I'm a college student who thought he would have a big family one day. Then I realized I was gay. I wanted to ask you if you could turn me into a successful alpha maga father of a big family. I would have a wife, whom I adore, and sons that I would love dearly. On the other hand, I wouldn't mind having sex with other women if it meant I could spread my seed. Last but not least, I don't want to lose my old friends. Could you turn them into my sons?
Youâd never been the type to take ads seriously, but there it was, plastered on a shitty corkboard outside the student union:
âMadame Lucinda â See the Life You Were Meant to Live.â
It looked cheap, with a badly photocopied hand holding a crystal ball, but something about it dug at you. Youâd been spiraling lately â twenty-one, a white gay college kid who used to think heâd have a wife, kids, the whole big Catholic family deal. But once youâd realized you liked guys, that dream died. You told yourself you were okay with it. Still⌠every night there was that ache.
The idea of sons, a brood of them, loud and messy, a wife whoâd adore you. The kind of patriarch life your conservative uncles bragged about while pounding cheap beer. A part of you craved it, even if you knew it was fucked up.
So you found yourself walking down a grimy strip mall hallway the next afternoon, hand shaking as you pushed open the cracked purple door.
The inside reeked of incense and dust. Heavy curtains blocked the windows, and a squat old woman with bleached hair sat at a round table.
âYouâre late,â she said, voice like sandpaper. âSit.â
You sat, embarrassed, mumbling, âSorry. I just⌠I saw your flyer. I wanted to know what my life mightâve been like. If I wasnât⌠you know. Like this.â
Her eyes gleamed. âLike this?â
You swallowed. âGay. I mean⌠I used to think Iâd have a family. Sons. A wife Iâd actually love. Big house. Big⌠everything. But I canât. Not like this. Not the way I turned out.â
Her laugh was short and cruel. âYou want the vision of a breeder. A man of God. A father. You want to see your legacy.â
You nodded, ashamed. âYeah. If I could be⌠that. Alpha. Straight. Conservative. A man who fills his wife, but also⌠doesnât stop with her. A man who spreads his seed wherever he wants. And sons, loud, cocky, dumb, like me.â
The room seemed to tighten around you as soon as you said it. The air smelled sharper, like sweat and musk, the kind of stink that clings to locker rooms. She leaned forward, her grin crooked.
âDrink,â she said, shoving a chipped glass at you. The liquid was thick, bitter.
You gagged, but you swallowed.
Heat bloomed in your gut, spreading to your chest, your arms, your throat. You coughed, gripping the table.
âFuckâwhat the hell is this?â
âYour wish,â she said simply.
Your hands trembled on the tabletop. The nails looked darker, rougher, like you hadnât clipped them in weeks. You rubbed at your arms and swore your skin felt denser, hotter, a film of sweat forming too quick for comfort.
Your reflection in the smeared glass orb showed your cheeks flushed, but not like a college boy with nerves â heavier, wider, your jaw clenching with some foreign tension.
Your stomach knotted. âThis is wrong, I just wanted to seeââ
Her chuckle cut you off. âVisions donât come free, boy. If you wanted to watch, you shouldâve stayed home and played pretend. You came here. You asked. You drink, you change.â
The table seemed farther from you now, like your arms were thicker, your shoulders starting to push against the seams of your cheap hoodie. The cotton strained as sweat soaked through. You shifted uncomfortably, your thighs spreading wider, crotch hot, an ugly throb rising in your groin.
Your thoughts scattered, words jumbling. Youâd always been articulate in class, writing papers with care â but suddenly all you could think was fuck, hot⌠fuck, need to spread⌠fuck, give me a woman.
You gasped and shook your head. âNo, thatâs not me, thatâs notââ
But when you glanced down at your phone, the lock screen reflected something off. Your grin â wider, cockier. Your eyes â a little meaner. And your neck⌠thickening with a swelling vein pulsing under the skin.
Madame Lucinda only smirked. âYouâll make a fine father. A true man. This is only the start.â
You staggered back from the table, dizzy, your cock pressing thick and dumb against your jeans. The thought of the guys you used to crush on flickered for a second, but the image rotted, replaced by the fertile sway of hips, the softness of tits.
You hated it. You wanted it. Both at once.
You stumbled for the door, the smell of your own sweat clinging like proof that something deep inside you was already gone.
You staggered out of the psychicâs cramped little den, heart hammering, hoodie sticking to your back with sweat. The air outside felt heavier than before, like a wet blanket thrown over your shoulders.
âFuckâŚâ you muttered, rubbing your chest. Your palm dragged across fabric stretched tighter than it had been this morning. You stopped walking. Looked down. Your pecs⌠they werenât flat anymore. They pressed forward under the hoodie like they were trying to announce themselves.
You pulled the zipper down. The sight made your throat go dry.
Your chest was flushed red, veins rising beneath the skin. Hair youâd carefully trimmed was fading out, leaving your pecs smooth, shiny with sweat. You poked a finger into the swelling meat and shivered â it was solid, not the soft give you were used to.
âBro⌠what the fuckâŚâ
The word âbroâ slipped out before you realized it. Your lips curled around it with an ease that disgusted you. You never said shit like that. You sounded like the same assholes whoâd called you âfagâ in the locker room.
And yet, hearing it felt⌠right.
You shook your head, tried to focus. Think. Youâre a poli-sci student. You read Chomsky, Baldwin, bell hooks. Youâre not some dumbfuck meathead.
But your thoughts blurred, slipping through your hands like wet soap. Something was rotting your vocabulary from the inside out. Instead of theory and nuance, all your mind could cling to was simpler stuff. The tightness of your chest. The burn in your arms. The way your cock wouldnât stop straining down your thigh, aching for relief.
You stumbled against a brick wall, groaning as your shoulders cracked wider. Seams popped on the hoodie, cotton threads snapping across the upper arms. You slapped at the fabric, panicked â and then froze.
Your biceps bunched under your palm, round and swollen, harder than anything youâd ever felt on your body.
âFuck yeah,â you heard yourself grunt, flexing in the dirty window of a pawn shop. Your reflection looked wrong. Your face was still yours, but sharper, meaner, sweat dripping down the stubble shadowing your jaw. You smirked at yourself. Flexed harder. Watched your pecs jump.
âYeah, fuckinâ beast,â you muttered.
The voice in your head â the old you â screamed. No. Stop. This isnât you. Youâre gay. You wanted kids, a husband, a normal life. This isnâtâ
But another voice, louder, nastier, pushed through the fog. Shut the fuck up. Pussy talk. Need tits. Need hole. Need to fuck. Spread it. Breed it.
You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth, horrified. But the words had already left your tongue.
Heat pulsed lower in your body. Your jeans dug painfully into your thighs, muscles filling faster than denim could hold. You heard the threads groaning as your quads thickened, your ass ballooning into the kind of bubble you used to drool over on football players.
Now it was yours. Yours, and made for rutting, grinding, driving into women until they were bred.
âNo⌠no, no, no,â you whimpered. But it came out slurred, thick, almost drunk: âNuhhh⌠brooo⌠fuuuuckkkâŚâ
You leaned against the glass, panting, sweat dripping off your nose. A couple girls walked past and giggled, whispering. You caught one of their eyes.
And your cock twitched like an animal.
Not the way it used to, shy and nervous, wishing maybe some guy in class would smile at you. No â this was ugly. Hungry. You stared at her tits through her shirt, and your mouth went dry. You could smell her perfume, cheap vanilla, and all you could think was pump her full, breed her dumb, make her scream.
Your chest heaved. âFuckin⌠whore,â you muttered under your breath, voice thick and low, like it wasnât even yours anymore.
The girls hurried off, uncomfortable. You didnât care. You were still staring after them, licking your lips without realizing.
Inside your skull, the two voices fought â the student who wanted meaning, love, and family, and the alpha brute rising in your veins. But the brute was winning. Every heartbeat pumped more fog into your brain, more crude urges into your cock, more meat onto your frame.
And somewhere deep down, you knew â this wasnât just a vision. This was permanent.
The psychic hadnât shown you the life you wanted. She was forcing you into it.
You tried to stumble back toward campus, hoodie shredded and clinging to your swollen chest, but your legs wouldnât carry you home. They dragged you instead, heavy and wide, to the first bar you passed.
The inside reeked of beer and fryer grease â the kind of straight dive you normally avoided, full of guys in backwards caps shouting over the game.
Tonight, you didnât avoid it. You pushed the door wide, shoulders filling the frame. A couple dudes turned to look at you, then looked away quick when you smirked back at them, cocky, flexing your arm like you owned the place.
Fuckinâ kings in here, you thought, sliding onto a stool. The words were raw and dumb in your brain, but they felt natural. My people.
The bartender â blonde, stacked, a tired kind of pretty â came over. âYou look like you need water,â she said.
âBeer,â you grunted instead, voice thick and deep.
She raised a brow. âYou even old enough?â
Your lips twisted into a grin. âOld enough tâfuck you raw, babe.â
The words shocked you as much as her. Youâd never, ever spoken to a woman like that. You used to flinch when frat bros talked that way at parties, disgust curdling in your gut.
But now? The sight of her lips tightening in offense just made your cock throb harder, precum smearing against your jeans. You wanted to ruin her. Pump her. Leave her full.
You slapped a twenty on the bar like it was nothing. She rolled her eyes, but still brought you the beer.
By the time you drained it, the fog had thickened. Your head was buzzing with images â tits bouncing, cunts dripping, women moaning under you. Every single one ended the same: you blowing hot seed into them, filling them until they took it.
You didnât even notice your voice shifting as you muttered into the foam, âGonna⌠fuckinâ breed⌠yeah, spread itâŚâ
The bartender came back, frowning. âYou okay?â
Instead of answering, you grabbed her wrist. Hard. Too hard. She gasped.
You pulled her close, growling in her ear. âNeed a bitch. Needta fill you.â
She shouldâve slapped you. Shouldâve screamed. But the curse twisted the air around you â made her eyes glaze, her breath hitch.
She let you drag her into the dingy bathroom.
You didnât bother with romance. You bent her over the sink, yanking her skirt up, growling like an animal. Your reflection caught your eye in the cracked mirror â your face thicker now, jawline brutal, veins running down your neck.
Your cock sprang free, bigger than it had ever been, thick veins throbbing. You rubbed it between her cheeks, drool spilling down your chin.
The old voice tried to scream inside your head. No! This isnât you, youâre gay, you donât want this, you donât treat women this way!
But the fog drowned it out. All you heard was: Breed. Breed. Breed.
The sensation nearly killed you. Hot, wet, tight. So different from anything youâd ever known. You roared, slamming her against the sink, hips pounding.
âFuck yeahhh, pussy,â you snarled, spit flying. âMine⌠mine to fill⌠fuckinâ whore gonna carry my kid.â
Your old life flashed in fragments. Movie nights with your gay best friend. Dreaming of walking down the aisle with a husband. Late nights reading, debating politics in class.
All of it crumbled, splintering apart with every thrust. Each memory dissolved into crude grunts, into images of bare tits bouncing on your cock, of swollen bellies full of your seed.
By the time you were rutting full force, grabbing her hair and snarling in her ear, the only thing left of the old you was a faint echo. A weak, desperate whimper.
But the roar of your climax drowned it out.
You slammed in deep, balls slapping her ass, and exploded. Thick, hot cum flooding her cunt, spilling down her thighs. You held her there, grinding, pumping it deeper, snarling like a beast.
âFuck yeah⌠first one down. Gonna fuckinâ breed the whole world.â
When you pulled out, sweaty and grinning, your reflection smirked back. The eyes looking at you were no longer yours.
You staggered back into the bar, chest heaving, reeking of sweat and sex. The guys looked up from their beers, then cheered.
âFuckinâ legend, bro!â one of them hollered.
And you smirked, flexing your arm, ordering another beer like youâd always belonged here.
The old you? He was gone, drowned in cum and fog.
Only the breeder remained.
You wake up the next morning groggy, your skull full of cotton, your jaw sore from clenching in your sleep. The sheets stink faintly of sweat and something muskierâyour own body, different somehow, denser, heavier. When you swing your legs off the mattress, your thighs slap together with more force than you expect, thickened with meat.
You scratch absently at your chest. The hair feels coarser now, wiry under your fingertips, a manâs pelt spreading where you always used to keep yourself smooth. Your stomach twists. The idea of shaving suddenly feels⌠stupid. Feminine. A real man doesnât scrape himself down. He lets the world see the bulk, the fur, the weight of his testosterone.
Your reflection catches your eye. The mirror doesnât show a strangerânot yetâbut the jawline looks squarer, the neck thicker. Your eyebrows have grown in heavier, shadowing eyes that donât seem as wide or soft. They look harder, colder. Your lips curl into a smirk without your permission.
âDamn,â you mutter, voice dropping deeper, huskier. It startles you. You sound like someone who belongs at the head of a table, not in the back row of a seminar.
Youâre pacing the room, and with each step, something shifts. Your gait grows wider, heavier, like your cock and balls demand more space. Your shoulders roll back. You catch yourself flexing your arms without thinking, watching the swell of muscle in your forearms, the veins snaking out like roots.
And then the thoughts hit youâslow, sticky, invasive.
You used to believe in progress, in equality. But out of nowhere, youâre thinking about how weak men have become. How softness has poisoned society. How order comes from faith and tradition, not chaos. Your mind feeds you lines that sound practiced, rehearsed, but they pour out smooth like youâve always known them.
âCountryâs gone to shit,â you hear yourself grumble. âNeed real men again. Men who fuck, fight, and lead.â
You freeze. That wasnât you. That wasnât the voice youâve lived with all your life. But it feels so damn natural leaving your lips.
Later that day you find yourself in a church, though you donât remember walking there. The smell of incense clings to your nostrils, earthy and holy. The pew creaks under your growing frame as you sink into it, staring up at the crucifix. Your chest swells with something alienâpride, reverence, duty. You mutter a prayer you donât recall ever learning, words spilling smooth and steady.
âOur Father, who art in HeavenâŚâ
Your cock stirs in your jeans, thick and impatient. Praying shouldnât make you hard, but it does. The idea of being the patriarch, the leader of a family, of planting seed after seed into your wifeâs ripe bodyâit fills you with a dark hunger.
When you step back into daylight, your stride is different. Swaggering. Your shoulders roll like you own the pavement. A passing girl meets your eyes, and instead of offering a shy smile, you lick your lips, cock your chin, and growl:
âHey, baby. Lookinâ fine today.â
It just slips out, crude and loud. She scoffs, but your smirk only deepens. The rejection doesnât sting. It fuels you. A real man doesnât grovel for affection. He takes whatâs his.
Your thoughts keep shifting, reshaping, rewriting. Every hour, more of your old beliefs erode. Where once there was softness, doubt, and compassion, thereâs only certainty, hunger, and the conviction that God made you to conquer and breed.
By nightfall, youâre shirtless in your room, flexing in the mirror, muttering prayers that sound more like boasts. You can barely remember your old selfâs face. The name feels flimsy. Wrong. You press a hand to the bulge straining your jeans, grinning wide.
The man staring back at you is almost there. Almost whole. Almost home.
You wake up heavy. The mattress dips deep under your bulk, the sheets smell faintly of sweat and stale beer. Sunlight sneaks through the blinds, striping your hairy chest and the curve of your belly. You scratch absently, fingers catching in the wiry hair thatâs sprouted thicker with age, and let out a guttural morning groan that sounds more like a dad stretching after mowing the lawn than any memory of the man you once were.
Beside you, your wife shifts. A soft snore, a rustle of blankets. Sheâs the woman you married straight out of college â a good Catholic wife, mother of your three boys. Her rosary beads glint faintly from the nightstand. The framed wedding photo on the dresser shows you beaming in a too-tight tux, jaw thick, hairline already receding. Youâve always been this man. That younger version â the twink, the liberal, the gay â doesnât even flicker anymore.
You roll out of bed with a grunt, scratching your ass through worn boxers, and stumble toward the bathroom. The mirror greets you with the face youâve long since grown used to: shaved head shining at the crown, thick brows, crowâs-feet radiating from small, squinting eyes. A crooked grin splits the stubble shadowing your jaw. Youâre not pretty. Youâre solid. A bull of a man.
You piss loud and long, one hand on the wall, the other scratching your chest. You belch halfway through, chuckling to yourself.
Downstairs, the house is alive with noise. Your boys are already up â clattering bowls, arguing over who gets the last Pop-Tart. You lumber into the kitchen shirtless, scratching your gut, and immediately command the room.
âKnock it off,â you bark, voice rough and booming. âAinât nobody fighting over damn toaster pastries in my house.â
They look up at you, all three of them â broad-shouldered teens with versions of your smirk stamped on their faces. Theyâre your sons, through and through. You see flashes of old college friends in their features, but it doesnât register as strange. Those werenât buddies, werenât men you kissed or partied with â theyâve always been your boys.
You slap the eldest on the back, nearly knocking the spoon out of his hand. âEat somethinâ with protein, champ. Youâre not gonna get anywhere in football eatinâ sugar.â
He nods, sheepish, reaching for the eggs. You feel pride swell in your chest.
Your wife moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, pouring you coffee into your mug â the one that says Worldâs Best Dad. She gives you a kiss on the cheek, and you smack her on the ass, grinning when she shoots you a look thatâs half-annoyed, half-fond.
The day unfolds naturally. At church, you kneel with your family, the crucifix looming above. You belt out the hymns in your deep, off-key baritone, cross yourself with authority. The priest shakes your hand afterward, praising you for coaching the boysâ league. You grumble about âkids these days needing disciplineâ and he nods, agreeing.
At the barbecue, you stand shirtless by the grill, beer sweating in your fist, gut hanging proudly over your cargo shorts. You joke crude with the other dads, smack your son upside the head when he mouths off, and lead a rant about how âthis countryâs gone soft under liberal crybabies.â Everyone laughs, claps you on the back. You fart loud, unapologetic, and wave it off like a badge of honor.
At home, you collapse into your recliner, Fox News blaring, your youngest sprawled on the rug with a video game controller. You half-watch the TV, half-scroll through your phone, muttering curses at âdamn leftists.â Your wife brings you another beer. You belch thanks without looking up.
Night comes, and you tuck your boys in with rough affection â a noogie here, a slap on the shoulder there. âDonât be pussies,â you tell them, âmake me proud.â They grin at you like youâre a god.
Later, in bed, you climb on top of your wife. Itâs mechanical, primal, routine â the way youâve been fucking her for twenty years. You grunt, sweat dripping, then collapse beside her with a sigh. She mumbles a prayer before drifting off.
You stare at the ceiling, hand on your hairy belly, and itâs perfect. Normal. Right.
Thereâs no memory of any other life. No ghost of softness or queerness. No doubt. Just you, your family, your faith, your country. Youâve always been this man, and you always will be.
The lock clicks shut, unseen but final.
Youâre a dad. A husband. A man.
