück, Lukas,” the man said with a smile. Blake He paused, brain fuzzing like a buffering video.

“I’m....uhh…” He hesitated. “Blake.”

The man raised a brow. “Nein… du bist Lukas, oder?” Blake opened his mouth to argue, but his tongue stumbled. “Ich… äh…” He shook his head and kept walking.

.... Where was he walking?

He reached the locker room, stripping as he walked without realizing it.

The tank peeled off over his shoulders, revealing two sweaty, perfectly rounded pecs glistening in the light.

His abs flexed as he bent to slide off the strained joggers, thighs Thick.

His cock swung heavy between his legs, framed by smooth, bare skin

His body hair had completely vanished.

A soft hiss of steam called him forward.

The sauna door opened on its own.

Inside was dim, orange-lit, thick with heat and masculine scent, cedar wood, sweat, something else....

One man sat alone on the wooden bench: lean, older, hairy-chested, staring at Blake.....no....Lukas with hunger.

“Setz dich,” the man rumbled.

BLAKELukas obeyed without thinking, dropping the towel and straddling the bench beside him. His thick glutes pressed against the hot wood, thighs spread, cock already thickening.

The man leaned in, lips brushing his ear, “So ein schöner Körper… alles deins, hm?”

Lukas Screamed,

Ran,

Fought,

Tried

MOANED soft, confused, then sure. “Ja…” he whispered, voice deep and velvety. “Ich… fühl mich so geil…”

The man grinned, and leaned in

Kissed him, slow at first, then rough. Their bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, tongues tangling.

With every breath, Lukas

forgot more his job, his girlfriend, his name. Got Harder and HARDER

Lukas,

Didn’t he work here?

An exclusive men’s sauna

In Berlin?

His mind was full of techno beats, hot skin, gym sessions, and throbbing cock.

He came without even touching himself, gasping into the other man’s mouth.

When he finally stepped out of the sauna, he was smiling, leaning against the stud he had landed in the sauna.

His uniform hung neatly on a hook. tiny black shorts, no shirt, a lanyard that read Saunameister - Lukas D.

The man scratched Lukas’s neck with his beard. Cupping his groin, while he whispered in his ear.

Lukas grinned,

“Ja... das klingt lustig.”

****

The warehouse shook with bass.

Lukas was drenched in sweat beneath a halo of strobe lights and fog, his thick chest gleaming under leather straps pulled tight across his torso.

He barely remembered arriving, only that his new boyfriend’s hand, he same silver-furred, broad-chested sauna patron who’d claimed his mouth hours earlier, had found his lower back and never left, fingers digging possessively into the meat of his glutes as if to remind him who he belonged to right now.

The black harness he wore cupped the curve of his pecs, framing every hard breath, every pump of his arms as he danced

thrusted

to the pounding techno. His shorts were practically painted on, his ass bouncing with each step, quads like stone slabs grinding to the beat.

Raphael was behind him, hands gripping Lukas’s hips possessively, lips brushing his ear. “Mein Junge,” he growled, grinding against him. Lukas moaned, pushing back, tongue lolling slightly, lost in the thump and heat.

Around them, shirtless bodies collided under violet light, moans swallowed by the music. German flowed like breath through the speakers, wrapping Lukas tighter into the haze. “Du gehörst mir…” Raphael whispered.

Lukas nodded, breathless, hips bucking as the fog devoured them both.

****

On a late afternoon in the park, Tim was catching some sunlight while laying down on a massive blanket with his favorite pair of expensive sunglasses on. As he rested, some random man walked up to him. Sensing his presence, Tim raised his shades and shot him a glare. 

“Hey, excuse me? You were with that old lady just now, right? What were you guys talking about?” the man asked. Tim looked confused. The man pointed towards an elderly woman who was painting a landscape portrait of the duck pond. 

“Her! Do you know her name?”

“Nahhhhh brah,” Tim threw his shades back on and laid back down with his arms behind his head. “Never talked to that old chick before. If that’s all you had to ask, step out the way lil bro, you’re blocking the sun. I’m tryna tan this 6 pack before spring break comes around.”

The man had a puzzled look on his face, but did not press Tom further and left. As Tim continued perfecting his tan, he began mentally mapping out which beaches should have the best parties. Loud music… Free drinks… And all the ass he could ever want, Tim smirked to himself. He was oozing with a confidence so arrogant, you would’ve never imagined that he was an elderly gentleman a mere hour ago.

***

There was a famous duck pond at the local park in town. During migration season, families would frequently spend the whole day hanging out at the park while watching the ducks play in the water. Among the usual patrons, there was a strange, old lady who arguably spent the most time at the duck pond. Every Sunday without fail, she would show up with a blank canvas and acrylic paints and just paint from sunrise to sunset. She had painted everything you could possibly imagine from the grassy landscape to silly portraits of ducks in tuxedos. She was a natural talent with the paintbrush.

So what made this old woman with a taste for art so strange? Well, for starters, nobody knew who she was. She had come to be affectionately known as the “Lady at the Pond” over the years, but nobody knew her real name. A handful of people have tried talking with her, but she only responded with head nods and maybe the occasional grunt if you were lucky. And, aside from her regular Sunday appearance at the duck pond, she was never seen anywhere else in town. It was as though she disappeared like a mirage once the sun set in the evening. She had become something of a local legend because of the mystery surrounding who she was. Although since she just kept to herself in her little secluded corner of the pond, most people just left her alone.

One day, on an ordinary Sunday afternoon, an elderly gentleman named Tim was passing through the park. Tim was from out of town and wanted to see the local hot spots. He had heard about the duck pond at a nearby cafe and decided to pay the ducks a visit. While enjoying his leisurely stroll around the pond, he came across the Lady at the Pond. She was mixing colors for the clouds in her next landscape piece. Tim knew a thing or two about art. He found himself mesmerized by the Lady’s handiwork as her pencil danced across the canvas like a feather in the wind. Her technique gave away that she was no amateur. Tim had no choice; he simply had to pay her a compliment!

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Tim approached her with his hat to his chest. “Forgive me for staring, but I couldn’t help but notice how excellent you are with that paintbrush! Could I trouble you with a few questions?” 

“Mmm…” the Lady hummed. Tim was disconcerted by her curt response, but decided it would suffice as a go-ahead. He then proceeded to ask her a multitude of questions ranging from her personal tastes in art to if she had ever painted on a professional level. However, despite Tim’s enthusiasm, most of his questions were met with silence. Only a select few questions garnered at most an affirmative grunt from the Lady, who never once stopped her creative process while Tim fired question after question. This lasted a long time until Tim finally had enough with the one-sided conversation. 

“Thank you for your time, ma’am, and my apologies again for disturbing you. Have a good evening.”

Tim excused himself, but before he could leave, the Lady slammed her brush down on her canvas stand. Tom froze. The Lady’s arms shot for her bag where she then produced a second blank canvas and a portable pop-up stool. Tim watched with wide eyes as she set up the stool at a frightening speed. Once it was ready, she returned behind her canvas stand, brush and color palette at the ready. 

“…What?” Tim asked. “You want me to sit?”

She nodded. Tom obliged. 

“Are you going to paint my portrait?”

She nodded again as she began taking mental measurements of Tim’s features. 

“Oh, no no,” Tim stood up. “I couldn’t possibly accept this—” 

The Lady cut him off mid-sentence and forced him back down onto the stool. She was unexpectedly strong for someone her age! Tim sat there, eyes blinking slowly. He then took out his wallet and pulled out a clean, hundred dollar bill. 

“Well then, at the very least, allow me to pay for your work.”

The Lady waved his money away. She let out an angry huff every time Tim insisted. Tim gave up after about a dozen attempts. It was becoming all too clear that the Lady was going to have her way no matter what. He adjusted himself into a comfortable position and gave his best smile for the Lady. Might as well make it a good portrait. 

Once Tim stopped protesting, the Lady closed her eyes and took exactly four deep breaths. Then, she stood there in complete silence. A minute passed without the Lady moving a single muscle. Then another. And another. Not a single sound. 

Tim grew uneasy as the minutes passed by. Could this be some sort of pre-painting meditation ritual? Tim wasn't sure, but before he could do anything, the Lady let out an ungodly shrill shriek. Her face was pointed towards the sky as she cried out for what seemed like an eternity. Once she was done, she began swiping at her canvas with an intense fury. Her brushstrokes were erratic and violent, the complete opposite of her sophisticated, gentle pacing from earlier. Tim watched with fearful eyes. He refused to break his pose lest the Lady lash out at him next. But little did he know that despite the Lady's wild new handiwork, she was in the middle of creating a masterpiece of a portrait. 

There was just one small catch… While the portrait's subject was indeed Tim, it was a painting of his younger self from his college days some 45 years ago. 

As the Lady continued her creative process, Tim began feeling a prickly sensation all over his face. He tried to ignore it at first, but the pain soon became too much. Tim broke his pose and grabbed his face. It was like the inside of his skin was being poked by hot needles. As Tim kneeled over in pain, all the loose skin from old age began stretching and constricting. His flabby double chin tightened until he had his old jawline back. All the gray hairs in his mustache regained their brown color. Locks of healthy, brown hair came out in sprouts on his bald dome until he had a full head of hair again. Soon enough, Tim's face had fully reverted to a younger version of himself. 

With the face of a college student and the body of an elderly man, Tim looked like a supernatural abomination. 

“Huh? What’s going on? What’s happening to me? What’s wrong with my voice?” Tim shouted with a youthful vigor he had not had in decades. His hands reached for his throat. The needles were moving down his body, and all the while the Lady continued working on her latest masterpiece. She dabbed her brush with a fresh layer of paint, then focused on the finer details of Tim’s private area. 

“ARGH FUCKK!!” Tim cried out. The needles were at his crotch now. He grabbed his nuts in pain as they swelled in size. He tried massaging them, hoping it would help soothe the pain, but all it did was make him moan. The pleasure was the most embarrassing part. His junk had become extra sensitive. Each touch sent another wave of warm pleasure throughout his crotch, causing him to moan obscenely. Within the next minute, Tim had experienced something he hadn't felt in a long time. A boner. It pressed against his pants, practically begging to be freed. 

“FUCK!! Ohhh fuck why does it feel so good!?” Tim could not stop rubbing himself as his old man cock reverted back to its former glory. Tim let out deep, guttural groans as he pawed at his throbbing rod. His balls bounced with each stroke he managed to give himself through his pants. Once his family jewels were back in prime condition, they got to work almost immediately churning out fresh loads of extra fertile seed. Each load meant another surge of testosterone pumped out into the rest of Tim’s body. The hormones helped speed up the rest of Tim’s age reversal. 

Tim arched his back as the warm, prickly sensation spread throughout his torso. All the flabby parts of his old body tightened. His thin, gray chest hair fell out to make space for new hair. His chest regained lost mass until each pec was nice, round, and firm with enough muscle to form chest dimples when he flexed. Each individual ab came out on his stomach with an audible pop, leaving him with a well-defined six pack with a fine layer of body hair. By the end of it, Tim's body had reverted back to his younger self. 

Tim was panting. He was sweaty and sore due to the sudden transformation. He noticed the Lady had finished painting. Tim stumbled over to the canvas stand on unsteady feet. He took one good look at the completed portrait, then fell to his knees. 

“H-H-How…? How d-did you know what I looked like when I was younger?” Tim looked up at the Lady. She remained quiet as usual. 

“Why am I so young again? You…! Wh-what did you do to me!?” 

Still no response. Although, there was a very faint smile that began cracking the Lady's face. The sight of it was enough to send Tim into a hyperventilating mess.

“You-YOU! You monster!!” Tim scrambled to get away from the Lady. “I don't know what you are or how you did this, but I'm telling everyone the truth about you!”

The Lady's smile vanished. She watched with a cold stare as Tim ran away. She grabbed her paintbrush, tapped it into the red paint on her palette, and swung it at the portrait, painting an ugly red circle on Tim's forehead. Once it was done, she smiled again. 

Meanwhile, Tim was in the middle of a mad dash to get as far away from the Lady as quickly as his legs could carry him. He made it just outside the park boundary when an intense headache brought him to a screeching halt. The pain shot throughout the center of his skull, causing Tim to grab his head while screaming in agony. Then, one by one, memories he had accumulated over his adulthood began disappearing. His encounter with the Lady in the Park. His massive 50th birthday party with the whole family. His retirement from a long career of firefighting. The birth of his only daughter. His wedding day. His college graduation. His first date with his beautiful wife, the woman who changed him for the better. It was all gone within minutes. The memory wipe was incredibly thorough, only stopping once he regressed to his old self. Tim had become 22 years old again, both in mind AND in body. 

Tim stumbled to get back on his feet. The world was spinning. Probably just a bad hangover again. Nothing Tim couldn't handle. He took a look at his surroundings. Tim had no idea where he was, but that didn't bother him too much. After all, a hottie wearing shorts that left little to the imagination just jogged past him. Tim watched the jogger's ass jiggle as they ran. Just the sight of that ass was enough to make Tim hard. There was already a precum mark in his boxers. When did that get there? Tim didn't know nor did he care. After all, he was about to score his next body. He was young, handsome, and strong with a confidence that practically glowed. He was him, and Tim knew that very well.

Allan splashed his face with water, looking back at his reflection. Luckily, the mental exhaustion didn't show. Outwardly, he was still the charming clean-cut demigod in a white coat, even if the double shift at the St. Vincent hospital had taken its toll. Only three more hours before he could call it a day.

He was just about to leave the restroom for another examination, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text message from an unknown number.

"Heyyyy, sexy. Miss you already. wyd?"

Allan rolled his eyes. He didn't have many friends who would text him, and no girlfriend or hookup in particular. His work didn't leave time for that kind of commitment. The only question was: scam or wrong number?

He decided it was probably the latter, judging by the inflationary use of the letter y. He quickly typed an answer before putting the phone away.

"Sorry, miss, you've got the wrong number."

Allan liked to imagine scenarios. Perhaps here, some one night stand had left the woman a wrong number because he didn't want to be bothered by his latest conquest. And that number had turned out to be his.

His phone buzzed again just as he was examining an old lady's warts, and when he looked at the display afterwards, he saw another text message waiting for him.

"When you told me how horny you were, back in the club... I'm already growing hard again just thinking about that, sexy... ;)"

So, he had it backwards. This was a guy texting, and the girl had left a wrong number. Kind of understandable with these borderline-creepy text messages.

"Dude, it's still the wrong number. Sorry!"

Still, as he walked through the corridor, he couldn't help but wonder how the woman in question looked like. She was probably very attractive. His mind filled in all the blanks readily. Long hair, inviting lips...

A stirring in his loose clinic pants yanked him back to reality. What was he doing? He couldn't fantasize about women at work, and he absolutely could not get hard at work. His phone buzzed with another message.

"I mean, the way your muscles worked under that tight shirt of yours, and then your bulge... you had no shame whatsoever. So. Hot!"

Allan shook his head. Okay, so neither the sender nor the supposed recipient were female. This was a dude... hitting on another dude.

Of course, Allan didn't have a problem with gay people. He just didn't know any. But why didn't the man on the other side react to his replies?

A red warning sign and a little "undelivered" answered that question at least. He should just block the number and go on about his day. He still had a lot of work to do. But some part of the one-sided exchange intrigued him, enough to stop his finger hovering over the "block" button. Women he could understand, but what made a man attractive to another man?

As he continued to walk, he tried to get to the bottom of it. Muscles, apparently. He felt his pectorals brush against the coat, and his biceps touch the constricting shirt. He was proud of his body, and the long work-out sessions... No, wait, he didn't work out. Did he?

What else? The text mentioned a bulge, and Allan was fairly certain that referred to the pelvic region. His own erection throbbed. His hand went down to readjust himself, to hide his arousal, but then stopped. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Shame was constricting. Constricting like that shirt of his.

He stopped at a trash can and wiggled out of his blue shirt and tie, exposing his toned and hairless chest before putting the white coat back on and disposing of the unnecessary fabric in the trash. There, much better. There was nothing wrong with showing off your goods, right?

The nurse and the pregnant patient in the next room apparently disagreed. Both women blushed heavily and stared at him. He could see their pupils dilating. A mix between shock and desire. Well, bad luck to be them. He was a man's man, as gay as they came, and --

Wait. This wasn't right. Mumbling a "sorry," he fled the scene and dashed into an clinic room. What was he thinking? Why did he strip half-naked in the middle of work? Why did he walk around with a clearly visible erection? And why the fuck did he think he was straight?

He blinked. No, wait. Why did he think he was... straight. Yes, that way it made sense. He was a gay man. He liked dick, and ass. He was... gay. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, and he tried shaking it to shoo away the strange thoughts, but was interrupted by another message.

"I couldn't wait to touch you, feel that stubble on my face, your hot dick in my hand... Fuck, I'm so horny again."

The text was accompanied by a picture. A pair of underwear tented by an erection, the tip wet. He licked his lips subconsciously. It was a large bulge, but not as large as his. Checking that the door was closed, he stripped out of his pants and watched his own underwear throb in arousal. With each pulse, it extended a bit longer, and with each extension, his underwear changed, from a pair of loose boxer shorts to something tighter, more form-fitting. Something pronouncing his assets rather than hiding them away.

Fuck yeah. He couldn't stop himself from playing with his clothed cock for a bit before snapping a picture and sending it back. It, too, quickly went to "undelivered", but something else caught his eye. His first reply showed a check mark now. But was that what he had written? He read over the message again and scratched the stubble on his chin. "Just work, boring af. What you miss about me?"

Allan slowly nodded. Yes. That made sense. It sounded like something he'd text. He looked around. Work was boring as fuck. He mostly hid away in empty rooms to watch TV or jerk off. Men had needs, after all, who if not doctors would understand that. Not that he'd knew anything about that fucking medical crap, he was just the janitor.

Speaking of which. Only two more hours until the end of his shift. Surely nobody would mind if he clocked out a little early. He didn't bother to put on more clothes again as he made his way back to the locker rooms. More than a few heads turned, but he didn't care. He was proud of his body. The phone he was holding buzzed.

"Fuck, my apartment still smells like you, stud. I can't wait to bury myself in that forest of chest hair and sniff you again."

Heh. Yeah. That needy bitch knew what he wanted. Good. Because if there was anything Al had a lot of, it was hair and the smell of man. He hadn't showered in weeks, because he knew fucking well needy bottoms like this one loved it. He snapped another picture of his magnificent body in the locker room and send it, together with "Oh yeah? Can't wait? Then prepare your holes, bitch. I'm over in twenty."

He scrolled back at the lewd exchange. He probably shouldn't be sexting during work, but fuck was it fun to lead that bottom on with every message. Well, sexting and jerking off only got you so far. Time for the real thing.

Al threw on a pair of gym shorts and some sneakers before he started jogging, occasionally shouting lewd comments at guys in the street. His car had broken down last week and he somehow knew the bitch he was heading to wouldn't mind if he worked up a sweat.

thanks

"Dad, I need you for something."

David sighed, "I'm a bit busy right now, I can..."

"Dad, c'mon it's real important." Noah whined.

The older man frowned. Usually when Noah was whining like this, it had something to do about his TikTok views or some stupid new trend.

"Let me guess, you saw something on TikTok..."

"Well yeah, but..."

"Wouldn't you rather be doing something else? Like going to the gym or getting involved in sports?" The lack of approval was evident in his voice, "I mean, all you do is scroll that stupid app. Hell, did you even shower today?" Noah sniffed his pits and grimaced.

"Seriously, you gotta chill." Noah grinned, "Please dad. C'mon, you're always complaining we don't hang."

"Alright, alright."

David relented- if this was how he would maintain a relationship with his son, then so be it. After all, being a single dad was tough. He didn't get to spend all too much time with his kid- he was mostly focused on working to ensure Noah had a good life. A life that seemed more and more consumed by that stupid app.

"Hear me out. I’m recording you." David already look skeptical, "Words will appear on screen, and if you use them right, you’re goated."

"Goated?"

Noah rolled his eyes, "Dad, just say ‘yeah’ and don’t overthink it, please- I’m begging."

"Okay…" David shrugged, giving in to his son's request. He stared at the camera, feeling awkward as Noah recorded. The words "Rizz", "No cap", and "Sus" appeared on the screen one by one.

David stumbled through the challenge, clearly uncomfortable. His delivery was stilted and self-conscious. The words used incorrectly. But he got through it, using each word to the best of his ability.

"That... that was painful." David laughed weakly.

"You're telling me." Noah cringed and paused the recording, "Percent Gen Z: 12%." Noah smiled, "Whoa, Dad! Pretty solid for your first try, no cap!" He winked.

David looked dubious, running a hand through his graying hair. "Not bad? That's awful. I feel ridiculous."

"No way, gotta lock in!" Noah encouraged, already hitting record again.

"Fine, fine. But this is the last one." David relented. For a split second, as he reached for the phone, he noticed his hands looked… different. His skin more youthful, a bit tanned actually. But before he could process it, the words appeared on screen.

"Bet", "Drip", "Bussin'".

David cleared his throat, "What does that even mean? Bussin'?" He chuckled awkwardly, "You're not going to post this, right?"

"Dad, focus!"

So David tried again- using each of the words. And as they left his mouth, David couldn't help but feel slightly more comfortable with them. Less awkward. When the percentage appeared, it was higher than before:

"Percent Gen Z: 28%." David whispered.

"AYOOO now we’re talking look at you—actually crushin' it!" Noah grinned.

"Yeah… I guess…" David felt weird, like something was very, very wrong, "I don't feel too good." Did he eat something that wasn't agreeing with him?

"You okay, pops?"

David placed a hand to his stomach and froze. His stomach, once soft and padded with middle-age spread, now felt firmer beneath his shirt. And there was a strange, ticklish, scratchy sensation across his chest, back, and stomach. Like he had just shaved. As if his once wiry body hair had vanished, replaced by the smooth, unblemished skin of a younger man. The shirt he wore suddenly felt scratchy and constrictive against his newly bare flesh.

David shook his head, shifting uncomfortably. "Alright, I should... I've got work to do…" His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Noah's grin widened, "C'mon, you're lowkey getting the hang of this. Please dad, this is fun."

David smiled slightly. He couldn't remember the last time Noah said anything with him was fun.

"Alright." He sighed, "Last one, no cap." Noah's eyes widened and he laughed, "What?"

"Nothing, dad."

David nodded and took a deep breath as the new words appeared on the screen: "Glow up", "Vibe check", "Ate".

He repeated the terms slowly, carefully enunciating each word. Again, each flowed seemingly more natural to him. Like he had heard and used these words before in an unironic way. The percentage popped up at a respectable 70%.

Noah whooped with joy. "Look at that, dad! Big W, you ate that!"

"Haha, yeah…" David's lips formed into a small grin, "I feel funny thought." His head tingled strangely and his tongue felt heavier in his mouth, "Like uh..."

"Come on, let's do one more! You're so close!" Noah urged.

"No, for real. I need to get back to…" David paused, frowning as he realized he couldn't remember what he needed to get back to. Work? Homework?

"What's that?" Noah asked curiously.

"I dunno, fam." David shrugged. He ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin and frowned, "This is sus because I definitely did not shave today." He frowned and sniffed at the air. "Noah, for real, you gotta shower, no cap. Your BO is rank, bruh."

Noah laughed, "Yo dad chill, that ain't my BO– that's yours, bro!"

David stared at his son in confusion, bringing his arm up to take a whiff of his own pit. He noticed the musky, thick pit fur creeping out from beneath his sleeve. Since when…? He recoiled at the powerful aroma wafting up.

"Bro, you good?" Noah smirked.

"I'm just…" David shook his head. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. Some felt like his, others felt foreign. Images flashed behind his eyes - scenes of him scrolling through TikTok for hours, obsessing over likes and comments. Doing stupid dances. Gooning for hours.

"Wanna give it one more shot, one last go? Promise this is the final round."

David nodded absentmindedly, "Sure thing, fam. Whatever you say."

Noah grinned and hit record. The words "Mood", "Snatched", "Locked In" appeared on the screen.

David stared blankly at the camera, his expression vacant. Then, almost mechanically, he began to speak. And as he spoke, his body began to shift and contort. The fat from years of stress, work, and age melted away, revealing the musculature underneath. David had once loved the gym- had really built himself a body he could be proud of in his 20s. But the muscles he was sporting now? Not the defined, chiseled physique of someone who worked out regularly, but the loose, undefined musculature of a lazy bro who occasionally hit the gym.

"Ahhhh fuckkkkkk..." David groaned.

He ran a hand through his hair, pausing mid-motion at the sensation of thickening, curlier hair. And it continued to change- his once salt-and-pepper locks shifted to become a thick curtain of blonde curls, falling messy and unkempt around his face.

"Bro, what's happenin' to me?" David's gruff voice took on a youthful, carefree tilt as he forced the words out.

"Don't worry about it, bro." Noah smiled, "You said you wanted to hang more, right? Bet- now we really about to, bro"

"Noah... not like..."

David moaned as his lower half stirred with a life of its own. An intense wave of arousal washed over him, his blood rushing southwards. David's breath increased, eyes glazing over as his pants tented obscenely- his body surging with hormones. Pre-cum leaked through the fabric, staining it.

"Almost there!" Noah sounded giddy, "Knew I should've hopped on this trend way earlier."

But David didn't hear him in the midst of his mind falling apart. His thoughts, once grounded in responsibility and parenthood, became consumed by a singular obsession: himself. What angle would make for the best selfie? Which dance move would impress his viewers? How could he make his videos go viral? Should he start an OnlyFans? Before long, there wasn't a single remnant of the middle-aged father remaining- just another 19-year old, basking in social media validation and more importantly, himself.

“Lowkey fire, bro,” he murmured, yanking off his shirt.

Blond hair fell into his eyes; he pushed it back with a lazy swipe, cocky grin spreading across his face. He stared at his phone, adjusting angles, changing filters.

"Finally, we can chill like bros.” Noah said, grinning.

David didn’t look up. “Nah, bro. Can’t..."

"What?"

"Can't waste this, bro. Gotta blow up, you feel?"

Noah froze, chest tightening. “Wait…so you’re not even…?”

David smirked, “Bro, I’m living my best life. Chill.” He continued to stare at his phone, not even glancing up at his son.

"Dad?" Noah knew about this trend- knew that this would be the end result. Yet seeing his father like this- seeing the consequences in person- made him second guess all of it, "For real, dad..."

"Who you calling dad, fam?" David glanced up, taking stock of Noah's horrified expression, "Lowkey relax, bro. I'll send you some free merch when I blow up, no cap."

Alec always loved Halloween night with his frat bros. Always loved their sacred tradition. He remembered his first time as a new pledge. The first Halloween they brought him down to that dingy basement, where one of the older members summoned the ghosts of their predecessors. Sure, Alec had been scared at first, not really knowing what to expect. But very quickly, he felt that cold chill pass through him and found himself in the driver's seat of his own body.

"Oh shit, this feels nice." He had heard his own voice slur, "Thanks for the bod, bro."

Whoever this ghost had been certainly enjoyed the night. Alec found himself watching as his body took up space in a corner of the room, lighting a joint and getting high. And it felt good. Just vibing, smoking weed, and managing the munchies with the greasiest food available. For Alec, a star athlete and golden boy, it felt like a nice quick vacation from his usual life. And the next morning- all was back to normal. Alec woke up half-naked on the couch, joint lazily wedged between his fingers, and went back to his usual day-to-day. He had done it. He was now fully one of the bros.

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

Two years had passed since Alec's freshman Halloween party experience. And in those years, Alec worked hard. He hit the gym, practiced on the field daily, tanned in the sun, went to parties, and excelled academically. Confident, popular, and ready to face whatever challenges came his way.

On Halloween night, he stood in the dingy basement watching as another group of new frat bros prepared for the ritual. All was going just as it should. The lights flickered, the cold air settled throughout the room, and the spirits made their appearance. And as Alec laughed alongside his buddies, he felt something. A cold chill pass through him. His laughter stopped.

"Alec, you okay man?"

"Yeah... Yeah..." He frowned, "Did you, uh feel that?" His bros shook their heads, "Must be imagining things." He laughed halfheartedly.

Despite the lingering feeling something was off, Alec went back to welcoming the old frat bros back to the land of the living.

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

"Did you have fun at your little occult party?" She ran her fingers across Alec's muscular chest.

"Best party of the year." He smirked, pulling her close, "But I think... what's wrong?"

A look of disgust crossed her face, "That smell..." She frowned, "I didn't know you smoked weed."

Alec raised an eyebrow. Yeah, he'd smoked before. But not recently. And he'd certainly change if his clothes stunk of it. He hated the smell, and clearly his date did too. But as he took a whiff of his shirt, the smell of weed filled his nostrils. And it wasn't subtle. It was strong. Obnoxious. It wouldn't be possible to not notice it.

"Fuck... I don't know how..."

"Let's reschedule." She said quickly, "And next time, maybe don't pick me up smelling like that."

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

"Dude, Brit is telling everyone about..."

"I don't get it. So what? I smelled like weed." Alec frowned, shoving a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, "Probably washed my clothes with Derek's or John's by accident."

"Yeah, but like, how didn't you notice?" One of the other guys laughed, "Really blew your chance there. And doubt any chick from that sorority will give you the time of day."

"Whatever." Alec grumbled, chewing on another mouthful of Cheetos.

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

Alec woke up groggy, his head pounding from Saturday night's festivities. But he had a routine, hangovers be damned. He stumbled to his closet, reaching for his workout gear. But as he rifled through the hangers, he found nothing but a collection of faded, torn jeans and unwashed, sweat-stained t-shirts. But it was the stench of stale weed that made Alec's stomach churn. It clung to every piece of clothing and spread through his room like wildfire.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." With a sigh, he grudgingly slipped into the dirty attire, "Which one of those fuckers took my clothes?"

He left the room, initially planning to confront his bros. But with each step and each breath of the stale sweat and weed, Alec's thoughts became less focused. By the time he made it to the living room, the clothes felt like they had always been his.

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

"Hey, Alec," one of his frat brothers walked into the common area, "haven't seen you at the gym in weeks. Everything cool?"

Alec shrugged, lighting up a joint he'd scored from a buddy.

"Nah, just been busy." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, feeling the familiar buzz wash over him. Suddenly, a thought struck him, "Hey, you think it's possible for a spirit to possess someone more than once?"

His brother raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, man. Why?"

Alec took another drag, not really caring about the answer anymore, "Just curious." He muttered, already forgetting why he asked in the first place.

As he sat there, Alec couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed. This content. The weed, the grubby clothes, the lack of responsibilities - it all blended together perfectly. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, realizing he hadn't shaved in days. Maybe weeks. Didn't matter though.

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

Alec stared blankly at the failing grade scrawled across the crumpled exam paper. His stomach churned with disappointment, but the sensation was distant, muffled. He should care more, shouldn't he? This was supposed to matter.

Instead, he found himself more interested in the joint burning down to a nub between his fingers. He took a long drag, inhaling deeply as he leaned back in his chair. The thick, pungent smoke filled his lungs, calming his nerves. He nearly jumped at the icy cold sensation that tore through his body.

"What the fuck?" But the feeling dissipated quickly.

Alec sighed, absently scratching at the patchy chest hair sprouting from his softer, less defined pecs. His once sculpted physique had slowly dissipated over the past months. Not that he minded much these days. Comfortable was better than ripped anyway.

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

Alec leaned back against his bed, feet propped up on the mattress. Coach's words echoed in his mind, but they felt detached, irrelevant. Kicked off the team. That should hurt, right? He should be devastated.

Yet, all Alec could focus on was the comforting musk emanating from the holes in his socks. He'd discovered this damp, stained pair of socks festering in a heap of his dirty clothes a few days prior and had been wearing them ever since. The earthy scent, the slightly sticky texture – it was strangely soothing. But something moved in the corner of his eye, prompting him to spin in that direction.

"I could've sworn..." He frowned. What was that? It almost looked like a...

He absentmindedly scratched his stomach, recoiling for the briefest moment at the unfamiliar pudge that had settled on his midsection.

Under different circumstances, this would've sent him into a panic. But today, all he could muster was a fleeting thought of, "Should probably go jog or something," before dismissing the idea entirely.

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

Alec trudged through campus, ignoring the whispers from the other students. The stares, the snickers, the pitying glances. He should care, right? Because this wasn't him. He wasn't… A sudden, sharp ache shot through his earlobes. They felt…empty. Hollow. Alec's steps quickened, propelled by an urgent need he couldn't quite understand. And suddenly, he was standing inside a shop he never knew existed.

"Afternoon. What can I do for ya?" The body piercer said.

Without hesitation, Alec blurted out, "Ears. Both sides. Something big."

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

Weeks blurred together in a haze of smoke and the sound of the tattoo needle. They buzzed against Alec's skin, etching dark designs onto his chest, arms, neck, and face. Piercing guns punctured his ears, lips, nose, eyebrows. With each new addition, a flicker of terror sparking within him, his reflection was almost unrecognizable now. He had fallen so far. Had become someone else entirely.

"Why is this happening?" Alec whispered, staring in the mirror and feeling the gauges in his stretched earlobes, "Why am I doing this?"

He stood outside the tattoo parlor and shuddered at the icy cold sensation that coursed through him. His resistance crumbled as he caught a whiff of the comforting musk of his filthy clothes and heard the buzzing of the tattoo needle.

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

Alec sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes dull and half-lidded. The room reeked of stale smoke, body odor, and the faint hint of rotting food. His buddies avoided him, professors gave up on him, and for the first time Alec felt lost. He felt further from himself than ever before.

"I need to turn it around." He ran a hand through his greasy hair.

He sighed and took a long drag from his joint, blinking as he noticed a ghostly figure materializing before him. It solidified into the form of a man he vaguely recognized. The frat bro the night of his first ritual. The one who first possessed him.

"It's you." Alec slurred, "You... No, no, get away from me." The ghost floated closer, its eyes locking onto Alec's. "You ruined my life," Alec murmured, a flicker of clarity piercing through the fog in his brain. "Please… go away. Leave me alone!"

The spirit grinned lazily and surged forward. Right into Alec. The young man grunted as the spirit filled him. And in those moments, Alec realized something. Realized how weakened and disconnected he was with his true self. Realized how there wasn't much of him left in this slovenly, tatted, pierced form. Alec cried out, as the lines between Alec's original consciousness and the spirit blurred, until they disappeared entirely. He was Alec in name only, but his life... his very fate, were forever tied to the spirit's.

"Woah, that was intense." Alec slurred, "What a fuckin' trip."

Any semblance of Alec's former self, any hope for redemption or return to his previous life, vanished without a trace. There would be no questioning, no yearning for something more. The possession was absolute, and Alec was unaware of the extent of his loss. Forever trapped in a life he would've never wanted. Forevermore just another stoner slob.