<<
Case File #36: Brad Simmons
Status: OPEN
Category: Duplication
Method: Miscellaneous spell
||The following is a chat log collected by the agency as part of its monitoring and archival purposes||
[insertnamehere09999999]: fukin hammered
[19Br4D98]: wow you look gigantic
[insertnamehere09999999]: thnx... . fuk i rank
[insertnamehere09999999]: dya smel it
[19Br4D98]: not really, but i can imagine it lolol
[insertnamehere09999999]: m8 i kno u do
[19Br4D98]: huh
[19Br4D98]: ,your right
[insertnamehere09999999]: youre m8
[insertnamehere09999999]: u a gym rat ??
[19Br4D98]: i wish lol
[19Br4D98]: gymnast
[insertnamehere09999999]: u a gym rat then
[19Br4D98]: huh
[19Br4D98]: hold on, i'm turning on the ac, it's getting kinda hotter
[insertnamehere09999999]: itchy innit ??
[19Br4D98]: the fuck
[19Br4D98]: oh
[19Br4D98]: wait
[19Br4D98]: huh
[19Br4D98]: never noticed it was this big before but whatever, hope you're hungry lol
[insertnamehere09999999]: bloody hell
[19Br4D98]: massive innit?
[19Br4D98]: hah, 'innit'
[insertnamehere09999999]: hah
[insertnamehere09999999]: u luv bein big ryt?
[19Br4D98]: yeah
[19Br4D98]: damn its getting proper steamy in here
[19Br4D98]: wait... what the fuck
[19Br4D98]:
[19Br4D98]: WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!!!!! IM GETTING BIGGER!!!
[insertnamehere09999999]: nickd me a twinnnin spell..,, cba to revrs it, sry
[19Br4D98]: I CANT LOG OFF
[19Br4D98]: FUCKING STOP IM FREAKING OUT
[19Br4D98]:
[19Br4D98]: MY FUC
[19Br4D98]: MYFUKIN BODYY
[19Br4D98]: IT FUKIN HURTSs
[insertnamehere09999999]: aw quit yakkin im luvin this
[19Br4D98]: SHUT IT U DAFT CUNT
[19Br4D98]: Y AM I TALKIN LIKE THIS NOW
[insertnamehere09999999]: u git ur turnin into me
[insertnamehere09999999]: r u slow m8 ??
[19Br4D98]: TAKIN THE BLUDY PISS R WE ??
[19Br4D98]: FUKKKK
[19Br4D98]: ME FACE
[insertnamehere09999999]: send pics m8 bloody hell
[19Br4D98]:
[19Br4D98]: IT HURTS
[19Br4D98]: ME LIPS
[19Br4D98]: ME HEA
[19Br4D98]: ,
[19Br4D98]: i
[19Br4D98]: h
[19Br4D98]: .m
[19Br4D98]: nnnnnnnvnvbbbbbbbbbbbbv
[insertnamehere09999999]: u gud m8 ?
[insertnamehere09999999]: ???
[insertnamehere09999999]: fukkk yessss
[19Br4D98]: fuk m8 u look jus like me
[insertnamehere09999999]: fag break
[19Br4D98]: fuk me i rank
[19Br4D98]: fag break
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Gerald thought he could get away with it when the officer that pulled him over agreed to let him go, on one condition.
"Sir, I'm really sorry but...can we please switch back? I-It's been a month and--" Hudson just laughed and waved his finger mockingly in his direction.
"We've been over this boy. You agreed to the swap, not my fault if you got tired of it eventually." Hudson grinned as Gerald simply tucked his lips in. What was he going to say anyways? Say he swapped bodies with someone and that guy didn't want to give it back? He'd be ridiculed to hell and back.
"I decide when I wanna switch back, got it? Force my hand, and I'll make sure you do end up in the back of that cruiser, a'ight?"
Gerald quietly tucked his lips and nodded slightly. To be honest, he'd take that over this any day of the week, but he couldn't risk it. Taking a few steps back, he just mumbled. "You're free to go, s-sir..."
Hudson quietly chuckled as he drove away. "Heh. 'Switch back'. Like I'm gonna."
Nick was a busy guy. Working his 9-to-5 desk job had made him a dull man. He used to make fun of the higher-end men in suits back in his college years, calling them stuck-up drones. Yet here we was, as one of them.
Well, he thought about that exact thing this morning, and decided to do something about it. Wanting to change a little something up, he decided to walk to a street around town he'd never been to just yet. Scanning the facades of every building, he saw all kinds of signs. One's for some Chinese, the other's a swanky new café, and a few yards away was just another boring old jewelry store.
Heading a few more steps, something twinkled in the corner of his eye. Looking to his left, he saw a dark and narrow alleyway.
He had no idea why he felt drawn to it, but he chalked it up to his old adventurous self emerging back from the dead. He smiled to himself, and took a deep breath, squeezing through the passage.
As he exited it, he found a big red door. Opening it cautiously, he found another sight which made him slightly shiver: a dark and claustrophobic stairwell.
"What am I even doing here..." he cussed himself, climbing down the rather musty steps. At the end, he found an intricately carved door. Seeing no other choice but to open it, he put his right hand on the door and twisted it open.
To his surprise, he found an oddly clean and respectable business. Scanning the spacious and luxuriously decorated room, he found it was some sort of café. There were barely any staff that he could see, but the tables were full of people. He couldn't help but notice how all of them were men, with roughly the same build as strange looks shot themselves towards his eyes.
Spying an empty table, he sat on one of the leather seats. Just a few moments later, two guys walked up to him, and sat directly in front of him.
Ray averted his eyes, looking straight down as the two men chattered among themselves in another language. "What the hell did I just walk into?" He thought to himself.
Suddenly, the man to the right of him picked up some sort of paper and pointed to it, talking to his friend before switching to English. "You want wrestle?" He asked in a heavily accented tone.
Nick raised his eyebrow. "Uh....what?" He silently chuckled. "You want wrestle? You wrestle." The man repeated, in a sterner tone.
Out of nowhere, a group of men from different tables pinned him down on the chair, wrestling him into submission as they forcibly took away his phone. He watched helplessly as they stripped him of his clothes, laughing and chuckling among themselves. "Get the fuck off of me!" Nick screamed, before being silenced as a damp sock was placed over his mouth.
As he breathed in the musk, he found his body start to twitch and itch uncontrollably.
He watched in horror as thousands of hair strands started pushing themselves out of his rapidly bulking torso. Abs and pecs ballooned from his skin, as he whimpered in fear. "Wh-what are you doing to me?!" He tried to scream through the sock, as the men around him continued to press the item deeper into his mouth.
Over to the corner of his eye, he saw the other men touching and messing with his phone.
"Nick Johnson. Not bad career..." One of them said plainly. "But we need sport guy. New one." They grinned, as they passed the phone to some guy with sunglasses. He seemed to be some sort of manager or leader to the group.
"Nick, Nick, Nick. My name is Alihan. I am manager." He laughed, taking the phone in his hands, his thumb busy doing something to it. "We need new member for fighter in ring, and you are lucky one today. I put app in your phone to help me make you one. I can tell I will like you more than rest." He chuckled, as Nick eyed his hands. "First, I remove everything. I give you new name and identity. Timur fits. It mean iron." He hummed, as the guys around him finished dressing him up in some new clothes and pushed down a black cap on his head. Alihan then showed him his phone, which now had a red-green spiral with blaring lezginka music. Barely perceptible chanting in Chechen hid themselves underneath the strong and fast beats.
Before he knew it, Nick slowly calmed down, as the man's sultry voice pulled him deeper into a trance. As the men around him let his arms go, he instinctively reached for his phone, almost cradling it in his hands as he watched in pure bliss.
As he stared deeper and deeper, Nick felt a noticeable beard burst out from his now-chiseled jaw. He felt his body and face contort and ripple with new muscle, but he felt at peace. It was almost like a full-body massage, as he felt his mind slip away and his crotch stir with a new energy he'd never felt before.
Alihan chuckled as he propped a half-conscious Nick up on a chair, as he whistled for a guy to come. Slowly taking away his phone, Alihan ordered the guy to take of his cap and start trimming away.
Alihan continued humming some sort of melody, as the men around gathered in a circle. "Стеган куц а, сий а дийриг тlеюьйхина бедар ю." They began to chant in a rhythmic and hypnotic drone, as Nick stared at himself in the mirror. Their words soon penetrated themselves into his psyche, while physically, he felt his ear get thicker and thicker from years of rubbing against the mats of his gym.
Now that he thought about it, was "Nick" even his name? Did he even go to some fancy university and get a boring old job at some desk in the middle of an office? As far as he knew, he grew up in the mountainous valleys of his native Dagestan. Not the smartest guy around, he found the gym almost a second home. By the time he was in his late-20's, he was discovered by some "Alihan" dude, and started training to be a brilliant wrestler. Of course, he and the rest of the guys had to leave for the Americas for a better life, away from all the prying eyes.
Timur's eyes watered as he remembered how much he loved Alihan. Starting out as mere friends, the two quickly became a couple, lovingly sharing each one's kisses and embraces. It was part of the reason why they had to leave, but at least he left with his dearest boyfriend in tow.
"А-алихан...с-суна хьо веза..." Timur found himself saying with his new Chechen tongue, his cock barely able to keep his seed from erupting through his pants. Alihan simply smiled and kissed him on the forehead, his hands making their way down to his stirring bulge. "Суна хьо веза, Тимур." Timur slowly felt himself doze off. Everything turned black as he felt himself release, the warm liquid flowing down like a rushing stream along everything old and "Nick".
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sometimes, Alihan's eyes would furrow in stark surprise, staring into his hands when training for another fight would approach. However, a quick brush over the head by a nearby trainer would help his brain shut off, and let him forget everything about his past once more.
But for the most part, Alihan's conversion was a success.
Scouting a camera off in the distance, he stares longingly towards it as he felt something stir inside him. Doing his best in every single fight would mean keeping their promise all those years ago when they had to flee with nothing but hopes and dreams along with all the other guys. Alihan blew a kiss.
From his comfortable seat at the back of the café, Timur chuckled to himself, blowing a kiss as well to the television screen. Suddenly, he felt he felt his phone buzz and vibrate. Opening it, he found a new message from one of his men. "Керла клиент схьавогӀу." A new guy. Timur just smirked. Alihan would soon have a friend to help convert himself.
Life got busy, sorry for not posting much. Coupled with the fact I keep moving around new bodies is pretty tiring. But hey, this time 'round I woke up in this guy Aslan's body, and so far I've been here for almost two weeks now. We live in Canada as I've learned, and I live with this cute little guy. Ваша воцу ваша, тlам боцу леча. Ӏодика йойла!
“Okay, now put it on” Chris threw the balaclava and the black t-shirt towards his boyfriend Jake, who was sitting on their bed.
“You’re sure about this?” He was clearly not sold on the idea of role play in the bedroom, but he agreed to do it anyway. He was surprised when Chris approached him earlier that day and asked if he’d be willing to dress up as a Russian thug because it really turned him on. But he decided to play along. And now Chris was standing next to him, a shit-eating grin on his face. He was enjoying himself already.
He watched as Jake took off his hoodie and tank top, then put on the t-shirt and face mask. Jake had a slim build, with muscles visible but not bulky, so the large t-shirt was looking kinda baggy on him.
"You sure you bought the right one? This looks like a skirt on me." Jake commented, but Chris wasn't really listening.
"Everything's fine, don't worry about it." He shrugged off his boyfriend's comments and waited for him to put on the balaclava. When he did he took a step closer.
"You look great, babe" He said, and saw Jake's eyebrows rise a bit, but he saw a glimpse of a smile under the face mask.
Then the fun started.
Chris took a step backward, as he saw that the process was beginning. Jake suddenly stopped moving, now standing still, and all his muscles started expanding. His shoulders and chest quickly filled out thew t-shirt, which now hugged his upper body tightly. His arms turned form sticks to beefy guns, with bulky biceps covered in veins. His slim stomach gets covered in muscle, same with his legs that turned into tree trunks.
The entire transformation lasted only a minute or so, and after was done Jake looked at Chris confused.
"Chris... Chris, babe, what... what happened?" He asked, his voice unsteady and anxious.
"Nothing you have to worry about, Jake. I'm just making sure you're prepared for your 'role play' later" He still has a smug smirk on his face, because he knew what was coming next.
Jake was hit with a sudden headache. A painful feeling, as if his brain was squeezed. He groaned and leaned against the wall, hoping it would pass quickly.
"Holy shit... uuuugh... blyat" he murmured to himself "Wait... blyat? Vat? I no speak... Nyet, vat is happen? Chris, vat is happen to me?"
Jake, now speaking with a heavy and thick Russian accent, turned towards Chris, his expression quickly shifting from surprise to aggression. But Chris didn't even flinch, he was in control of the situation the entire time.
"Stop whining, Sasha. You're not here to complain, you're here to obey!" When he called him 'Sasha', Jake's eyes glazed over for a moment and he froze. A few seconds later he was back, but it was not Jake.
"Da, boss. Sasha here to work and make dirty job for boss" He stood straight, almost like a soldier, and puffed out his chest, clearly wanting to show off his muscles. Chris was in heaven. He took a step closer.
"Yes, my loyal brute. You will do exactly as I say, without hesitation."
"Da, no hesitation, nyet. Only strong and obey you, boss" Sasha's voice was deeper that Jake's, he grunted more and was clearly struggling with English vocabulary.
"Oh yeah" Chris growled as he stood inches from Sasha, hunger in his eyes. "Flex for me, brute"
"Da, boss" Sasha nodded and lifted his arms into a double biceps pose. His muscles ballooned, with biceps the size of footballs.
"I strong muscle, boss use Sasha strong muscle" The Russian grunted as he flexed.
"Oh, I will use them, don't you worry" Chris drawled in response, ready to play.
Hotshot asshole loses out on a promotion to a workplace enemy and lands an apparently one way ticket to their branch abroad. Perhaps en route to India he'll learn a thing or two about decency, or if nothing else a lesson or two about being a man.
Quite like the way this one turned out! Probably the favorite piece of my own writing in some time! I hope you all enjoy it similarly! -Occam
“I hope you understand Samuel, at the end of the day he just trusts me more.” Everett made no attempt to hide the smarmy expression on his face as he broke the news to Sam. In response the exec could only sit there and stew, Everett was now directly above him and any further words spoken against his now boss were sure to only exacerbate their already long strained relationship.
After working together at RC-Tech for years it’s a wonder the two haven’t been physically at each other’s throats. The corporate ladder is quite the crab bucket, and Sam ever so much enjoys the cutthroat nature of their top floor world. Born too late to be a warrior but just on time to be a man in a suit making ruthless calls and shooting down others seeking to make their own ascent. Little does he know as he stares at Everett, mentally pleading for the power to blow up the man’s head, that his corporate coup de grace is already set in motion.
“It’s just a question of loyalty, you understand Sam. Derrickson thought I was a better fit for VP because I’m not, well you know, a cruel sack of shit.” Sam rolled his eyes at Everett’s self-appraisal before shrugging at the description of himself. It’s what he was hired to be, better to be the boot than what’s underneath it. His ears perk up despite himself as Everett continues. “After all, we’ve got the perfect opportunity lined up for your advancement Samu-”
“Cut the shit Everett. Just spit it out.” Everett stares down at the man absolutely unphased, as if he were looking at a caged animal. He’s grown adept at tuning out his now subordinate’s voice and as the moment grows nearer he finds himself growing giddy at the idea that he’ll never have to do so again. On the other side, Sam struggles not to go ballistic as glee becomes unmissable in Everett’s words. “The boss was concerned about our Indian account and I told him I knew the perfect man for the job.”
India. Sam has never been all too respectful of other American cultures. For him to day in day out be knowledgeable and understand of people a world away is beyond the perpetually egotistical man. It is, as intended, a death knell for his career. He clenches his jaw tight enough that Everett worries he may burst a blood vessel then and there. The boss’ grin quivers as he sees rage beyond rage rise in Sam’s eyes. He opens his mouth, presumably to scream any number of things at Everett, or perhaps to refuse. Instead he simply takes a deep breath and nods.
Everett’s chair creaks as he sits back in reticent thought. He had quite expected Sam to up and fold, quit immediately and never turn back. Still, Everett held out hope that he’d be cocky enough to give it a go. The man couldn’t wait to see his plan for Sam shift into high gear. He pulls out a contract describing Sam’s new role on the team and lays it in front of him.
All this time Sam has been doing some calculus of his own. He could come back from this, India’s the fucking largest honey pot RC-Tech could have really. If he rejuvenates their HQ over there he’d have Everett singing his graces to Derrickson on the daily. His eyes dart across the fine print noticing little out of the ordinary at all about the job, ‘you will help merge our cultural identities’ blah blah ‘promote growth’ yada yada yada. Samuel does however tilt his head at the dotted line, the name written underneath is not his own but some ‘Shamir Rajput.’ He wordlessly looks up at Everett who shrugs and coyly says “Misprint.”
As fucking if. Probably some temp they were gonna send over in his stead. Sam taps his foot with haste as he mulls over the best move, he asks a question just to confirm the obvious, “If I don’t accept this I’m fired right?” “Oh yes absolutely, out of here faster than you can say Uttar Pradesh!” Sam grimaces thinking about what an uphill battle he will face to get his revenge. That will make it all the more satisfying when he succeeds.
His hand glides to sign. He starts to write and realizes he accidentally began to copy the name written underneath ‘Sha-’ before promptly crossing it out and writing his own. ‘Samuel Thomas’ Everett’s grin flickers wider as he watches what is sure to be only the first of many little peculiarities just like that in Sam’s immediate future. He can barely control himself as he pictures his tormentor losing himself. His thoughts are interrupted before he can spend too much time delighting in the beginning of the end of Sam as he tosses the signed contract across the desk.
“Wonderful!” Everett claps his hands and his assistant comes in with a car full of books and other miscellanea to ‘ease his transition’ to living in India. Lying on top of it all is a clean and fancy looking kurta. Sam almost laughs at the idea that he would wear that, biting his tongue as he realizes there is just as great an uphill battle to be waged in his own psyche. Turns out if you’re a chauvinistic asshole for years you won’t grow decency even if it’s in your self interest.
“You’ll fly out at the end of the week just so you’re aware.” Sam scowls at Everett thinking about uprooting himself in a week, on top of scrounging together what little knowledge he can on the subcontinent. Everett assures him, “Oh and don’t you worry about your affairs stateside, I’m sure they’ll take care of themselves shortly.” Sam scrunches his face and mentally jumps across the desk to pounce on the man. In reality he takes yet another lump and starts to page through one of the many books of recommended reading.
Sam continues reading for a minute or two, already finding a rising interest in Indian culture that even with his commitment to vengeance is surprising. After not long at all Everett clears his throat and motions to the door. Sam blushes and uncharacteristically apologizes to his senior. Shaking his head as disdain returns to his mind as he steps out the door, what the fuck is up with that. He turns to see Everett wave farewell with a guarded smile as the door closes behind him.
This challenge set, Sam puts his head down and bucks up. At every opportunity the man tells himself he is motivated by revenge against Everett, working hard to pretend that he is not instantly absorbed any time he opens a book on the culture. All too soon he finds a burgeoning respect, and almost affection, for his soon to be expatriated country. Though any ground gained is of course not a flame to the adoration he has for his own nation. He continues day in and out reading the texts given to him by RC-Tech, pouring himself into his studies with a fervor.
About halfway through the week Sam notices something bizarre begin to happen. It’s almost as if his hair is darkening. He is certainly going outside less, hitting the books from dawn to dusk, but would one week make such a difference? It also seems as if it’s starting to thicken! Since turning thirty the stress of work had taken a toll on his hairline. He tells himself that perhaps the return to research harkens him back to his undergrad days and his body is responding accordingly. There’s sure to be less stress abroad than sitting in boardroom meetings all day!
He checks his angles in a mirror and feels a rising pride as he looks at his black locs. Sam can’t help but appreciate the way they fall on his head, growing with far more haste than his hair usually does. God he looks good though. The night before his scheduled departure Everett contacts him to let him know that their branch abroad is expecting him to wear the kurta they sent on the flight.
Sam’s eyes quickly dart to the garment as he blushes. After his sudden and bizarre appreciation for Indian culture he looks at it no longer with judgment but some kind of strange eagerness to have it on. He knows it’s just an everyday piece of clothing but as he feels it it’s like a woman holding her wedding dress. He informs Everett of his acquiescence, calling the man Sir in the correspondence, which his boss takes no small amount of delight in. That night Sam dreams of his immigrant country, the bustle of the streets, spice filling the air, the feel of that kurta against his skin.
His morning preparations go off without any great hitch. He pauses looking in the mirror as it seems his usually light facial hair seems to be coming in darker as well. He decides to shave after the flight though, not like he’ll be in the office today. He packs extremely light, the bulk of his luggage being equipment for work and some of the supplementary books given to him.
En route to the airport he’s listening to a podcast by some Indian-American immigrants to better understand the accent. He decided against learning their language but made a good deal of effort to ensure he would always understand their accent and slang. He laughs at the idea that he’s spent so much time listening to it he may well develop the accent himself!
On the way to board the plane he notices an issue that could very well send him back to RC-Tech immediately. His name was spelled wrong on the ticket, Shamuel Thomus. He grits his teeth at Everett, sure this is yet another act of retaliation against his subordinate. Nevertheless he crosses his fingers and gives it a go. Security doesn’t stop him and afterwards Shamuel does a double take at his passport and finds it matches the ticket exactly.
He scrambles between the two trying to figure out where his confusion lay, deciding in the end that he must go by Sham so frequently as to have forgotten his full name. Focussing on that flimsy ground, he neglects to notice his passport photo displaying his full black head of hair and stubble even thicker and darker than he has now. Sham pockets the passport and makes for his boarding zone, swiping through some Hindi influencers on twitter en route.
Sham finds himself understanding their online culture with an ease that fills him with confidence. Everett sure will eat his words when Sham turns this branch against him! Underneath his words though he finds some sick desire to make his boss proud, he promptly roots it out as he clicks his tongue to himself. Grimacing and drilling into himself that Everett only gave him the opportunity as punishment. To think, he would see working in the world’s greatest country as punishment. His blood begins to boil with ire at his boss as beyond his attention his pale skin finally begins to darken.
He sits in the window seat next to two Indian brothers on the flight. The two chat in Hindi and Sham smirks as he sits there reading the Ramayana, proud as he distractedly eavesdrops and catches a word every now and then. Already learning the language without even trying. The sun beats down on him from the window, and despite the heft UV protection his right arm quickly develops a tan worlds darker than the one he left the house with this morning.
His tan rapidly spreads up his neck and onto his kurta-covered torso. Sham’s mind is already doing double-duty trying to read the epic and listen in on the brothers he can’t help but miss as his hands darken as if his skin were steeping tea. The brothers talk of जिम and व्यायाम, which Sham rapidly translates, his mind dashing to spending time at the gym with the two of them. He shakes it off as bizarre as he finally notices a heat rising in his body where his skin has tanned.
Sham clears his throat as his neck begins to thicken beyond the thin stick it has ever been. The tan spreads below his waist line as his previous goal of keeping weight off his thighs disappears as they begin to grow heavy, large to support an upper body that would make his country proud. He puts the book down as for the first time he takes note of something bizarre happening, why is his kurta uncomfortable all of a sudden?
Looking down he finds the barest hint of muscle forming on his chest as it begins to push against the buttons. His sleeves however look drastically fuller as he moves in his seat, the sound of the garment he oh so adored straining as he makes the slightest move in his seat. The brothers continue to talk of their maxes and conquests as Sham’s own traps push against his clothes, as if he were right there with them. He feels callouses from time spent in the gym form on his palms as they change from those of a perpetual typist to one who never passes a जिम gym without entering.
His eye twitches as his mind continues to understand the brother’s conversation better by the second. His pale blue eyes glaze over as he sits, the sapphire color he has been proud of rapidly darkening to the brown of coffee as his skin finishes staining the color of chai.
He hears them start to begin talking of their lovers and his own package pulses at the idea. At this he audibly grunts and they go silent, turning to look at him in concern, “अरे भाई, तुम ठीक तो हो? (Hey bro are you okay?)” Sham does a sigh heavier than he intended as he tries to wave them off, “Yes yes.” he pauses as his eyes widen hearing his voice has somehow grown deeper. It must be the altitude, or something, messing with his mind. His voice just sounds deeper, or something. “I’m alright, thank you for checking.” That however does not begin to explain the slightest hint of an accent sneaking into his cadence.
The brothers smile as they look at the man wearing a kurta, they would’ve sworn it was some white guy just appreciating their culture but now that they look closer they can only see a fellow bharati. They quickly rope him into their conversation, introducing themselves as Nitant and Ardash. Less than aware of what languages their new friend speaks they stick with English as they start to chat. Beginning where they left off they start talking about going to the gym and returning to their partners after. Sham again feels something in his chest burn as his pecs pulse and strain his kurta. Even more pressing than that, he feels his cock push up against his robe as he too begins to feel the passion that seizes him after a workout begins to brew.
Despite the best efforts of his balls as they pulse and grow with lust, an existential fight or flight takes control of his mind and Sham endeavors to steer the conversation back to his own ends. Centering himself, he feels an itch on his face as he begins to explain his own situation. He tells the brothers of his new position and asks what the duo know about his new homeplace.
With this his mind is able to return to what is important to him, doing his company proud, and sticking it to, uh, someone. He continues to scratch at his face as the brothers explain their homeland to him. His smile is soon enough haloed by stubble darker and thicker than he could ever imagine. Listening to them discuss their childhood Sham twitches as his own memories begin to be overlaid. Malls become bustling marketplaces. Memories of sitting through oppressive sermons change to walking through stunning temple complexes.
It’s quite a resource to finally talk with other men actually of the culture he’s moving into. Feeling his face in his hands as his jawline sharpens underneath the still spreading beard he wonders why he never did so before, something in his mind feels a stubborn pride that he doesn’t need anyone to tell him about India. After all, it's where he’s from right? He does a spit take as the thought appears, obviously that’s not right. One of the brother’s grabs his shoulders in concern once more, “Shami!?”
No, that's not right. He’s American born and bred. He’s always been proud of his white identity, whatever that means. His newfound appreciation of Indian culture won’t change that. Ignoring the brown hands holding his phone he quickly goes through it looking for confirmation of his own identity, he scrolls past apps he doesn’t remember downloading and goes straight to images. There he is struck a blow that he would never come back from. Shami stares at images of himself at a जिम gym just as he imagined when he was eavesdropping on the brothers. Behind him a picture of the Indian flag His- No! Not his flag. He is distracted before he can dispute the idea anymore, red white and blue are rapidly replaced by saffron and India green.
Scrolling down further he finds quite a few more explicit photos of himself that he must have sent to someone, or more likely someones. He smirks at the idea of sending photos of his brown dick to others after steamy workouts. God he’s a horny बेवकूफ़ fucker. Nitant looks over his shoulder at his phone and shakes him a bit in excitement “Bro! पवित्र बकवास! Holy Shit! You look so good, I bet the ladies are all over you.” He pauses as Shami continues scrolling in shock, looking for anything to remind him of himself. Doing so he passes nudes from a good deal of other men, “Fuck, or the men राजा king.”
At this point a stewardess comes with their meals. Shami balks as he sees that he ordered a burger. His stomach turns as the idea of eating meat makes him sick. But that can’t be right can it? His mind races through years of meals. Times he would’ve sworn he had steaks to celebrate sales and mergers. Having burgers just like this one, hot dogs at baseball games, pepperoni pizza while moving. Landmark meals he was sure he had meat at. Or no that can’t be right? The memories remain present, though not unchanged. There is a tidal wave in his mind as any memory of meat touching his tongue vacates, obviously. He’s alwasye been a vegetarian. Even the hamburger sitting before him changes into a veggie burger as he heartily bites into it without pause.
Whatever is left of the man who sat in the boardroom continues to cede ground as Shami chats with the brothers. He struggles to keep up a hardwall, refusing to talk of the gym as his body yearns to flex further and rip his prized kurta, now seeming more like an everyday piece of fashion to him. He’s got more at them after all, his eye twitches. Shami scrambles for an out and decides to pretend to sleep the rest of the flight. He ignores the itches that begin to rise from his armpits and crotch as they surely begin to grow thick black body hair the likes of which he somehow knew he shouldn’t have.
As he sits and stews, trying to pay no attention to his thick thigh rubbing against his seat partner, he realizes that this must be Everett’s doing. His mind barely recalls signing the contract, the name on it not his own Shamir not Shami, and the words within. Pledging to help merge their cultural identities. His brows furrow as they thicken in his fake rest. That मूर्ख fucker! This has been some sick trap and sitting next to these उल्लू lunkheads has rotted his mind, just as Everett surely wanted. His eyes strain as his mind scrambles for salvation.
Upon landing some twenty hours after hopping on board, Shami struggles through the airport. Everyone first speaks to him in Hindi, only switching to English after he claims to be American. Though their eyes remain narrowed as he speaks that forced foreign tongue with an accent they find all too familiar. He says farewell to Nitant and Ardash, fighting the urge to offer to hit the gym with them as he departs.
Exiting the airport he hops into a taxi and heads off to find his new accommodations. He fights with all he can against the sense of familiarity that being in the taxi brings him, spices that should not be familiar to him bringing back memories of a childhood he did not have. The faces of his parents abstracted as his father suddenly has a beard that Shami always one day hoped he would have himself. His mother’s home cooked curry filling the house with an unmistakable scent that he has long missed during his time in America. Flavors he swore he’s only read about dance across his tongue as his mind can’t help but grow eager to relive the nation’s non-diasporic cuisine.
Looking at his hands holding his luggage as hair begins to snake from underneath his kurta just as it so proudly adorns his face. His sense of masculinity grows affirmed as the taxi driver talks to him of his own strapping boys, the lives they lead and how proud they make him. He feels his balls surge with virility as he hears of their exploits at construction sites and in boardrooms alike. Everything Shami knows to be true warps as he listens to the driver.
His arms grow even larger, finally sending tears down the kurta as the man discusses his firstborn foreman. Pride burns in his chest for his job and for his boss as the driver points to a picture of an executive all similar to himself. Shami squirms as his balls grow and demand even more attention as the driver discusses his grandchildren, laughing as he suggests Shami should not always focus on his work. Hair grows on his muscular chest as he nears his destination and he bolts out, leaving the driver with more than enough fare as Shami sprints into the apartment block, desperately in need of release.
Cooped up on a plane for nearly a full day, Shami makes his way up to his new apartment without a second’s pause to realize he somehow knows the way. His larger thighs blast up the stairs as his body produces a new odor, one that beautifully mingles with the heavy spice sifting through the air from each and every apartment. Making use of his body’s new power he wrenches open his apartment door and slams it behind him rushing into the bathroom. He tears off his torn kurta and cannot help but stare at his own body.
He flexes at himself in the mirror as his cock stands to full attention, pubes inching past his waistline as his balls grow heavier at the sight. Pits exposed he takes a deep breath of his own BO and almost loses control then in there. The remains of his American mind barely keep his hand off his cock in fear that that would be the ball game. His head tilts in his reflection as the idiom he just used almost loses clarity as he retains his English fluency but something deeper wanes even yet as he feels more at home in both his body and, of course, his true home country.
Exiting into his living room Shami finds a goodie basket on the table with a note from Everett, “Namaste Shamir!” Something within him waits for the other shoe to drop, for some reason nervous about the man who left this. After a second glance he is instead wholly overpowered by an affection for his boss. What a sweet gesture after all. “I do hope this finds you well and the flight home wasn’t too bad. I wanted you to have a parting gift of all your favorite American treats from the time you spent here! After all, it will be some time before your return, I wish you the best of luck rejuvenating RC-Tech India, if anyone can do so it would be you Mr. Rajput. Yours, Everett”
Reading the note it’s as if a bell tolls in his mind. Each calculated phrasing by his boss is a final swing against his American identity. His beard grows thick on his face as his Boss calls him by his true name Shamir, giddiness filling his body as it thickens still. Reading of his flight home so matter-of-factly makes it indisputable, this was his home. This has always been his home. America was fine, if not grating. He is beyond happy to be back and as much as he appreciated working directly alongside his boss he feels power surge within him at the idea of leading his own men once more.
“Shamir Rajput” He dreamily says the name out loud and with that everything becomes crystal clear. The life of an all too hotheaded business brute fades from his mind, as well as from the minds of the few who saw him as a loved one. In their wake grows the bharati titan that stands tall in his own living room. He flexes as his mind transitions permanently from thinking in English to his true mother tongue of Hindi, though he has certainly taught himself every Indian dialect he’s come across. What kind of boss would he be if he didn’t make an effort to understand his employees after all.
Shamir disrobes entirely and begins to make for his bed to sleep off the jet lag. He passes photos of his family on the walls and a room solely dedicated to a home gym as he flops onto his bed. In his dreams he stands opposite some scrawny white man that looks familiar but he can’t quite put a name to the face. Shamir asks a question in Hindi and the man’s scowl goes greater, he opens his mouth to surely scream some obscenity but before anything can fall from his vile little mouth Shair blinks and he is gone. In his place is a large mirror, one that Shamir heartily makes use of, flexing at himself and delighting in every angle of his powerful body.
The next morning he awakes a mess in his sheets, not peculiar of course. A man of his vigor, his virility, must deal with release at it comes. Sun lights through the curtains as he stands in stretches, the same sun that woke to in America but here it just seems warmer. He opens his window to let in the sounds of commerce in the streets and to allow the spices mingle with the oppressive body odor he worked up in his sleep. He takes a deep breath and sighs, his heavy pecs bouncing as he scratches at his chest. Today was going to be another wonderful day and he couldn’t wait to make his company, and his boss, proud.
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Morally conflicted journalist puts off questions of ethics until it's just too late. Finally assigned to put his name next inflammatory content Sam finds himself more than appreciating Chinese culture.
Various white to Asian Muscle growth and racial change ahead!
Like many, I saw the final pictures on twitter and had to do something with them haha! Ended up with a piece just a tad different than usual! Hope you all enjoy! -Occam
Samuel Johnston knew he worked for a rag but as long as the checks cashed he could afford to mute his conscience. They made money not from sales so much as some rightwing think tank who wants their views affirmed in any way they can get it. So he lays low and pens little puff pieces, avoiding anything too controversial and introduces himself as an accountant to anyone he cares enough to lie to.
He’s quite adept at staying out of sight and mind when it comes to the doling out of any especially charged or problematic issues. Making sure to bury his own work any chance he gets, even using a pen name in case someone accidentally stumbles on his writing. It’s gone well enough so far he thinks! Sam tells himself that really working for NY:Red isn’t that bad, surely it’s even good that he’s got the job rather than anyone who believes the shit they write. Right?
No job is without its problems, he tells himself. So far he’s done a commendable job keeping his nose down with an almost supernatural ability to duck away from bigwigs or management. That is until now as he’s summoned by name to his boss’ side. His proficiency at staying off the radar of management has kept him from a one on one with the man in charge for some time, but now he is sitting on the top floor outside of Mr. Howard’s office, surely waiting to be assigned some horrible project.
“Come in!” Sam hears the surly man shout before promptly stepping into the gaudy office. He’s immediately taken aback as somehow the editor looks almost younger than he does in the many pictures Sam has seen. Sam hides his shock at the man’s jet black hair as well as he hides the general fear and disdain that begins to send adrenaline pumping towards his mind. Mr. Howard doesn't notice at least, getting straight to business, “I can tell from yer writing that ya like the city Sam, can I call ya Sam?”
Samuel opens his mouth to reply but the chief just continues on, “Anyway I love all yer little toilet paper stories but how do ya wanna write with the big leagues?” This time Samuel stays strong and gets a word in before being steamrolled again, “Actually I-” “I’m puttin’ you on the most important case we have Sam. Surely ya’ve noticed all this, what's da word, influx? Invasion? Bah. All the Asian shit that’s startin’ ta creep in on our city’s culture!” Samuel makes an awkward face as despite knowingly working for the racist, it’s different to hear the words out loud.
He holds his tongue out of shock or fear and his boss continues on his diatribe, “The last couple a schmucks I had on the beat just up’n left me high and dry can ya believe it! Old friends I thought!” He grumbles as he scratches his chin, moving away his hand it seems his beard thinned? He shakes his head in irritation and Sam would swear he saw his jowls tighten and wrinkles smooth over. “Anyway kid. Go out and do some prelim research. Have something on my desk by Friday or yer out just like those galoots!” Samuel stands for a second unsure if he’s allowed to leave before his boss looks up to glare with eyes Sam would’ve sworn were blue when he walked in.
Sam rushes out the door and to the elevator, riding it back to his floor, debating between writing a preemptive resignation or keeping mum and keeping on payroll for one last week. Profiteering from a culture war he may be but he’s not about to regurgitate genuinely racist talking points. He taps his foot impatiently as he thinks about just how cushy this gig is though. “Fuck!” He decides to call the only other confirmed decent human being he knows here, his friend Nick who works in the fashion dept.
The two go to grab coffee at a chain next door, Sam tries not to notice how they’ve started selling Vietnamese iced coffee. “Fuck man I can’t do it! Literally just one conversation alone with Howard was a wake up call.” Nick smiles like he has no problems with working for the dirtiest rag in the city, “Chill out Sam. Huward had my manager on the same beat and he, uh, Hidaka said that is said to just look busy for a bit and we won’t need to worry about all this racist shit anymore.” Sam squints his eyes at his friend, he’s not usually so easy breezy about work. He also racks his brain trying to figure out who Hidaka could possibly be. That can’t be his boss. No way Howard would let someone not white lead a department.
Seeing Sam lost in thought Nick reaches out and grabs his hand in a way Sam couldn’t imagine him doing before this second. In fact as the second drags on he stares down in the hand in shock, feeling the warm hand squeeze his forearm. He looks up to his friend’s face searching for any clue to the cause of this odd behavior. Sam smiles awkwardly and half-jokes “Hah hah, uh- Who are you and what’d you do with Nick… Hah.” Nick bursts out laughing, patting him on the arm jovially and leaving a hand larger than Sam remembers resting on his own. “Hidaka-san just showed me how to worry less about this job un?”
Sam inspects him closely for anything amiss, it looks like he’s picked up a bit of a tan? His hair is messier than usual and definitely a little darker, his skin is alluringly smooth and Sam can feel the heat his body is generating despite sitting across from him. Looking at his clothes Sam finds another surprise, his shirt almost looks strained! As if Nick has been hitting the gym for sometime, maybe it’s just been a while since he’s seen his friend in person?
Assuaged in the slightest, Sam ignores the glowering red flags and follows this lede, “Woah Nick have you been working out?” Nick blushes and Sam at the very least sees his friend is as shy as ever. He goes to scratch the back of his head straining his shirt almost to its ripping point as he responds, “Ah a little haha! どうぞ(please) don’t you worry about me. Since you have no desire to write the article, why don’t you go ahead and check out the little Asian market down the street for fun? It was quite a good time when Hidaka-san brought me earlier this week!”
Sam awkwardly smiles as he wonders why on Earth Sam is suddenly referring to his boss like this, it’s almost like he’s performatively speaking Japanese. Taking a second to pause Sam looks at the haircut as hands unseen style it into something fashionable he puts two and two together. Thinking to himself, ah! Nick must just be a weeb! Tension disappears from his body with a sigh of relief as he wonders how he didn’t notice before now. He gets up to follow his friend’s advice, what better way to stick it to the man than support the people he aims to malign right?
He bucks up and grabs a Vietnamese iced coffee for the road, tossing a “Sayonara,” at Nick with a wink to which he perks up and slightly bows. Man, how did he not notice before Sam thinks yet again. Blissfully unaware, leaving just as kanji symbols appear on Nick’s keyboard and his friend responds to an email in a language he didn’t know this morning. Blue eyes growing coal dark as his tanned, increasingly muscular arms tap away at the keyboard.
Sam spends the bulk of his day at the little Asian street fair and has an absolute blast. Any residual stains on his mind from his unpleasant morning absolutely fade away as he goes from booth to booth sampling cuisine and chatting with diasporic cultures the world over. Time flies as he goes into journalist mode and basically interviews first gen Chinese immigrants about their time in the city. He finds himself beyond immersed in the conversation, continuing to learn from the couple as the tables around them begin to pack up for the day.
He offers to help the older couple pack up and they happily take the aid, striking him bashful as they talk of what a sweet young man he is. “Wa! 哇强 (strong) Too!” The wife chuckles as she jokingly feels his less than impressive arms. He was having a better time at this little fair than he ever could’ve imagined, enough so that he thinks about going to stick it to Huaward then and there. Huaward? Whatever. His mind slightly off put by whatever that was, in an uncharacteristic act of transparency, Sam lets it slip that he works for NY:Red. The expressions on the kind couple’s faces immediately sour and Sam is quite shocked that they even know what the paper is.
There is a glint in the husband’s eyes as he starts to motion Sam away from any further aid, “谢谢 (Thank you) for your help, Sam. There have been a few, hm, bad men wandering around from that paper and I uh-” He looks around his table and grabs some miijiu they hadn’t put away yet. His wife nods, her face somewhere between rueful and hopeful as she watches her husband offer Sam the glass. “Again, 谢谢, er thank you for your help young man, enjoy this for the road 好的? (Yeah?)” The two turn to each other and begin talking to each other in mandarin alone and Sam takes the hint.
Kicking himself that he fumbled the capstone on such a pleasant afternoon, though finding solace in the rice wine he’s walking away with. He is blissfully unaware as the couple watch him drink and head down the street debating if everyone from that paper really is an asshole. Grimacing as they think about the vitriol spewed at them by NY:Red readers they decide they had no other recourse. Pleasant as he seemed Sam was consciously working on the side of hate and that could not be simply overlooked.
Sam quite enjoyed the rice wine the couple left him with, it immediately smooths over any lasting regret or concern about his interaction with the couple. They don’t know anything about him! He’s nothing like his other coworkers. It feels as if he’s had far more to drink than the small container they left him with should allow, but every time he looks down there always seems to be more mijiu to entice him. It would be impolite not to finish their gift he thinks; his confident stride quickly shifting to a stumble as he wanders home.
His phone goes off as he gets an email from his boss, Mr. Huang? Can’t be right. He squints at the email, deciding he must really have overdone it on the mijiu and stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Beyond the obvious difficulties in ambulation being drunk, Sam is unable to notice as his proportions slowly begin to shift. His ever-so lanky body begins to feel dull and heavy as the warmth of the wine fills his chest to capacity and then some as he leans against his apartment door, wiping his feet on an unfamiliar doormat.
He kicks his shoes off by the door on some new instinct and immediately goes to collapse on the couch. His small sofa creaking as he puts more than his usual dead weight on it. His legs that usually hang off the end lengthen even further as his thighs grow meatier. Pecs press into the cushions as he snores. He is swiftly ushered into an unfamiliar dreamscape, the jubilee of the fair and the bewildering amount of wine he drank produce a vivid carnival of culture in his subconscious.
He sees the old couple at their stand and begins to speak with them in their mother tongue, seeing the delight as a load is taken off their shoulders. His dreamself seamlessly conversing with a fluency unearned. Sam stirs in the waking world as his mind existentially changes to match his morphing body. His blond hair grows thin and longer as its tint stains darker. Twitching in REM the green eyes that he prides himself on speckle with brown before they are entirely overtaken, becoming a rich cacao like the thick eyebrows framing them.
The discomfort of a new language forcing itself into this memory begins to wane as he prides himself on how fluent he is in both Chinese and English. His hand goes to scratch his pecs and he smirks in his sleep as they pulse larger, knowing pride is not the only thing surging within him. At the edges of his mind he feels the memory of learning a language, words written on a blackboard in chalk, English and Chinese both. For the life of him he cannot recall which of the two he’s learning second. An alarm set on his phone blares and he jolts awake to get ready for work.
Throwing on a shirt, Sam freezes as he sees his reflection. Hundreds of little questions seize his mind, those aren’t his eyes are they? Did he dye his hair last night? Are those abs? God his arms look good don’t they!? As they race through his mind and grow rampant they fixate on how attractive he suddenly feels. Rubbing his pecs and feeling them bounce he cries out to himself, “该死！Uhhh, Damn I look good!” He poses in the mirror and takes in every new angle of his powerful body. Taking note as his body hair seems thinner, and decidedly darker wherever it remains. He looks close at his pit seeing his once dense bush of curly hair thin out and straighten, before the memory of even having dense body hair is washed from his mind.
His phone goes off again and his work is immediately brought to the forefront of his mind. “Fuck I didn’t read Huang’s message!” He finds email after email from his boss, only the first few mention the wretched assignment they last talked about. Sam’s eyes widen as he continues to skim through the emails as the topic lines quickly show some drastic re-prioritization from his boss. Only then does he realize that he’s been reading his boss’ name as Huang. His boss is white. Rather his boss’ whole identity is based around being white! Huang isn’t, right? Incredibly he clicks the last email, subject line Vacation, and is immediately greeted with a mouth watering picture of a powerful man. Everything comes to a stop as he can’t help but gawk at this man’s body.
Ni Hao Sanuel- take the day off shi de? Still only half dressed Sam balks at just how bizarre this is, rereading the name Sanuel he is thrown for a loop as his mind reconfigures this. Tearing his eyes from the man’s torso he finally looks at the cocky face and sees a thread he recognizes, “天啊! (Holy Shit!) That’s Mr. Huang!” He shuts his mouth before he drools like a dog at his boss’ arms. God, this is unlike him though right? He tries to dig through his memories of the editor in chief as the caustic racist he was yesterday, but with each uncovered the image of Huang changes as this dreamboat playboy overrides more of what was.
Sanuel readies to just stay in for this day of assigned vacation before he gets another notification, this time from his friend, Nobu? An image of Nick flashes through his mind, a handprint burns on his arm, and the taste of Vietnamese coffee dances on his lips. “Meet me on the boardwalk うん？” Sanuel rolls his eyes at his friend tacking on Japanese like that, willing his mind not to think about how his friend’s contact ID now says Nobu. Must be one of those, uh, his own thoughts trail off as he successfully abandons concern to head to meet his friend.
Nearing the meeting spot he looks for his usually cleancut friend, the only body present however is a massive Japanese man awkwardly flexing at himself in a reflective surface. Sanuel shyly speaks up, “Ni Ha-, uh Hey? Have you seen a guy named Nick around here?” The apparent bodybuilder beams and goes to engulf Sanuel in a hug shouting, “Oi! Shan! took ya long enough!” His eye twitches hearing the name, as this man effortlessly lifts him off his feet in a hug far too intimate for colleagues, and certainly from whoever this stranger is!
Shan pushes against the massive man, his body heat broiling him on this already warm day. He strains his eyes looking at the man grabbing him and suddenly it hits him, “Nobu?” The man promptly lets him go and pats him on the back with a laugh he would’ve never expected to come from his sheepish friend in the fashion department. “Wanna go have some ice cream or something Shan?” He feels the need to push back against his friend calling him Shan but as he hears it a second time he can’t recognize the names as anything but his own.
Shan pauses as he sees Nobu stop to chat with some Japanese tourists and something about the picture doesn’t sit right. God it’s that talk with Huang getting him all worked up again that,uh, racist? He clutches his head as contradictions between his past and present collide in his head and he slams his eyes shut as he cannot determine what is true about his current reality. Shan falls to the ground with a deep thud, slightly hyperventilating, his body grows larger as he takes deep breaths from the stress.
Hearing him collapse Nobu runs over to help him up, this time with more effort as his friend’s comatose body continues to put on muscle and grow heavier. Still, having the impressive figure he does, Nobu rather easily gets him on a bench and sits next to him, “クソ野郎？(Fuck dude?) You alright?” Shan slowly nods as his friend throws an arm around him. Looking down at his own arms as they pulse with muscle, he feels his eyes strain as the structure of his face begins to change.
Shan's jawline sharpens and his skin smooths. Stubble that has been a cornerstone of hiding his facial blemishes vacates as his hair stains black and flops longer. He feels clarity grace his mind as he stares at large hands on the ends of pale, hairless, muscular arms and he wonders if he is even himself.
He voices these concerns to Nobu who just laughs them off. “Hah! Of course dude, same Shan I’ve always known!” “那- that’s not my name Nobu.” His friend grins shyly in concern for his friend's mind. “It can't be my name. I’m-” grimacing before he continues as it takes everything in his power to speak against the realities in front of him. Memories of a world quite far away, moving to New York long ago, the youngest in a family of Chinese immigrants, “I’m white aren’t I Nobu?”
Nobu can’t help but laugh again at the beyond bizarre statement. He jokes about Shan hitting his head when he fell. “You’re the most 2nd Gen Chinese わるがき(brat) I know bro! Imma go get us some ice cream while you chill out.” Shan stares at his friend as he abandons him, feeling his eyes tighten as they shift into the monolid eyes that his memories swear he’s always had.
Shan retreats into his mind racing against his changing memories to find a pillar of truth to grasp on. He sees himself at the gym with Nobu, his black mop of hair flicking sweat into the air as he poses with his bro. He sees just yesterday at the Asian fair, helping an elderly couple pack up their table, twitching as he would’ve sworn that went differently. He remembers sitting at the office getting no work done as he plays on his phone, 是的！that’s it! His job. There’s something there, if only he can remember what the problem was there.
He sees Nobu begin walking back with sweet treats, Nobu works at the paper too. Oh 呃/Duh! He smirks as he goes for his wallet to grab a business card. His eyes see the obnoxious red logo he knows before they read text that will send him irrevocably forward, Shun Jiang - Ni Hao!NYC. His body fills with warmth like a machine overworking as his mind races with information about his new reality. Sweat drips from his hair as he can no longer even struggle to recall his claimed existence as a bystander at the vile paper they produced. His brown eyes steep to a dark black as they glaze over.
“Shan-baka! Here’s a popsicle!” Nobu shouts as he returns to his overheated friend who immediately bursts from his stupor. “混蛋!(Asshole!) It’s Shun- thought we were close!” Nobe smirks as he starts to eat his own ice cream. Unable to recall anything too in depth he feels a pause as he wonders what his Japanese friend is doing working for a Chinese newspaper, before he answers it himself. Clearly his subconscious is more at place in whatever new reality he faces. Their paper is for all NYC’s Asian immigrants. Nobu works writing, or more often modeling, for Konnichiwa!NYC! Huang really was a genius for the idea.
Shun smiles, thinking fondly of his boss as he enjoys the short break from the summer heat that Nobu brought him. Back at the headquarters of their paper everything shifts from the rag it was and into a paper connecting the disparate Asian immigrants of the city, printed in any language they can find translators for, Ni Hao, Konnichiwa, Annyeonghaseyo, Namaste!NYC. Each day striving for a better, more inclusive New York City. Shun beams with his new face, no longer burdened with the just concern of his peddling vitriol, instead possessed with a desire to spread his culture far and wide.
———————————————————————————
As I was writing I remembered a similar series by the now gone Dumb-and-Jocked!
If interested do check out Horizon Zero: One, Two, and Three for quite a different take on a journalism themed Racial Change!
[A long tf story inspired by this video I found: https://x.com/satisdanismani4/status/1724320930896241088]
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Paul was your average mid-30s guy, that's pretty much it...aside from his job which was quite adult one might say. A recent arrival to the porn scene, he had all his photos and videos hosted on a website he himself had bought the domain to. He was quite the man of force, and it showed. His videos featured a wide array of fellow actors and locations, some even abroad like in Japan or Taiwan. Emails would come rushing into his mailbox, each inviting him to some shoot or another.
That was, until business slowed down a couple of months ago. His mailbox which would usually be flooded with messages slowly dwindled to almost nothing. And then a few weeks ago, quite literally nothing. Paul was furious, but perhaps it was time to move onto another career.
This morning, something was different. Opening his mailbox, he found only one new message.
The sender was some place called "Türk Majesteleri (Turkish Majesty)". Paul raised his eyebrow. "Maybe some kind of...BDSM thing I suppose?" He opened the email and read through the text.
"Günaydın PaulScottX! We are Türk Majesteleri, a studio specializing in modelling for Turkish designers and businesses. We are offering you a chance to audition for a new runway collection this fall, just show up at the given address and you will be entertained. We at Türk Majesteleri would be glad to have you as a model."
"Modelling?" Paul thought to himself. It was strange in his mind to have a modelling company contact him given his current profession, and he was about to click off when he noticed the address. It was only an hours drive from his house, and he figured he might as well get some extra cash given his predicament.
Driving to the location, he found himself face to face with an unassuming warehouse. With shaky hands, he pounded on a door. "Hello? Is this...Turk Majes-te-le-ri? Anyone home?" Receiving no response, he decided to let himself in. Inside, he was greeted with quite a sight.
"Paul Scott'ı mı? Bunun için üzgünüm...eh...sorry about this. Just had to get ready for shoot. Come come, Murat Bey bekliyor...eh...waiting..."
The Turkish man said in a shaky voice. Paul could only stare back at the man in his shiny glory and take in the unmistakable smell of herbs, but whatever. Must be the shoot he was talking about.
Entering another door labelled "MURAT" in big golden letters, Paul was greeted with a firm handshake from the Turkish hunk.
"Tünaydın Paul." He said with a booming voice. Looking around the room, it seemed to be some kind of shooting area with the usual stuff. There was a couch, a table, the cyclorama, and a majestic but old looking Persian rug.
Sitting down in front of him, Murat started stroking his beard as he spoke. "Paul, I am sure you are comfortable with modelling right? But to give you idea about what we do, just listen to me carefully." Paul nodded. "Again Paul, just stare at me in the eyes, this is serious business. I will send you out if you do not take this seriously."
Paul nodded again, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.
"First, Burak treat you well?" Burak must be the name of that shirtless guy. "Yes actually, why do--"
*SNAP*
"Next." Murat interrupted, snapping his fingers in front of a confused Paul. "The hell was--"
"You think Turkish men manly?" Paul raised his eyebrows...is this some sort of porno being filmed right now? "Uh...I guess so-"
*SNAP* "Turkish men look good right?" With a loud snap, Paul felt himself get warmer all of a sudden...then itchy. He absentmindedly scratched at his torso as Murat continued talking. "What is--"
*SNAP* "Turkish men are hairy right?" The next snap was it. Paul felt the itch suddenly get stronger as he lifted up his shirt to find he had started growing coarser hair. Looking at his left arm, he saw a subtle tan starting to race across his forearm.
"H-huh...wh-"
"I am afraid I lied to you Paul. You are indeed modelling, for me. But first, I have to do the general transformation before we get to fixing you up. The changes will be a little uncomfortable. Üzgünüm."
Paul had barely any time to react when another *SNAP* caused his shirt to disappear and his pants turn into blue denim. "Standard outfit." Murat chimed in.
Immediately, a wave of itchiness started spreading across his body as more and more hair erupted from his skin. His light tan had also begun to engulf his body as a wave of warmth hit Paul at once. This warmth was accompanied by his muscles starting to grow, his stomach flattening out and churning into well-defined abs. He also started feeling the itch spread to his face, as his beard began to grow.
*SNAP* The itch in his face soon turned into a weird pulsating sensation as his facial features began to morph, elongating his face and pushing his nose and brow ridge slightly forward. Paul could only mutter weak cries for mercy as he fell to the ground, crawling to a nearby corner.
"Wh-...s-stop th-this..."
Then a slight pause.
"Hm."
You look fine like this and could sell pretty well to someone else, but I want something closer to home. Someone just for me." *SNAP*
Immediately, a ringing sound pierced Paul's ears as he shook his head trying to regain composure. "Satmak"? Bekle…" Paul was about to speak out against the prospect of him getting sold when he caught himself and placed his hand over his mouth. That voice definitely sounded like him, but those words. They were Turkish!
"Kendi dilimi konuşmak iyi hissettiriyor, değil mi? (Feels good speaking my language right?)" Murat said in full Turkish as Paul sat there in disbelief.
"LÜTFENBUNUDURDURUNBENBUNUYAPMIYORUMBIRAKIN BENİ!" Paul quickly begged in rapid succession, his words blending into one another as Murat shook his head. "Tsk. You are annoying like this. Just grunts will do." *SNAP*
As Paul grappled with his situation, the loss of his speech was something else. He grunted and grunted to no avail, much to Murat's amusement. "You know what, you should only be able to understand Turkish. I do not trust you with that knowledge" *SNAP*
Paul slowly bent down on the floor as yet another ringing sound entered his ears. Murat slowly stood up as he went to the door and called for Burak, the oiled up guy. As Burak entered, Paul saw a wide smirk on his face. "Murat Bey benim gibi bir asistan daha istiyor ve seni dönüştürmek için benim yardımıma ihtiyacı var. Benimle güreş. (Mr. Murat wants another assistant like me and he needs my help to transform you.)"
As Burak finished speaking, a strange sense of determination churned inside him. Maybe if he fought back, he could leave. He desperately wanted to leave. But even before Paul could stand up to face him, Burak quickly placed himself on top of Paul as he started fiercely rubbed his oiled-up hands on his face. As soon as Paul breathed in the fragrant oil, his eyes rolled back into his head as Burak kept rubbing and pulling on his limbs like some sort of massage. Eventually, he started pulling off tufts of hair from his body, the electric sensation sending Paul further and further into a lulled bliss. The entire time, Burak was chanting something.
"Sen artık Altan'sın. Altan."
With every passing second, Paul felt himself letting go until his eyelids closed.
---------------------------------------
*SNAP*
Altan woke up to another snap from Murat. He remained laying on the ground, fully naked with his golden skin and chiseled body on full view.
"Uyanman gerek. Saçınızın hala kesilmesi gerekiyor. Burek bu öğleden sonra ona stil vermeyi unuttu. Zaten gece oldu ve sana verdiğim bu takımı giymeni ve benimle dışarıda buluşmanı istiyorum. (You need to wake up. Your hair still needs to be cut. Burek forgot to style it this afternoon. It's already night and I want you to wear this suit I gave you and meet me outside.)"
Altan groaned in a low tone as he slowly rose from the ground, his mind foggy and his limbs trembling. Burek stood nearby as he walked forward and started trimming his hair down. After that, Burek placed the folded up suit in Altan's arms and winked. "Çok güzel görünüyorsun Altan. (You look very beautiful Altan.)"
After changing into his suit, Burek reached forward again to shave off his beard. "Murat bıyıkları çok seviyor. Bu geceki etkinlik için bir süre önce sakalını kesti. (Murat loves mustaches very much. He shaved his beard a while ago for tonight's event.)"
As he finished, Burek lightly patted Altan on the back before the two started walking outside. After walking down a small hallway, Altan found himself in a small reception area. Loud music and cheers echoed in his ears as he gazed upon a small banner hung across the windows.
"Türk Majestelerinin Yeni Bir Hizmetkarı (A New Servant of Turkish Majesty)"
As people started noticing Altan's appearance, Murat greeted him. "Altan, yeni hizmetkarım. (my new servant)"
As the fog started to clear from Altan's head, he slowly walked up and tugged at Murat's shirt, trying to beg him a final time to let him go. Murat continued lovingly caressing Altan's face with a wide smile on his face. "Bu artık senin yeni hayatın, aşkım. (This is your new life now, my love)"
Altan shook his head, as Murat's eyes flickered. "Tsk, Zihniniz hala savaşmak istiyor. (Your mind still wants to fight)" Slowly, he lifted his right arm in the air as Altan stared back in confusion...then paralyzing fear.
*SLAP*
Murat's hand came down on his face. The force of the impact jostling Altan's mind around as the fog came rushing back, his eyes glazing over before the searing pain managed to register to him. The pain was electric, rippling through his face as tears welled up in his eyes again.
"Etrafına bak Altan, artık bizim gibi bir Türk olduğun için mutlu olmalısın. Benim için gülümse! (Look around you Altan, you should be happy that you are a Turk like us now. Smile for me!)" Murat said in a soothing voice. Altan's eyes glazed over, the pain slowly dulling his thoughts as his body became still. A low "Mmmm.." escaping his throat as his hands remained fixed on Murat's torso.
Murat responded by lightly caressing Altan's cheek, his face slowly morphing away from a pained grin. "Aşkım..." Murat whispered.
Pulling him in a trance, Murat pulled Altan closer as he continued whispering his name over and over, commanding him to smile. Altan tried to fight back with the little mental strength he had, but it was no use. Altan felt a wave of pleasure engulf him, as his mouth formed into a wide grin. He felt himself becoming proud of being a Turkish man in body, and in mind. Nothing could be greater than this.
"Aha! İşte o altın gülümseme. Bu yüzden sana "Altan" deniyor. Sen altınsın. (Aha! There's that golden smile. That's why you're called "Altan". You are golden.)" And to Altan it felt true. That's the thing, this man before him was so considerate, so loving and tender. He felt himself being happy becoming his servant. Being part of Turkish Majesty as one of their servants is the greatest honor, and he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
Murat whispered into his ear again, giving it a light nibble. "Son bir tokat tamam mı? (One last slap okay?)" Altan nodded. Anything for his master. Murat slowly raised his hand...
...and the final slap came down to seal the deal. Altan was here to stay, and Murat kissed him on his cheek.
"Türk Majesteleri'ne hoş geldiniz Altan. (Welcome to Turkish Majesty, Altan.)"
---------------------------------------
Paul's website eventually disappeared into relative obscurity, as people chalked up his lack of uploading as him retiring from this sort of content. And to some extent, he did.
Altan and Murat in the meantime were busy travelling back to Istanbul permanently. There Murat hoped, would be the beginning of a new life for him, with his very own handsome and virile servant by his side.
"Sakalını tekrar kesmen lazım Altan. (You need to shave your beard again Altan)" Murat teased, gently caressing his face as he took a sip of coffee.
"Seni seviyorum, efendim." Altan thought to himself. It was all he would ever need to think about.
======================
WOW this story took forever to write. Well, after a few days I finally managed to wake up in a new body. Guess what, I'm in Turkey now! So here's a story based on Turkey for you!
To be honest, Kırkpınar is no biggie if you get the hang of it. İyi günler!
[Another story which isn't as sexual as the others I posted (just marking it since it might get flagged lol).]
================================================
The weather was sunny when Harold came by to visit his dear 'friend' Gerald. "Friend" in the sense that Harold would usually come visit only to find some little thing to judge him by as he had no one else to talk to.
You see, Harold was more of a "no nonsense" type, while Gerald was a man of science. Not the regular kind, but the supernatural. Harold usually put these things off as simple ramblings-of-a-mad-man sort of thing, but this fateful meeting would prove otherwise.
"What is Monsieur-Weirdo up to now, eh?" Harold greeted with a strained smile. Gerald simply nodded along as he was sorting through papers of clothes. "Going on a trip somewhere?"
"No...well, you can put it like that. More of a scientific expedition actually. Say, ever heard of time travel?" Harold rolled his eyes at the phrase. Sure, he's heard of it, in fiction that is. But never the matter, he was a friend after all, and to be honest Gerald's quirkiness was kind of endearing to him, though that was by no means any compliment.
"Come, I'll sort these things later, but I'd like to show you something that would have your brain explode in no time!" Gerald hurriedly grabbed Harold by the arm and led him to his reading room.
It was quite small, and the wooden paneling made it "a touch classy" as Gerald once put it, but he thought otherwise. As Harold was busy eyeing some new books he'd added to his collection, Gerald pulled out a small object from inside the now empty third drawer. "All that space for just one thing?"
"Ta-da!"
"Oh wow, an old brooch. How riveting."
"No no my friend, you see this is no ordinary brooch pin. I discovered this rummaging through some trash down the street. Unbecoming of a man my status I know, but WOW is this special. Allow me to demonstrate." Gerald giddily said as he held the brooch and affixed it to the inside of his shirt.
"After much testing, I've found how to use it. So essentially, you must first affix it to the inside touching your skin, lest it become visible to the eye and the effects nullified. Then, you just think of a date in your mind, and focus on trying to get the clock hands to move to "spell" it out so to speak. It took a while, but it worked!"
Harold scratched the back of his neck quite fearfully. "Uh...sure friend..." But as he turned around to leave the door fearing his friend had some sort of mental breakdown, he heard a shout and then a laugh. "Check the third drawer again!"
Turning around, Gerald was nowhere to be seen. Harold raised his eyebrows for a moment as he slowly walked to Gerald's desk and pulled open the third drawer as he was told. Inside, he found an old picture of some rather handsome man from the far past.
Confused, Harold turned the picture and saw some scribbles.
"Told you.
-Gerald Amundsen. 13th of March 1924"
He would've normally laughed this off as a prank, but he saw the drawer was empty when Gerald had first showed him the pin. He checked all the compartments, and saw no hidden contraption to conceal it if it was indeed some fakery.
Out of nowhere, Gerald appeared in front of him in the blink of an eye. "Magic, is it not? Of course I had to guess I got the right table to place the photo in, otherwise you wouldn't have seen it"
Harold stared back in disbelief as he stuttered. "I-impossible..."
Gerald chuckled as he sat him down on his chair and offered him some water. "It's some sort of time-travelling device. Quite small indeed, but it is a wonder nonetheless. You see, it would be okay if it was another time-travelling machine, but for this one it seems as though it is an odd requirement to think of a body which you'd like to be in for that period. Naturally, I went with the body of someone distinguished, learned, and handsome. So there you go! I've tried going to the future, but as you now that is quite the statistical improbability and it simply did not let me."
Harold nodded along, before fidgeting with the mysterious brooch in his hands. "How does it work you reckon?"
"I have no idea. But that's part of the allure isn't it?" Gerald stared at the object with pure fascination as he carefully placed it back to the drawer. "But I must confess, it is quite dangerous to play around with this. It would be nice to have both of us travel to the past to see its wonders, but I'm afraid I've yet to fully see if it is safe enough to do so."
The rest of the day was a bore compared to whatever happened in the morning earlier. With a short goodbye, Harold walked away from Gerald's residence with a look of wonder and curiosity.
"...I wonder what would happen if I tried it myself..."
It was the next morning when Gerald found a strange photograph of some mid-20-something man stuck inside some literature books he had shipped from Russia. His eyebrow raised as he tried scanning the photo, rubbing his fingers together as he smelled the unmistakable stench of cum.
Flipping it, he saw the message, scrawled in what at first seemed like faux-Cyrillic nonsense until he noticed they were trying to write English with it...poorly.
"GЄЯALD ЇS MЇ ҢAЯOLD HOP DЇS ЯЇCH YЏ.
-1996. "
"Gerald....it's...me...Harold....hope...this...ri-reach...y...you!" Gerald widened his eyes as he slowly pieced together exactly what happened. He must've broken into his place, used the device, and thought he could "play" with his body for a bit. Perhaps the device did not allow you come back to the present if you had cum while using the brooch. "Something with the heightened brain activity and frequency of the device perhaps?"
At the very bottom, it was signed. "Борис Михайлов". Well, at least he knew Harold's new name.
It took a while trying to find out more about the hunk of a guy in the photo, and after some digging into whoever Boris Mikhailov was, he found someone's profile online whose face matched closely with the one in the picture. Turns out, Harold, or rather Boris never managed to reverse the effects, and lived out his life in Russia until recently immigrating only a couple miles from his residence deep in the woods. Surprisingly detailed, but Gerald took it upon himself to visit his friend.
Once in the woods, it took no time before Boris made an appearance.
"Мое имя…iz not Борис then?" Boris asked in a confused scratchy voice, heaving as he had just finished chopping some firewood. when Gerald approached and told him everything.
Gerald scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably as he nodded. "So you have no recollection either...How about the thing? The pin. The...брошь?"
"брошь? Эта странная вещь? Помню выбросил его, но мало что помню. Мне сейчас 53! Хаха… (Brooch? That weird thing? I remember throwing it away, but I don't remember much. I'm 53 now! Haha...)" Boris chuckled, scratching his freshly shaven face before sighing deeply. For him, whatever this Gerald guy was saying rang zero bells, but he seemed nice...maybe a bit crazy.
Gerald chuckled nervously. "Of course he lost it." But what else is there to do? Boris is here to stay, and besides, he was actually nicer in comparison to his old friend. He could have never imagined Harold in the woods as some sort of forager, but here he was, although different in mind and body.
"Давай, I show you house!" Boris shook his head as he invited Gerald over to his small cabin. He seemed keen to know a bit more about this strange young man, and Gerald seemed interested to whatever stories Boris had to share. And thus began a new friendship.
It had been a few months since their first meeting, and Boris had recently found himself a position as an MMA coach with Gerald's help. He was quite well built and strong for a man his age, but looking back to that old photograph from '96, he seemed like the type to workout anyway. His English was definitely something, but Gerald would occasionally come by regardless and share the odd conversation or two. He liked the company.
"Эй, Джеральд! Что нового? (Hey Gerald! What's new?)"
As for the brooch, it would find its way across multiple new owners across time. Gerald of course found it a little disappointing the brooch was gone, but hey, at least he found himself a new guy to talk to. Perhaps it even made its way to your house? Go check your closets people! Just make sure not to have an orgasm when you use it.
Day 1: I was tasked to perform a routine swap with another one of our clients over in Taipei as he was scheduled to spend his vacation over here in California. His record's not stellar, with accounts of spending an odd two or three days over the two-week limit and basically endangering whoever he swapped with to undergo permanent mental changes as a result. Usually this would cut them off from the program, but he is one of the top donors to our cause, and he is a favorite of many here. I have no idea why to be honest, must be a charmer.
To be fair, I've been...skipping a few days just to relax and have some time to myself. But I DO need the money so, here I am. Just hoping this..."Yang" guy won't do anything foolish while in my body. Lucky guy though, he's going to be stuck in someone handsome.
Day 2: The procedure went according to plan. They gave me a small mouth piece disguised as some teeth whitening device to initiate the swap and together with Yang we activated them. Almost instantly, I felt the usual effects of the swap: dizziness, slight confusion, temporary blindness. But damned if I don't say this Yang guy's quite the looker himself.
He's quite frisky too. I can feel myself getting...aroused just looking at myself. Huh.
----------------------------------------------------
Day 5: After a few days to myself doing the usual..."activities" after the swap, I decided to do some private correspondence with Yang in my body. Of course I had to look through his closet for some proper clothes, I'm not a savage. Yang's choice of wardrobe is...questionable to say the least, but at least the guy has some decent dress shirts.
...And of course he chose to be a bit more...risqué.
He was rather...nonchalant about the whole matter. He told me the usual stuff he was up to the past few days. He went to the beach, hooked up with some guy, and was enjoying some time to himself as well. But his tone was rather lackluster...he is hiding something. But I am too tired and frankly, horny, to deal with it for now. So, this micro-earpiece is going to stay in its case for now.
----------------------------------------------------
Day 10: Four days left until he has to return to my body. You know what, I'm a little bummed out. Of course I would love to go back, but something about his...my body right now is making me feel...lighter if that makes sense.
I spent the last few days trying to enjoy myself for the last time. Even went to the local gym. I of course worked out plenty of times in my old body but, something about this week made me love it even more. Like, it was all I could think about...
But never the matter, it must be the usual mental changes that start to initiate during the later half of the swap. Yang has been awfully silent these couple of days, but I chalk it up to him doing...stuff. Yeah.
Day 14: Bad news. He's done it again. He apparently cut off all contact and fled with my body in tow. Argh. Whatever, he usually agrees to swap back a few days later so I'd say it'll buy me some time tojerkoffandmaybefu-
Wait...what?
----------------------------------------------------
Day 19: G-god...I'm...fucked aren't I. I haven't heard back from the t-team...and sure as hell didn't hear anything from Yang...笨蛋。
The mental changes too...they started faster than I thought, maybe a day ago. 我…我需要让它停止。Last night I felt myself wanting to do...more. More fun. More gym. More...sex. More cum. Huhuhuh...
SwitchTech Notes: Yang has ceased all communications with SwitchTech and Dave Stanton. Mr. Stanton currently suffers from the most severe stage of mental change, and his log has not been updated in a while, and it is presumed he has deactivated his account entirely. He is currently under observation for any further changes by correspondents on the ground, and is planned to be brought back to our facilities after the real Yang is recaptured. He is still missing, and is actively being pursued by the team for overstaying his welcome here.
...but that doesn't matter now does it Dave? Or should I say...Yang Hao? Cutting you off from the facility was one of the best decisions I've ever made...of course after pulling a few strings over here. This is permanent as far as I can see, and I decided to...mess with your head just a little bit for good measure. Enjoy your life now, 笨蛋。
Chad was quite the boisterous fella. After all, who wouldn't be so celebratory after winning a paid vacation to the pristine beaches of Bali? And he loved it all.
While on his way back to his hotel, he scouted some street food vendors cooking up all sorts of local delicacies. Chad laid his eyes on of the guys selling some sort of fried rice combo. The man was built like a rock in every sense of the word. His bulging biceps begging his sleeves to give way as his ginormous pecs were pushing themselves tight against the man's apron. And he was quite the looker too.
Unfortunately, the man thought the same about Chad. After some light banter and the sporadic hand holding, Agus eventually invited the man over to his house for some rather intimate sessions. This little thing continued for a few days, before that one fateful night when Agus slipped a little purple "potion" into Chad's food. As Chad ate into some mean babi guling, he felt his head spin as he slowly fell to the ground. Agus meanwhile undressed himself, slowly but surely standing by as Chad's transformation took place. As Chad laid himself down on the floor writhing in discomfort as waves of static energy ran up and down his body, Agus started speaking in his low, sensual voice, ever so slightly gyrating his hips and beckoning with his finger.
"Anda merasa diri anda semakin besar..."
"Kamu merasa dirimu semakin bodoh..."
"Kamu merasa dirimu melupakan segalanya..."
"Kamu merasa dirimu mencintaiku..."
Chad felt himself getting bigger as he writhed on the ground, hiding his head with a pillow and his arms as he begged for Agus to stop. But he never did. He slowly felt his cock stir and grow larger in his pants, making him squirm and moan even harder. And all that was left to seal the transformation was... "CROT"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a few days later when another group of tourists stumbled upon Agus's stall...and a new plot of land behind him. Agus offered them a tour of his quaint farm supplying his ingredients for the stall. And in the middle of it stood Karel.
A farmer hailing from across the strait in Java, he came to Bali in search of a job. His mind basically filled only with the basics, Agus had agreed to take him in as not only a farmer, but a "helper".
Karel was here to stay, and he was proud of it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hey Everyone! I'm returning to Tumblr! To make the long story short, I finally managed to leave that Chinese guy's body! But bad news, I got stuck in this random Filipino guy's bod. Still trying to work out the kinks in returning to my original body but hey, I'm not complaining. Ang gwapo ko hihihi, at sana nagustuhan niyo ang story ko!
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Taking a break from writing stories, just swapped with some guy from China a few days back and still can't figure out how to come back 23333333
(Not really but to be honest though I feel stuck in a creative rut. I'll probably post a story when I want to but right now's not a great time. I don't know exactly when I'll come back but it might be for a while.)
Noah had flown into the beautiful tropical beaches of Indonesia just for a few weeks. But no later than he had set foot into the strange resort he found himself in that he wished he wanted to just stay here forever. Away from all the chaos back home.
For him, it was paradise....aside from the construction workers which had been working on some of the unfinished parts of the resort. Oh how he wished for them to just leave with that awful noise they were making day-in day-out. Fortunately, while he was in his room calling some old pal back home, a worker overheard some of his more insulting words and decided to do something about it.
One day as luck would have it, some "Aman" guy offered for a personal solo tour of the woods surrounding the resort. Not willing to pass on some hiking to get his blood pumping, Noah agreed to the stranger's request. After some distance away, Aman offered up a simple massage to ease up Noah's sore muscles. After some hesitation at being touched by this hunky Indonesian man, he relented and let Aman apply the salve.
"Mari kita lihat bagaimana anda menyukai ini..."
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It was a few hours later after he had woken up, and Nur was now alone, stumbling his way on some road deep in the forest. Barefoot with his large feet on the cold ground, and his muscles out in the cold open air, Nur was trying to get to where Aman was to ask him to change him back. The thought lingered in his mind for a bit, of course until the mental changes did him in. Eventually, he reached Aman and the rest of the workers' housing. Panting from all the running, he began to mindlessly stroke his throbbing cock under his pants, flexing and sniffing his now stinky pits in front of Aman's mischievous smile.
After some months of careful study, the resort had allowed Nur to be elevated from construction worker...to a chauffeur of the resort's more elite guests. Nur was all too happy to take the position. After all, now he had some personal space and even more time to play with himself...of course after some adjustments to make his frame even bigger than before.
"Simon says...YOU'RE A DUMB HICK!"
Nick found himself at the secluded farm trying to scout out abandoned structures in the countryside. His first mistake was being caught by the farm operator. The second was him calling the guy "a dumb hick". The third? Not knowing he was mentally weak enough to be hypnotized and transformed over the course of the week. His IQ of 110 being toned down to a nice and suitable 60. His body bulked up and swelled with muscle as his brain became filled with nothing but admiration and obedience for his owner. And of course some bits and pieces of farming for good measure. Just the basics so he doesn't do any more thinking...or talking.
Nick chortled at the game as his deep guffaw echoed across the empty field, mindlessly running his fingers over his throbbing cock which had already started spurting a slow steady stream of piss and precum. His gaping mouth pooling up with saliva as he stared up at his owner like some dumb animal. After all, he sure smelled like one.
Your “Revenge: Jock Bro Style” story was super hot!! loved the way you added the pop-ups! (how did you make those btw?) would you ever make another story like it? maybe making a new roommate for Colt? lol
Aww thank you so much!! I wanted it to be a one-off story, but honestly now that you mention it, I might make a sequel in the future. I'm thinking maybe something about a friend of "Colt" trying to look for him and getting trapped by Brock or something to that end.
I love jockification/dumbification in general so don't worry more of those stories will definitely come out :D.
It took a while to make the pop-ups cuz I had to assemble it all in Photoshop, and I used this GIF-maker online to put it all together. Took a bit to render cuz it was a pretty large file lol. It wasn't that bad since the first idea I had was editing together a WHOLE VIDEO with the full monty.
Anyways again thank you so much for the support! <3
I did NOT expect the past posts to blow up like that, and seeing everyone like AND reblog them made me feel so happy especially because I'm new to writing these kinds of stories ;)
Anyways again I'm sorry if I can't post here too often nor if I don't respond to your messages that quickly cos i wuz 2 bizy lisnin 2 sum fylz dis br0 geyve me huhuh (not really). But in all honesty I hope that won't be too much of a bother.
I didn't want to leave a note like this without SOMETHING so here's a really really short story. ILYSM
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[dodson124]: plz bro stap id hurdsss
[hypn0tr1pn0]: Sorry dude. You asked for it.
[dodson124]: brooooo plz im soooo stinky n my hed hurdss so bad bro
[hypn0tr1pn0]: Well I don't know what to tell you bud. Here's what you said: "Please make me into the stud of my dreams." Well, that was your dream. You even sent a whole voicemail with what you wanted and I gave it to you.
[dodson124]: nooo bro y my hed hurdy i jus wanned 2 b BIIG
[hypn0tr1pn0]: You DID stipulate and even select the "dumber" option of my services. I know you're not all there in the head anymore but I didn't violate any rules.
[dodson124]: dude wat r u sayn i kant unnertsand u
[hypn0tr1pn0]: Oookay...
[hypn0tr1pn0]: U sed u want change. I giv u change. U sed u want dum. I giv u dum.
[hypn0tr1pn0]: Got it?
[hypn0tr1pn0]: Helloooo?
[dodson124]: dude im sooooo big an dum now
[dodson124]: fuk bro im soooooooooo hooooooooooorneeeeee
[hypn0tr1pn0]: Geez.
[hypn0tr1pn0]: I'll go over there to see if I can reverse this face-to-face. Part of our services says we need to get your address in case of a "hypnosis accident". Until then just, jerk off or whatever. Just don't do anything that'll stress your mental faculties.
[dodson124]: wuuut bro y u sayn jibrish r u dum . ?//
[hypn0tr1pn0]: No no read big word. No no hurt hed. W8 for me. I go ur house.
[hypn0tr1pn0]: God, why does typing and speaking like this actually like
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"Whoa broski! WTF r u doin bro?!" The deep voice of one of the jocks echoed in the hallway.
"BROCK ANDERSON! You shut your mouth and move out the way, NOW!" Colin Foster, head of the English club of the neighboring college, shouted back. He had just come back from a tiring activity about writing some kind of novel, when he had the misfortune of bumping right into Brock Anderson: apparently the school's most feared and revered football players, hanging out with his small group of friends. He was just trying to visit an old friend of his, a fellow English teacher just a few floors up.
"Huhuh, sorry duude..." Brock responded, his deep bass voice resonating in Colin's ears. This irritated Colin more, as in the moment he felt as though he was being disrespected. They didn't even call him sir for crying out loud, he though to himself, as he felt his fury rise.
"You absolute DIMWITS! I am at my wits end trying to just get through the day and burly asses decided to just block my way JUST TO TALK?!" Colin hurled more and more insults. He didn't even know why he was this angry at something so insignificant, but the day's stresses got the better of him.
Pushing his way through the jocks, he was about to walk the other direction when Brock shouted. "HEY! You do not get to talk about us like that!" he spoke loudly and firmly, pointing his fingers in Colin's direction. Brock's friends stayed quiet behind him, the one beside him mockingly scrunching his "angry" face.
Colin was taken aback by Brock's sudden proficiency in English, but he simply tutted, turned around, and walked briskly away from the jocks. Brock placed his hands down, and calmly walked away from his friends, opening his phone and dialing some number he found on the net.
"I'd like to purchase one of your little games..."
Night came, as Colin begrudgingly sat on his desk chair and turned on his laptop. It was time to grade yet another set of papers made by some of his students. It was nearing midnight when he finally yawned, placing his hands on his tired face. "God I'm turning 45 just round the corner...." he mumbled to himself. He thought back to the incident that happened earlier that day, and closed his eyes. He knew shouldn't have been that angry, and yet he still hated them. His type, the damn jocks. "Dumb lumbering pieces of meat", he thought to himself.
Just then, a notification popped up. Opening it, he saw something which made his stomach drop.
"...Brock?" He mumbled to himself. Rolling his eyes at the horrible typography and spelling, he begrudgingly nodded understandingly. Looking at the bottom, he saw a link to this "present". "Jockify. Some kinda' new workout app maybe? Could use a few of those." Colin chuckled to himself. He was known to be quite skinny.
Clicking it, a file downloaded on his computer. After unzipping it, he clicked on the app and it began loading. As it did, something caught his eye. The appearance of the pop-up seemed...old. REALLY old. Windows XP old. "Jesus, is this a virus..." he groaned, tapping his fingers on his desk.
Finally, the pop-up loaded.
Colin gasped in shock as he flung himself backwards to his chair's backrest. First, what the hell was this "bro'd" thing and why the fuck did Brock send this. Second, this did NOT look like a typical Windows XP pop-up, or really any pop-up for that matter. Everything seemed wrong, and Colin sighed exhaustedly. "Goddammit Brock." he mumbled angrily.
But as his cursor went over to close it, the cursor went haywire. Try as he might, he couldn't close the pop-up. He even tried the last resort, turning the laptop off and then on again. The pop-up was still there.
He wanted to put this off for tomorrow, but he still had some papers left to go over. Slapping himself across the face, he pushed forward and clicked the underlined link below.
When it appeared, Colin immediately tried to close it. But he felt something tingling on his legs, arms, hands, neck-- it was everywhere. He immediately tried to scratch these parts, when the tingling turned into pain. His legs ballooned with lean muscle as he felt his pants shift. As the pants suddenly shredded themselves he felt his bulge vibrate and pulsate as his cock erupted forth from his groin. The pain sent Colin stand up immediately and went limping to the bathroom as he surveyed it. Standing fully erect and having grazed a table leg so hard it sent waves of orgasmic pleasure down his whole body, Colin looked down.
(Colin's cock)
"J-jesus fuck..." Colin whispered in overwhelming pleasure as his cock stood tall. Placing his hand next to it, he figured it was maybe a full 10 inches long.
But the changes were only beginning. As he tried to limp back with his cock swinging between his legs, he fell onto the ground as more and more muscle rippled through his body. He felt his spine elongate and stretch, as did his bones, tendons, and everything in between. With a few ghastly pops and cracks, he groaned in a mixture of pain and pleasure, grasping his cock with one hand trying to contain himself. As his clothes shredded themselves, they seemed to have disappeared into thin air entirely. Colin was scared. And overwhelmingly horny.
(Colin's body)
After a few pained breaths, he slowly stood up, now a towering giant of 6 foot 10 inches. He walked over slowly back to the laptop, huffing carefully as he grasped his cock, which was now a full 12-inch long hunk of meat. "...g-gOD..." Colin mumbled, clutching at his throat in surprise at the deeper voice he now had.
He wanted this nightmare to end, and desperately tried to close the pop-up. But instead, the cursor moved itself towards the link.
"SHIT! Oh god...p-please, no moOO-" Colin was barely able to complete his pleas of mercy when his feet burst through his socks. The pain was more tolerable this time, as he clenched his jaws the entire time his feet grew larger. What was then a US size 14 had grown into hunks of size 21 meat. "Meat. Meat. Meat.", the word swirled around in Colin's head, staring at his feet while laying down, still naked, on the floor. Pushed on by the caption in the pop-up, he slowly placed his nose near his feet and took a sniff. They smelled like old socks, much to his chagrin. At least it didn't smell that bad.
Taking a few deep breaths, he went back to the laptop and placed his hands on the mouse. If Brock wanted to play dirty, he would at least try to not go down without a fight. He wanted to see what was at the end of this stupid "game".
As the pop-up appeared, a foul stench suddenly greeted his nose. Looking down, he saw that over his naked muscled bod were some new clothes. They all stunk. Keeling his head over to his armpits, he felt the warm sweat greet his face, as the stench of....manliness...pierced his nostrils. "...manliness?" Colin grumbled to hismelf. Why the hell did he describe it like that?
Then he turned to his feet, new socks draped over them. Carefully removing the socks revealed the insides to be horrendously stained brown with what seemed to be weeks worth of sweat and dirt. Tossing them aside in the pile, he was about to take a whiff when it hit him. "Pile?" No, he was better than that. He always placed his socks in the washing machine but...there was a pile. He had a pile. And somehow, he knew there was a pile. A pile of dirtied, smelly socks.
He looked back at his feet and took a long whiff.
The putrid smell knocked him out, as he fell back on the floor with his head spinning.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*click*
As he woke up, he found himself sitting in front of the laptop, his hands already placed atop the mouse. He had clicked without knowing it. Colin looked around himself, as he noticed he was no longer in his shoddy apartment. He was now in some dingy room, the walls covered with posters of men, medals, awards, trophies, and the floor covered with piles of dirty unwashed clothing. His chair had turned into some dirty couch, as the desk had turned into a coffee table. His nose wrinkled at the horrible smell that was now everywhere.
He closed his eyes in mild panic. "I-It's a'ight Colin. J-just get to the e-end."
After a few breaths, he opened them.
Colin's face warped into that of horror. "D-Dumb?!" As soon as the words left his mouth, he suddenly felt a crushing headache as he leaned forward, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Slowly, the rest of hid body tightened up, as his age went down, stopping to reveal he had now regressed back into a 25-year old stud.
Slowly but surely, his neurons began to either disintegrate or reorganize. All of that sophisticated schooling slowly slipped away, as he also began to lose memories he had even gone to them to begin with. With the loss of his intelligence, drool began to pool in his mouth, before seeping out in a small fine stream of saliva. What was once a proud IQ of 120 was struck down to a mind-numbing 50. Just enough to let him follow simple instructions and live comfortably.
"...huhuh bro.....s-stop b-brooo...." he groaned, chuckling mindlessly at himself as he placed his sweaty feet on the desk with a loud thump as he stretched his legs.
But inside, there was still a piece of him that wanted to fight back. Memories that he used to be a greater, smarter person. Someone who had the brains to deal with all kinds of bullshit. He wanted to turn back into that person.
"...th-the End....b-broOOo?" Colin mumbled in a jock-like inflection. Inside, he panicked. He still remembered he used to have the ability to read this without difficulty, but as he started to read the pop-up he found himself struggling to piece together what the alphabet even meant to sound like.
"I.....w-wAnna g-gO.....b-back broOo...." Colin mumbled desperately. Even though he was in a new world of bliss, he wanted to turn back. He had learned his les--.wait...lesson for doing what again?
Colin stared dumbfounded at the equation. A simple equation. He remembered it was simple, but he somehow couldn't find the answer. The text on screen was almost illegible, as his brain filled in the gaps with a few words he knew.
Colin leaned forward in fear. "...bro....I d-don't...k-knOw.....huhu...f-fUck dude...i d-dOn't wAnna b-be a BRO....like...BRO....". Wracking his mind for any semblance of even a number to place, he gave up. The pain of trying to think was too much, as the last bits of his intelligence seeped out from his mouth...and cock.
"huhu...f-fuUUCK BRO" Colin winced at the screen. There was Brock's face, proudly showing a middle finger. His body convulsed with pleasure as more cum slowly but surely seeped down into his shorts.
And now he was at the end. With nowhere else to turn, Colin clicked the pop-up as it closed.
Immediately, his mind went blank. Colin...who the fuck was Colin again? Cum continued flowing out his throbbing cock, as another dull feeling washed over his brain.
C...
Co...
Col...
Colt...
Colt shook his head as he looked down at the laptop. There on the screen was Brock's face, plastered with the words "FUK U DUDE".
It was now two years later, and a lot has changed for the two jocks. For one, Brock had finally passed his third year of college after many many attempts at the exam. Knocking at the door of his new apartment, Brock opened the door.
"Guess what bro...I got an A+!" Brock flexed in Colt's face, cockily chuckling to himself as the he went back to his room.
Colt could only mumble incoherently, slouching his hulking body over as his eyes went everywhere but Brock. Brock smiled. After finding Colt in his dingy room following the conversion, he managed to sneak him into the school, becoming his own personal pet jock. After crafting elaborate fake emails saying "Colin" had quit his job and moved to Canada, "Colin" slowly faded from the public's memory.
After moving out from the school dorms, he found a new apartment nearby and rented a large enough room. With Colt in tow, he now had time to let him roam out to the different gyms across town whenever he was in class or out working. This had the added perk of keeping him both docile and bulking him up a little more. He had the mind of an animal now anyways, and he knew exactly when and where to find his coach when the time comes.
As Colt sat down on what was now a small couch to him and grabbing a bottle of beer, Brock slapped him across the face, making Colt grunt and drool all over himself.
"That's right dumbass. I'm on top now. No one even knows who you are anymore." Brock said, stuffing Colt's mouth with his fingers, puppeteering his head side to side before taking them out.
Colt only chuckled as he placed the bottle back in his mouth. "...t-top...b-brooo...huhuhuh..."
"Сфотографируй уже, блин." (Take a picture already, damn.)
Alexandr spoke in a loud sing-song way to his boyfriend Maxim as he laid on top of the pile of dirt. Now finding new work as a gay porn star, he wanted to take a few stills for a customer asking for a "Soviet-inspired" porno.
It has been decades since the transformation happened, and he is now back in the year from when he was still in that library, many many years older. But Alexandr doesn't remember that anymore. All the cums he had spent for those many years had drained all of his past memory. And now here he was somewhere in the north of Kazakhstan, where he had moved to a few years back to find a safer home to partake in his "interest".
"Я такая сексуальная в этом советском стиле." (I'm so sexy in this Soviet style) he mumbled. "...me...beeg...seksi...yeahh..." he continued, his underwear soaking wet from precum, his mind empty, and his body bulked beyond belief. He chuckled, his deep aged voice resonating in his throat and out his mouth.
Alexandr was happy.
