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I went to a thrift store and tried on some musky clothes because they were on sale. When I tried them on they were way too big and I noticed there were sweat stains too! Yet for some reason I couldnt find the will to take them off...
Musky and stained clothes? In a thrift store? That's odd, I most definitely didn't do that. Someone must have put them there precisely for someone to find them... Quite curious about what hides behind that. A wifebeater and sweatpants, both definitely a few sizes too big for you, what a weird combo.
Oh, putting them on already? I would have done the same, I'm curious as to what will even happen to you.
As soon as you put those clothes on, a sense of relief breezed over you. You felt good in those clothes. They were warmer than they were supposed to, and slightly damp, but to you it only added to the comfort of it all. You knew you were meant to find them.
In the changing room, you stared at your reflections. You had never realised how good you looked. But still, something was not quite perfect. Was it the tiny voice in your head telling you how weird it felt and how you should remove those clothes and never touch them again? No way. You just didn't feel the clothes against your skin enough, your underwear was in the way.
So, you promptly removed everything again, leaving you butt naked in the changing room. But then, the guy standing in the mirror felt... Different. As if he weren't exactly you, but another version of you. Sure, you had the same eyes, and a similar athletic build, but he exuded so much charisma you couldn't help but be in awe. You looked at the stranger in the mirror, into his eyes, and smiled. You knew what you had to do.
As if entranced by your own reflection, you idly put the clothes back on. And it felt good. Your stiffening dick pulsing against the damp fabric of the sweatpants, a dark spot right at the tip â did you make it, or had it been here before, who knows.
The air felt heavier around you. More humid, more... Musky. You brought the top to your face, breathing in deep. God, it smelt so fucking good. But not strong enough. Using your nose like a wild animal, you sniffed around, trying to find anywhere with a stronger scent, anywhere it could come from, and soon enough you found yourself burying your face in your very own pit. Smelling such bliss made you moan out loud, and your entire body tensed suddenly.
The face still buried deep in your own pit, you felt something brushing against your skin. From your pit against your face? From your face against your pit? Both. While a dense forest of wet dark curls sprouted under your arm, you could feel the lower part of your face begin itching; and soon enough, the timid chin hairs you had before quickly found company, as a dense stubble covered your entire lower face, before becoming a well trimmed beard. But wait, didn't you always have that? Why were you only noticing it? Whatever, it made you so hot and horny, a hand wandered into your pants, pawing at your crotch.
And even that felt much bigger than it did â or at least you thought it did â mere moments ago. That was, of course, after finding your own dick through the thick jungle of hair that had sprouted in your crotch. But when you found it, part of you was surprised; there was no way something that thick was your dick, right? Heh, who am I kidding. You were so proud of your hefty sausage, even touching it made it throb with excitement. Its warmth against your calloused hand did not help in the slightest. You felt it thicken and harden, snaking down your pant leg while smearing pre down its path. And gosh, your balls felt so full and heavy, you needed to dump a load somewhere.
"Is everything alright in here-"
A poor unassuming clerk asked, behind the curtain of the changing room. But he must have had noticed your amazing smell, seeing how he stopped in his track. Without a second thought, you opened the curtain just barely, and put a large hand behind his back to pull him in. And while you closed the curtain back, you lifted him up as if it were nothing, and shoved your lips against his. He didn't fight back; heck, he even was the one to initiate the kissing. His tongue timidly thought to enter between your lips, but as soon as you started to get serious, your thick tongue quickly took the dominance and lead the dance.
The entranced assistant's hands were roaming around the massive shelf that was your chest, sensually fondling soft fat and relaxed muscle alike, bringing a deep moan â or a low growl â to resonate in the cramped space. And as his hands roamed lower and lower, they quickly found themselves around your leaking rod, already smeared with pre from all the excitation.
"Turn around."
It wasn't even a question, it was an order you had just barked at him. But the clerk was so horny now that this was enough to make him moan before he quickly complied, offering his soft bubble butt at you. And after aiming your thick bear cock at his hole, you began rubbing it with the tip, lubing it with the huge amount of pre you were producing.
"Please sir, just slide it in already!"
Oh well, no need to tell you twice. With one hand on the wall and another on his hips, you slowly inserted centimetre after centimetre in his hungry hole. It all was going smoothly, until the end where you decided to slam the last few centimetres in, your sweaty balls loudly smacking against his legs, ripping a loud moan out of his throat
You could hear it. The short breaths, the fapping sounds, of the clerk's coworkers standing behind the curtain. So why not bring them some smell as well? Lifting one of your massive arms and exposing your damp jungle of a pit, the changing room exploded with musk, and soft moans could be heard from behind the curtain. You smirked, proud of how godly your masculinity was, but you were not done. You had balls to empty.
Fuck. You were so much of a man now, your seed was enough to make the clerk as much of a man as you. You wanted to check if anything else had happened, but your vision was blurred with lust. Everything was all too much.
Accelerating little bit by little bit, you began going back and forth, in and out. His bubble butt was stretched out to its limits, but seemed to be growing under your pre to accommodate your rod better. Breathing in your own pit, you moaned loudly, as your other free hand began rubbing his ass. Surprised, you looked down; it definitely looked hairier than before.
Back and forth, back and forth. The more you went, the more you felt your chest bounce up and down, so much so that it began bumping in your chin. You couldn't even see your own bear cock, despite it thickening and lengthening as if trying its best to remain in your view. And your hands looked so thick and hairy against the clerk.
You just wanted to cum already. You wanted to cum so bad.
With your dick still deep in him, you spun him around, lifting him with your hips alone, and buried your tongue deep in his mouth, hoping this would be enough to deafen the roar you let out as you began cumming. And kept cumming. And kept cumming even more. You just couldn't stop.
Since you were holding him in place with your bear cock and massive chests, your hands were free to roam his body, and it was even more heavenly than you could have expected. From his sloshing belly full of your potent man seed and its thickening treasure trail, to the massive wide load of a hairy ass behind, without forgetting his big milky pecs and the silky beard brushing against yours, you had definitely made a man. A man whose clothes were struggling to contain.
Once finally empty â for now â you stepped back, letting the clerk fall down, a certain amount of cum pooling out of his ass, your dick still dripping.
You were so proud. You were a real man, and managed to make the shop assistant a real man as well.
Dick first, you opened the curtain and found who you assumed to be coworkers completely exhausting and panting, dick out, and cum stains on their tight shirts. Maybe you had just not noticed them when you enter, but you were so sure they were not such handsome cubs when you entered the shop. With a grin, you shook your ever half hard rod above them, letting your thick milk drip on them and in their mouth. A little gift from you to them, you thought with a grin.
Finally putting your dick back in your shorts, a thought crossed your mind, and you almost rushed to your car.
You needed to work out so bad. And your refilling balls needed emptying again, and you knew some people would be more than happy to help.
My boyfriend has been really insecure in the bedroom recently, even though he's doing a good job. I also know he likes big, hairy, mature men, so any chance you could make me into a gentle daddy dom so I can tell him what a good job he's doing?
Hmhm, that sounds like something I could do alright! Always here to help people feel their love for daddies.
You knew your boyfriend would be having a long day at work, so it was the perfect time to prepare him a nice little lovey-dovey evening, a candle lit dinner with some nice music in the background. Although you didn't really know how to cook beyond the basics, you knew you wanted to go further for him.
Going to the window to get some fresh air, dreaming about how much you loved your boyfriend, you looked up at the night sky. The stars were shining especially bright tonight. And suddenly, a shooting star passed. You didn't know if it was really there or if you imagined it, but a second passing soon after confirmed it. And hey, not believing in magic doesn't prevent one from wishing, eh?
After throwing together a hasardous wish, you decided it was finally time to start preparing dinner. You didn't really know what to cook yet, but maybe you could just figure something out on the spot.
As you opened the fridge, looking for inspiration, your eyes drifted to one of the beers you had in store. You never really liked it â they were mostly here for your boyfriend or for whenever you two invited people over â but tonight, the idea of drinking one felt particularly refreshing. Maybe it finally grew on you, you thought without asking too many questions. You grabbed one and cracked it open, sipping it before getting to work, feeling energised as ever.
However, that newly developed taste for beer would not remain the only new thing for long â not that you would ever realise it, of course. Something else occur as your opened a cabinet and noticed a jar on the top shelf. Now, you weren't exactly short, but you weren't the tallest person around either. But as you tried to reach it, you found yourself struggling less and less to reach it. At some point, you even wondered how you, a 6'5" something giant, ever struggled with such a reach.
But of course, jars were a pain in the butt to open sometimes, and this one was no exception. So what did your now tall body do? Grow muscles, of course! Even for a task as mundane as opening a jar, your entire body went into overdrive. You could feel your muscles getting pumped, just like after a workout. Because you work out regularly, right? Right. Your chest rose with every breath, without falling back as down as it started. Heck, you even bounced them a bit, proud of the results of such dedication. But such flexing didn't go without consequences: with loud rips and tears, you quickly found yourself standing amidst shreds of your former outfit. Well, those clothes were too small for you anyway, it was hopeless to try them on.
Even though you were busy cooking with your stove on, being naked like that might get you cold, as confirmed by the quick breeze brushing past. But don't worry; quickly enough, a wave of warmth rushed over you, every single square centimetre of your skin itching in an oddly pleasurable way. It started small, only a few timid hairs between your massive pecs, but soon enough your entire torso, front and back, ended up covered in soft, silky hair. You could even feel it creep up higher and higher, up to your neck, until it reached your chin. Rubbing it dreamily, you felt your chin soon sprout a short trimmed beard.
Despite your reveries and admiration of your own body, you found yourself done with the cooking already. Good job! Now that you were done with it, your eyes drifted around, and you noticed the beer that you had first started but never even finished. With a smirk, though, that was a job quickly done: the bottle looked small in your large, manly hand, and downing it only took a gulp.
It wasn't much, but you felt a burp start to accumulate within your stomach and throat. And as you let it out, a wave of pleasure so intense that it made you moan a little washed over you. With it, you couldn't notice it, but your coat of body hair lightened in colour, going from your former deep brown to a salt and pepper, your beard quickly following. Even your hairline went along, receding ever so slightly, leaving some room for fresh new wrinkles.
Gosh, you were so hard right now. You couldn't wait for your man to finally get home, you'd be sure to give him more than just a good dinner.
So Iâve been taking a tour of a dairy farm today and the tour guideâs been eyeing me weirdly. Even stranger, I still havenât seen any cows. They keep promising me Iâll meet them soon⌠Any idea whatâs up with that?
Such a precarious situation. Perhaps the crumpled papers you found can give you some context:
Entry 1
I donât know where I am. I donât know how I got here.
The last thing I remember is the end of the farm tour. The guide... that guy with the small, mean eyes... said I was special. He said I was going to get a "behind-the-scenes" look. Then, I think I blacked out. I woke up in this room and I've been here ever since... Banging on the walls for hours, screaming for someone to let me out, but the workers just walk past. There are two of them standing right outside the door right now, talking like nothings wrong. It's making me sick.
One of them finally brought me a bowl of this thick, white sludge. I didnât want to drink it, but Iâm so thirsty, and my throat feels like itâs full of sawdust. It tasted weird... bland and chalky.
Fuck.
Why am I here? What do they want? Why won't the talk to me? If I can just keep my head clear, maybe I can find a way to break the lock when they come back to feed me.
I have to stay focused. I canât let them see how scared I actually am.
Entry 2
I didnât sleep at all last night. Every time I started to drift off, I heard that low, rumbling sound from down the hall... like a hum, or maybe someone grunting. It didn't sound human. I kept pressing my back against the wall, trying to stay as far from the door as possible.
I... I thought I was having a heart attack today. My chest feels... weird. There's this dull, throbbing ache right under my skin. Maybe its from how I was laying? Anxiety? Fuck... it just feels so heavy and sore. My nipples too... they feel sensitive. Whenever my shirt rubs against them, it sends this sharp, stinging sensation through my whole torso. It doesn't hurt, but it's definitely noticeable. Itâs probably just irritation from the fabric; Iâm probably just making it a bigger deal than it is because Iâm so stressed out.
The workers came by again this morning. They didn't say a word, just slid another bowl of that sludge through the slot. I really tried not to drink it, but Iâm starving, and my stomach feels like itâs eating itself. It went down so easily, almost like my body was craving it.
I checked the walls again. Still nothing. No windows, no cracks, no way to climb out. I tried to ask one of the workers what's going on, but he ignore me. Doesn't look like they'll be of any help.
Entry 3
My chest feels heavy. Really heavy. Itâs not just a dull ache anymore... itâs like the muscle is actually pushing against the skin, stretching it tight. When I looked down this morning, it definitely looked swollen. Puffy and sore. I pressed on it to see and fuck it hurt so much I had to stop. Just this horrible achiness. I haven't touch it since.
I heard them talking today. The workers. They stopped right outside my room, acting like I wasn't even there.
"The new one is coming along fast," one of them said. "Look at the tissue development. He's going to be one of the best producers we've seen all season."
"Producer." Thatâs what they called me. What does that even mean? I wanted to scream at them, to ask what they were doing to me, but my voice just died in my throat. They didn't even acknowledge that I was listening; they just acted like I was some kind of animal they were grading.
Iâm so scared. I keep trying to think clearly, trying to plan a way out, but my mind feels⌠fuzzy. Like Iâm moving through water. I just want to go home. Please, I just want to wake up in my own bed.
Entry 4
They came in today. Three of them. I tried to back away, to scramble into the corner, but thereâs nowhere to go in this steel box. They didnât even argue. They just grabbed my clothes... my shirt, my pants... and tore them off like. Iâve been completely naked since. Iâm trying to huddle up, knees to my chest, trying to cover myself with my arms, but my chest is so sensitive now that even the air in this room feels like it's stinging me. Every time I breathe, my nipples ache, like they're being pulled or pinched.
Itâs humiliating. I just want to hide, but they keep staring.
Then, they brought the sludge. They didn't even put it in a bowl this time. One of them just threw it at me. It splashed all over my chest and arms. Itâs so thick, so sticky. I was so disgusted at first, but I couldn't help it. I started licking it off my arm, and it⌠it tasted so good. I couldn't stop. I even licked it off the floor when it dripped down.
When I looked up, they were watching me, and they seemed so satisfied. Like I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I noticed my arms while I was licking the stuff off. Thereâs hair growing, thick and dark, more than there was a day ago. Why is this happening to me? My head feels so heavy, like I canât quite think straight, but I keep wanting more of that drink. I hate it, but Iâm so hungry.
Entry 5
There's something wrong with my body. I woke up this morning to find my chest wet. I thought maybe I had spilled some of that sludge in my sleep, but then I felt it. A slow, warm trickling down my chest. It was coming from my nipples. They were leaking, a thin, white fluid that was matting into all this new, dark hair thatâs sprouted across my chest.
Before I could even wrap my head around it, they came. They just dragged me out of the room. I felt so small, so exposed, as they marched me down the hallway.
They strapped me into a machine. It had these cold, metal cups that suctioned right onto my chest. I tried to fight them, I really did, but my muscles felt sluggish, heavy, and weak. When the machine turned on, a pulse of electricity or suction... I donât know what it was... shot through me.
It was an overwhelming, jolting kind of pleasure. I arched my back, my breath hitching as the machine squeezed and pulled at me, forcing the white fluid out. I felt helpless, exposed, and utterly humiliated, but I couldn't stop the moan that ripped out of my throat. I heard the workers talking, their voices echoing off the tile walls.
"Look at that output."
"The volume is already exceeding the previous batch. Heâs a natural."
"Customers are gonna love his milk."
"See how his pecs are already hardening? Heâs going to be a prime producer. Keep the vacuum pressure steady, we don't want to over-tax the tissue this early."
They talked about me like I was a piece of equipment being calibrated. I just hung there, my head lolling back, completely unable to do anything but take the sensation. When they finally detached the cups, I felt lighter, like the heavy pressure that had been building for days had been drained away. I felt⌠relieved.
But it didn't last. By the time they dragged me back to my room and tossed me inside, I could already feel the throb starting again. The pressure is coming back, deeper and faster than before. Iâm scared. Iâm so, so scared, but I canât stop thinking about how good it felt when they forced it out of me. What is happening to my head?
Entry 6
They moved me. I am in the big pen now. I thought it was just me, but... I was pushed into a giant room with the others.
God. God. What are they?
I am hiding in the corner. I don't want them to see me. I want to be small. But I am not small anymore. My chest is huge. It feels tight, stretched, like itâs going to pop. And the others⌠they are monsters. Men, but they aren't men. They're huge... hairy... They're just standing there, or crawling on the floor, drooling. One of them, he has these massive, sagging pecs, and heâs just⌠groping them. Pulling at them. Grunting.
Iâm horrified. I tried to back away, but another one came over. He looked at me with these empty, glassy eyes. He reached out with thick, calloused fingers and poked at my chest. I screamed, but he just grunted and drooled on my shoulder. It was warm. Disgusting.
I heard the workers on the catwalk above.
"The herd is agitated," one says.
"Theyâre just getting used to the new producer," the other one laughs. "He looks frightened. Good. The adrenaline spike always makes the first week of production more potent."
"Look at him," they say, laughing. "Heâs trying to stay human. Itâs cute."
But I am a person. I am...
Why are they touching me? Why is it so hot in here? Why do I want to grunt back at them? My hands are shaking so bad I can hardly hold this pen. I need to get out. I need to get out now before I start acting like them. I don't want to be like them. I don't.
Entry 7
Everything feels so slow. My head... heavy. Like thick mud.
Machine again today. Dragged off. Everything is loud and bright. The workers are talking, talking, talking... words don't make sense. Sounds like noise. Just noise. They want the stuff. They always want the stuff.
The machine was hard. Fast. Pulled so much out. I felt... empty. But the good kind of empty. Back in the pen, it started again. Fast. Leaking down my chest. Itâs sticky. Everything is sticky. My chest, my cock... So big...
Another one came over. A big one. He saw me leaking. He didn't look at my face, just my chest. He started pressing. Hard. Hands all over, kneading, squeezing. It hurt a little, but... it felt right. Helped me get more out.
I started helping him, too. Pressing into him. His chest is so big, so full. So hairy. His nipples taste... so good... We just sat there. Grunting.
Why am I doing this? I don't know. The pressure in my chest is better now. Just want to sit. Feel pecs... Just want to be close...
Entry 8
head hurt so bad. to much thort. chest is so big now. hevy. look down and just see pecs. hair everywhere thick and black.
the sweet drink come today. i lick it from floor. want more. allways want more.
the other ones touch me. grabed my meat. squeezeing. i leak and leak. i grunt at them. they grunt back. we just stand close. warm. it feel gud.
workers on wall laugh. make noised. i dont look up. dont care.
chest full again already. aching. hot. just want the hands to squeeze. want it out...
Entry 9
the big ones here now. hands all over... squeeze hard. pullin at my meat. i pull back. gruntin. mouth open. droolin on the floor.
big cock... he pushes inside me. squeeze my pecs. so much pleasure. so much ache. push. squeeze. empty out.
don't want to think. head quiet. just heat. just pressure. just hunger.
big hands. wet skin. thick heavy pecs. need to be squeezed.
need to leak.
more.
more.
more.
....................
Your hands tremble so violently that the paper crinkles, your fingers slick with the same sweet residue that still clings to your lips. You barely register the cramped, steel-walled pen they just tossed you into. Too busy trying to make sense of what you just read. Too distracted by the throbbing, achy pressure of your increasingly heavier pecs, where thick, dark hairs are already beginning to sprout and itch against your sensitive, stretching skin.
You glance back down at the scrawled note in your grip, but you're already having a hard time rereading the words.
A grunt breaks you out of your increasingly slower train of thought, and you look up to see one of them. His massive, hair-matted, leaking pecs blocking your view. His chest heaving with each guttural breath. His glassy eyes lock onto your chest. And as his calloused hand reaches out for your swollen, aching pecs, you don't recoil. You can't.
The room quickly fills with your own mindless, gutteral grunts.
"How much longer is this gonna take?" Ethan shifted, pretending to look interested. He had an exam coming up and a hundred places heâd rather be, but the man across from him only grew more animated by the second.
"So we came up with our slogan, 'Be PrEPared.'" The man practically beamed. "The boys in marketing really outdid themselves, don't you think?"
"Yeah..." Ethan caught his mind wandering and forced a smile. "I'm happy to be involved. I think population health is undervalued."
"Preach, babe." The man snapped his fingers.
Ethan grinned internally. The guy was eating out of his hand, and Ethan knew it wasn't just his answers. From the tone to blatantly checking him out, this guy fit every gay stereotype Ethan knew. What could he say? The gays loved him.
"But enough about me," the man laughed, leaning forward. "Tell me about you, hun. Why join our campaign?"
Ethanâs smile widened. He could tell the truth: he didn't give a shit about population health. He wanted a cushy specialty, and residency directors liked well-rounded resumes.
"Well, I think this is a great opportunity to support..." Ethan trailed off as the man raised a skeptical eyebrow. "...support marginalized groups. Happy to help de-stigmatize this stuff."
The man stared, then broke into a grin. "Oh my God, you're adorable."
Ethan let out an awkward chuckle. "That's a first." When the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory, he leaned in. "Look, I'd be good at this. Promise you won't regret bringing me on board."
The man tapped a finger against his chin. "Hmmm..." Really? Had this guy even looked at his rĂŠsumĂŠ? This wasn't exactly a difficult decision, "Who would you prescribe PrEP to?" He finally asked.
"UhâŚ" Ethan wasn't expecting that. "Guys who sleep around, I guess." He paused, catching himself. "You know what I mean. Gay guys. Men who have sex with men."
"And would you use PrEP?"
"Uh, no." The answer shot out too quickly. The manâs eyebrow climbed, "I mean, I'm not the target demographic," Ethan corrected with a nervous laugh. "Nothing against it, but I'm not looking for sex with other men."
The man studied him for a beat, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, Ethan, I think we're gonna get along just fine."
"So that's a yes?"
"Oh, babe. That's absolutely a yes."
The tension left Ethan's shoulders. Perfect. One more line for the application. "Awesome. I appreciate the opportunity."
"We're excited to have you." The man reached beneath his desk and pulled out a small BePRePared tote bag. "Take this, hun."
"What's in it?"
"Everything you'll need for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
The man's grin somehow widened. "Don't you worry. We'll be in touch."
-----------------
"That took longer than I thought." Ethan returned to his apartment, tossed the BePRePared tote bag onto the couch, and sat at his desk to study, "Fuck, I'm behind."
He stared at his digital flashcards, trying to prepare his best for his upcoming exam. But the text blurred. He blinked and stared at the card.
"What the hell?" He knew the answer to this, or at least he did yesterday. A suffocating brain fog rolled over him, as a dull ache started behind his eyes. His mind went completely blank, "Am I getting sick?"
Shoving himself away from the desk, he ran his hands through his hair. His neat trim felt dense, curling thickly between his fingers. He paused and ran his hand through his hair again, slower this time.
"How...?" Suddenly, the room tilted and sweat broke out across Ethanâs forehead, his joints throbbed, "Shit..." He couldn't afford to get sick, not when he had his first gig with BePrEPared tomorrow. The thought made him stop, "What am I thinking? Must be the fever... fucking with my head... Need water..."
He stumbled toward the kitchen and reached for a glass, barely noticing the fabric of his sleeve straining against his growing bicep. He quickly chugged his water, and froze when he wiped his chin. There was thick, rough stubble there. As if he hadn't shaved in a week.
"Fevers can... cause... hallucinations." He reasoned, although his thoughts were coming slower now, "Need... sleep..."
The room spun and his temperature spiked as he stumbled over towards the couch. He weakly pulled his scrub top off and threw it aside, his palms brushing through the thick, dark mat of body hair sprouting across his chest. But he barely recognized any of this, as his vision blurred and body grew weaker. He grabbed the tote bag on the couch and dropped it to the ground, the contents spilling out.
"What the fuck is this?" Ethan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, settling deeper. He felt a surge of irritation. This was a joke. They couldn't be serious. He was a medical student, for God's sake, not a...
Yet, as he stared at the blue speedo, his mind drifted to thinking about the happy, muscular campaign ambassadors he remembered seeing on the website. No exams. No residency stress. Just having fun and being noticed.
"Must be nice..." He fell onto the couch, and wiped sweat away from his forehead, "Fuck..." He smiled weakly, "I bet Iâd look good in that Speedo." he thought.
He blinked, horrified by his own thought. Where had that come from? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the movement only triggered a vicious wave of nausea.
"This isn't⌠a normal virus," he muttered. The words felt clumsy on his tongue, "Something's... wrong... with me..."
Ethan's hands drifted across his torso, tangling in the growing, dense dark body hair that was spreading now across his stomach. Beneath the coarse mat, his pectorals had swollen into heavy, solid shelves of muscle, hard and burning to the touch. He squeezed his own chest, a delirious, breathless laugh escaping him as his thumb traced over a newly sensitive, hyper-reactive nipple. He pinched it, and a sharp, slutty jolt of pure pleasure shot straight to his groin.
"Fuck," Ethan groaned, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..."
The room was spinning now and he was starting to see things that he knew shouldn't be there. He saw Joshua, sitting and smirking in the corner of the room.
"You're... not here." He slurred, "Leave me... alone..."
He closed his eyes tightly, and the hallucination of Joshua blurred and shifted. He was suddenly surrounded by nameless men crowding over the couch. He could feel them. Their heavy, rugged palms gripping his broadened shoulders, rough fingers digging greedily into his newly full, heavy ass, squeezing his thickening muscles. With a grunt, he flipped onto his stomach, and arched his ass.
"Ah... fuck..." Ethan groaned, drool leaking from his mouth. He whimpered as he felt something press against his exposed hole, "Pl...Please..."
His hand slithered past the tight elastic of his boxers, wrapping around a cock that was longer, thicker, and harder than it had ever been. He began to pump it in a frantic, heavy rhythm, his muscular thighs flexing with every stroke. He didn't care about the exam. He didn't care about residency. He just wanted to be a dumb, hot object. He wanted to be used.
âWould you use PrEP, babe?â Joshuaâs voice echoed in his head.
"Wh-why... would... I?" Ethan moaned, "I'm... not... Oh... fuck..." He gagged suddenly as he felt the heavy pressure of a thick cock pushing deep into his throat, stretching his jaw and cutting off his breath, while another massive, rigid shaft slammed brutally up his ass, "Th... this isn't... real..." He thought, even as his jaw ached.
Every thrust of the thick, veiny shaft plugging his throat made his eyes water as he gagged. Simultaneously, he felt his ass being stretched wider as the skin-on-skin pounding drove his lower body forward, burying his face deeper into the cushions with each wet, heavy slap.
âWhatâs the doctor word for... not breathing?â he tried to ask himself, âCan't... think of it. Mind... fuzzy. So heavy.â
The ambient hum of his laptop fan and the quiet of the night vanished, completely replaced by a deep, thumping electronic base that vibrated directly through the cushions beneath his chest. His brain couldn't quite process the switch. Even the clinical definitions of auditory hallucinations felt too distant, too complicated to grasp.
âMusic?â Ethan thought, his cognitive processing slowing to a crawl. âMusic... nice... feels good...â
Even the scent of the room was suddenly different. A thick, heavy cloud of cologne, raw male sweat, and latex filled his lungs with every desperate, choking gasp.
âSmells... good,â the simple thought drifted lazily through his mind, âWarm. Thick. Smells like... men. Sex."
He let out a choked gasp as the cock went deeper down his throat. Panicking with what little logical faculty he had left, Ethan whipped his hands upward, fully intending to push away whatever hallucination was blocking his airway and clamping his jaw open.
âGet it out... need to study... am a doctor...â
But instead of empty air, his palms connected firmly with hot, sweaty flesh. The solid, moving hips of a man rhythmically thrusting down his throat.
âNo... Wha...? Not a dream? Real. Big. So big. In my mouth. Up my ass.â
He reached out desperately, trying to find leverage, but instead his thicker palms and fingers clamped directly around two pulsing, rigid cocks. His broadened shoulders flexed automatically as his palms wrapped tight, his fingers squeezing the thick shafts as he began to stroke them in a frantic, heavy rhythm. His body knew exactly what to do, even if his brain could no longer define it.
âStroke them... make them feel good,â his dumbed-down thoughts hummed, completely content to abandon his studies. âGood boy. Do what they want. Just a hot object.â
The thumping music grew louder, accompanied by the rapid, rhythmic click-whir of a professional camera shutter and deep, masculine groans of approval close to his ears.
"Look at him take it," a deep, gravelly voice chuckled right above him. "The new guy's an absolute natural."
Flash. Flash.
An intense, blinding glare of white-hot light penetrated right through his closed eyelids. The searing heat radiating against his skin wasn't a fever spike anymore; it was the burning warmth of professional studio lighting hanging directly overhead.
Ethanâs eyes snapped open.
He wasn't in his apartment. No, he was pinned face-down on a leather sofa in the center of a roaring photography studio. He could see his reflection in a mirror. Bulkier, hairier... sexier... sporting a toy stethoscope over his hair-covered chest and a tiny blue Speedo that was completely soaked through.
"Oh my gawd..." He thought, eyes watering.
A tall, rugged model stood over him, holding Ethan's face up by a tight fist in his thick, curly hair as he slid deep into Ethanâs throat. Behind him, a massive, tatted model was burying himself ruthlessly into Ethanâs expanded, aching glutes, slamming his hips forward with a heavy, wet slap. To his left and right, two more models leaned over the couch, grinning down at him as Ethanâs large, rough hands rapidly pumped them.
"Fuck... where'd you find this guy?"
Ethan's eyes were wide now, but the panic he expected to feel never came. His mind was too beautifully empty, too saturated with testosterone and pleasure. Board scores, residency applications, the endless stress of his old life...
âIâm the PrEP boy,â his thoughts drifted, âDumb... hot... please... use me.â
"Keep going, hun, you're doing amazing," Joshua called out over the music, gesturing to the lens. "So, let's hear it for the campaign! Would you use PrEP?"
The thick cock down his throat pulled out with a wet pop, a line of drool running down his heavy, stubbled chin. He looked straight into the camera lens, his mind completely wiped of medical terminology. None of that mattered anymore. He was a BePRePared model. He was beautiful, he was being used, and he loved it.
"Y-Yes..." Ethan gasped out, his voice a deep, thoroughly broken baritone. His hips gave a desperate, simple twitch against the man behind him. "Yes... God, yes..."
The photographer grinned, clicking the shutter rapidly. "Perfect! That's the money shot!"
With a final, shattering surge of friction, the man behind him buried himself to the hilt, releasing deep inside him. Simultaneously, the model in front of him painted Ethan's face and thick, hairy chest, while the two men in his hands blew their loads over his fingers. And Ethan's own massive, leaking cock throbbed and fired a heavy stream into his tight, blue speedo.
"So good..." He moaned, falling back onto the couch and looking up at the other models with a dumb, happy grin, "MoreâŚ?" he slurred, a thick bead of drool tracking down his chin and mixing with the man's seed. "More⌠please⌠use me moreâŚ"
"Don't you worry." Joshua patted him on the shoulder, while the other models chuckled, "You're our star now, Ethan. We've got plenty of work lined up for you." He nodded over at the photographer.
"Next shoot is in twenty minutes, boys," the photographer called out, adjusting his lens with a grin. "Clean him up just enough to do it all over again."
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Tristan tried to weave in between the sweaty bodies of several shirtless frat bros, doing his best to avoid spilling the beer in his red solo cup. The smell of beer and cheap cologne clung to them, which only made Tristan feel dizzy. Worst yet, the music was loud, so loud that he could barely hear himself think.
"This was a mistake." He thought as he escaped the crowd of people and leaned up against the wall in the corner of the frat house, "At least I gave it a try."
Tristan was never someone who imagined he'd enjoy the party scene, but given that it was nearing the end of his freshman year, he figured he should at least give it a try. At least he knew now that parties were not his thing, and neither was the beer in his still nearly full red solo cup.
"Where'd they go?" He preened his neck to see if he could locate his friends from the dorm, "I shouldn't leave without them."
But after a few minutes of searching, he decided to give up. He'd text them and check in on them in the morning. And with that, he made his way towards the door. But before Tristan could reach the front door, somebody bumped into him, splashing the beer across his hoodie.
"I'm sorry!" Tristans squeaked out, looking down at his beer soaked shirt, "I didn't mean..."
The apology died in his throat. The guy he'd bumped into was huge. Not just tall. Huge. Broad shoulders stretched the sleeves of a gray fraternity shirt. Thick forearms crossed over a chest that looked like it had been carved out of granite. A backwards baseball cap sat low on his head, and even in the dim party lighting Tristan could see the confident grin spreading across his face.
"Dude."
"S-sorry."
"Damn dude." The guy barked out a laugh, "There you go again."
"Wh-what?"
"Apologizing."
"S-sorry?"
The guy burst out laughing, as did the group of jocks behind him. Tristan felt his face turn red and he looked down. But he felt a muscular arm thrown around his shoulders and he was pulled in close to the guy's sweaty, muscular torso. Up close, Tristan could smell sweat, deodorant, and stale beer clinging to the guy's shirt. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but somehow the guy seemed completely unaware of it. Or maybe he simply didn't care.
"Name's Ryan." He said, "You?"
"Tristan."
"Freshman?"
"Y-yeah."
"Figured." Ryan smirked, and Tristan could see something predatory flash through the frat bro's eyes, "You gonna take that off." He nodded towards the beer-soaked hoodie.
"I-I'll change when I get home." Tristan replied quickly.
"No you fuckin' won't." Ryan pulled Tristan towards the stairs, "I ain't letting a freshman walk home soaked in shitty beer. I've got something for you in my room."
"I really don't need..."
"Yeah, you do."
Ryan didn't even slow down. He kept a hand planted firmly on Tristan's shoulder as he guided him up the stairs. Tristan was struck by how easily the larger man moved through the crowded house. People stepped aside without even seeming to realize they were doing it. A few called Ryan's name. Others nodded in greeting. Ryan answered every one of them with the effortless confidence of someone completely at home.
"Seriously," Tristan said as they reached the second floor landing, "you don't have to do this."
"Yeah. I do."
Ryan pushed open a door near the end of the hallway and stepped inside. The room looked exactly how Tristan imagined a fraternity president's room would look.
"You like?"
Sports memorabilia covered the walls. Framed photographs showed Ryan posing with teammates, fraternity brothers, and various championship trophies. A collection of baseball caps hung above a dresser. The room smelled faintly of detergent, deodorant, and the lingering musk of somebody who spent most of his time either at practice or in the gym.
"It's... nice." Tristan replied.
"Good, glad you like it."
"You play football?" Tristan asked, nodding toward one of the trophies.
Ryan laughed, "Played. Graduating in three weeks."
Tristan watched as Ryan yanked his shirt off, revealing his physique. The guy was built. Not in the exaggerated way movie superheroes were built. Ryan looked real. Years of football, lifting, and hard training had left thick muscle packed across his shoulders, chest, and arms. Ryan caught him staring.
"What?"
Tristan immediately looked away, "Nothing."
"Bullshit." Ryan laughed and tossed the fraternity shirt onto the bed, "You were checking out the gains."
"N... No... I..."
"It's okay." Ryan walked up to him, "You like it, don't you?"
"It's not..."
"C'mon bro, stop fuckin' playing." Ryan grinned, "Everyone wants this." His hands suddenly pulled at the hem of Tristan's shirt, "Let's see what we're working with here."
Before Tristan could object, Ryan grabbed the hem of his beer-soaked hoodie and peeled it over his head. The cool air of the room immediately hit Tristan's skin. He instinctively folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of how much smaller he looked standing in front of the jock. Ryan slowly nodded. A smile spread across his face.
"You'll do."
"What are you...?"
But Ryan was suddenly on his knees, looking up at Tristan with a smirk. And before Tristan could react, Ryan was fumbling with his belt.
"I need this, bro." Ryan said.
"Wait... I..." Was this really happening? Tristan could never imagine that a guy as hot as this would ever...
"You want this, don't you?"
"Y-yeah..." Tristan bit his lip.
"There we go, bro."
As Ryan pulled Tristanâs pants down, letting them pool around his ankles, he leaned forward and looked up. His eyes locked onto Tristanâs with an unyielding, dominant confidence. The heat of Ryan's breath hit Tristan's cock just a second before his lips made contact. The moment Ryan took Tristan into his mouth, a strange, electric jolt shot through both of them.
"Oh god..." Tristan moaned. This was his first BJ and god it felt better than he could've possibly imagined. Ryan's tongue worked the head of his hard cock, and he could feel the jock's firm hands grasp his skinny ass.
And as Ryan rhythmically bobbed his head, his hands gripped Tristanâs thighs tightly. And as he gripped harder, Tristanâs thighs, typically lean and soft, felt a sudden, internal surge. The muscle fibers beneath the skin began to swell and density doubled. At the same time, Ryan grunted as his heavy, square jawline that had defined his face for years began to soften, the sharp angles rounding out. His grip on Tristan's thighs wavered as his own fingers lost a fraction of their calloused thickness, shortening and becoming smoother.
"Wait..." Tristan choked out, his hands trembling as he gripped his own newly expanding legs. "Ryan, what... what are you doing to me? What is this?"
Ryan didn't answer. He couldn't. His lips were wrapped firmly around Tristanâs cock, his head bobbing with an intense, deliberate rhythm. But looking down, Tristan saw a frightening yet mesmerizing change overtaking the older man. Ryanâs massive, boulder-like shoulders were visibly losing their breadth. The thick, rigid muscles of the jock's back were softening, compressing inward, collapsing into a much smaller, slighter frame.
A sudden, sharp pressure bloomed in Tristanâs own chest. He arched his back, crying out as his ribcage expanded with a loud, deep pop.
"Ah! Oh god, my chest!"
Tristan watched in absolute awe as his narrow torso erupted outward. Layers of dense, heavy pectoral muscle sheeted across his skin, stretching his pale flesh until it turned a healthy, sun-kissed golden-tan. His collarbones broadened, pushing his shoulders out so wide that he had to brace his feet against the floor just to keep his balance. He felt massive. He felt heavy. And he reached up to give his new pecs a squeeze with his increasingly thicker hands. He grunted at the feeling of the firm flesh beneath his palm and let out another moan as Ryan's pace quickened.
"Ryan... fuck..."
Down below, the hands gripping his thighs had completely changed. They were no longer the rough, calloused hands of a football captain; they were smaller, the fingers shorter and smoother. They were Tristan's hands.
Ryan let out a muffled, desperate grunt against Tristan's length, his eyes squeezed shut. The backward baseball cap sitting on Ryan's head suddenly slipped, sliding down a face that was rapidly losing its sharp, hyper-masculine definition. Ryan's jawline was shrinking, the bone structure shifting and rounding into a softer, much more delicate shape.
"Ryan, stop! Look at me!" Tristan pleaded, but the voice that left his throat completely shocked him. The high-pitched, nervous squeak of a freshman was gone. Instead, a deep, resonant rumble vibrated through his expanded chest... a rich, commanding baritone that belonged entirely to the man on his knees. "My voice... I sound like... you?"
Ryan squeezed Tristan's thicker ass, as if to reassure him. And then, without hesitating, continued to suck him off. Tristan moaned as he felt his cock start to lengthen in Ryan's mouth. Becoming girthier, thicker. All the while, the bulge in Ryan's pants became less impressive.
"S..Stop... wh-what is this?"
He looked down at his arms. His thin, spindly forearms were ballooning, thick veins pulsing beneath the skin as rock-hard muscle packed itself around his bones. Right before his eyes, a faint, dark ink began to bleed upward through his skin, settling into the exact shape of the fraternity tattoo Ryan was sporting earlier.
Ryan finally pulled back, gasping for air, and looked up at Tristan.
Tristan stared down, his breath catching in his throat. He was looking at himself. Ryanâs face had completely transformed into Tristanâs own fresh-faced, wide-eyed freshman features. His messy, soft brown hair fell into his eyes, and his expression was entirely devoid of his previous swagger, replaced by a vulnerable, submissive awe.
"I'm... I'm you," Tristan whispered, his large, heavy hand instinctively reaching up to touch his own face. His fingers brushed against a rugged, broken nose bridge and thick jaw, "And you're... you're me."
The boy on his knees smiled, a soft, tired, yet incredibly satisfied expression crossing his newly acquired, youthful face.
"I'm graduating, bro," Ryan whispered, his voice now carrying Tristan's exact light, breathless tone. He looked up at his own former body with a mixture of relief and envy. "I don't want to leave. I'm not ready for the real world. But now, I don't have to leave." He looked at his now lankier frame, "Might take some work, but I'll rebuild everything I had here."
"No... no, please. I didn't agree to this." Tristan begged, his voice a heavy, vibrating rumble that practically shook his own newly expanded ribs.
But even as the desperate plea left his lips, his new body was completely overwhelming his senses. The physical reality of being Ryan was staggering. Tristan gasped as a sudden wave of heat rolled over him, bringing with it a whole new sensory world. He didn't smell like himself anymore; he could smell the heavy, masculine scent of expensive sport deodorant, deep musk, and the faint, bitter tang of dried sweat from a long workout.
"This is how it is now, bro," Ryan whispered from below. He used Tristanâs small, smooth hands to brush a strand of soft, messy brown hair out of his eyes, looking up with a serene, relaxed smile. "Look around. You liked my muscles, right? You were checking out the gains. You liked my room, the trophies. Itâs all yours now. I get to restart as you, and you get to be the big man on campus. Itâs a fair trade."
"No, it's not!" Tristan protested, tears of pure panic forming. "I don't want to be the big man on campus! I want to be a student! I want to live my life, go to my own classes, hang out with my roommates... I can't just occupy your life! I'm not you!"
Ryan let out a soft, youthful chuckle, shaking his head. Tristan's old face looked so innocent, so small from up here. "Too late for that, man. Look at yourself. You are me now. In three weeks, you're walking across that stage with a degree. You need to start acting like me so my brothers and teammates don't get suspicious. Walk tall. Stop stuttering. You've got practice tomorrow morning."
"I can't," Tristan whispered, his massive chest heaving as a cold sweat broke out over his broad, tanned shoulders. He felt completely disconnected from the timid freshman he was supposed to be, trapped inside a prison of pure, unyielding muscle. "I don't know how to be you. I don't know how to act like this. I can't do it, Ryan..."
"Let me help you adjust," Ryan whispered softly, his eyes darkening with a quiet, deliberate intent.
Before Tristan could even think to push him away, Ryan leaned back in. The motion was slow, incredibly sensual, and deeply intimate. Tristanâs massive, throbbing cock slid past Ryanâs new, soft lips, and the moment the wet, intense warmth enclosed him, a gasp tore from Tristan's throat.
Ryan didn't rush. He bobbed his head with a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm, swirling his tongue around the hyper-sensitive, engorged head. Tristanâs knees buckled slightly, his massive thighs trembling under the sheer sensory overload. As the warmth of Ryan's mouth worked over his length, Tristan felt his mind begin to fracture. His core memories... the long nights studying in the library, his quiet dorm room, his nervous anxiety around crowds... began to haze over, melting away.
In their place, a torrent of foreign thoughts, impulses, and memories rushed in to fill the void. Tristan choked out a moan, his thick fingers tangling in his own soft brown hair on Ryan's head, but he wasn't trying to pull him away anymore. He was remembering the roar of the stadium crowd. He was remembering the exact weight of a football in his palm. He was remembering the absolute, unshakeable certainty that he owned every single room he walked into.
"Oh god... fuck..." Tristan groaned, but the panic in his voice was rapidly dissolving, replaced by a dark, heavy, confident heat.
His internal monologue was shifting. The anxious, overthinking voice of the freshman was being utterly crushed, flattened beneath a rising tide of raw, unadulterated jock confidence. The world was reorganizing itself in his mind. He looked down at the boy giving him pleasure, and he didn't see his old self anymore. He just saw a freshman. A cute, soft little freshman who belonged on his knees, doing exactly what he was told.
Ryan... the original Ryan- finally pulled back with a wet, heavy sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his small hand. He looked up at his old body with a submissive, wide-eyed awe, completely content to be small, young, and entirely free of the real world.
The man standing above him didn't look confused or scared anymore. He adjusted his stance, his broad, shoulders squaring perfectly as a cocky, predatory smirk spread across his rugged face. He looked around at his sports memorabilia, his trophies, and then down at his freshman, feeling completely, utterly at home.
"Damn, bro," Ryan rumbled, his deep, dominant baritone dripping with an effortless authority as he reached down, his heavy hand firmly gripping the freshman's hair. "You're pretty fucking good at this. Who told you to stop, bro?"
Authors note: this was a comm from a while ago! I hope you guys enjoy it and if you want anything similar please feel free to hit me up!! DMs are always open! We also have a Patreon that gives everyone access to the discord where you can get everything first before anyone else!
___________________
God I hated my Brother, he was such a lil dick he keeps driving me crazy.
Maybe it was just the fact that I was having a bad day already or maybe he had just finally crossed the line. But I have had it up to here with my uptight goody two shoes brother Philip. Ever since we had gotten the new place I thought we would have finally had enough space to ourselves to relax, to chill without any of the overbearing bullshit of our family. That I could actually get to know my perfect older brother without his well fitted shirts and his tight slacks that left little to the imagination with his round ass and thunder thighs. But it turns out that when your brother grows up an academic book worm he stays that way in college with you and prioritizes a clean cut image at his fancy job when he could really be sitting back with me, pants unbuttoned and watching a game or two.
He would normally tell me I was letting myself go, just because I wasn't super hygienic and was super musky after all my workouts (I hate the gym showers can you blame me) and I would drink a beer or two every night didn't mean I was letting myself go. Just meant I was being free and he should try it too. Maybe it would put some damn meat on his bones and he wouldn't look so frail.
I just wish that if he was going to be such a buzz kill that he wouldn't touch my shit. Sure it wasn't properly organized and it was thrown out around the place haphazardly with clothes on crowded surfaces but I know where my shit is. He had a whole cleaning spree when I was out at the club and now I have no clue where my laptop is. I checked all my normal spots I emptied out every storage space it's just fucking gone and I'm furious.
So I went snooping around our place, it was just a two bedroom so I had some decent idea where to go and our layout. But what I wasn't expecting was a closet door between our rooms with an antique trimmed door waiting to be opened. My hand is pulling on the knob before I even know what I'm doing. This wasn't there, this has NEVER been here and there's not enough space for it.
So why was I being every dumbass white person in a horror movie, why were my eyes wide open as it revealed itself to just have a shelf with a single baseball cap. It had this insignia of a fucked up baseball glove. I even asked myself why I picked it up even though it looked like an old cursed or possessed article of clothing with an aura of foreboding but it was simple. I had a thought I knew to be absolutely certain and absolutely not my own, that that door was a door that only shows up when it's needed and that this hat would fix my bro for good.
I just had to get him to put it on and wear it which wouldn't be too hard. My brother would be tired after coming home from class. He'd sit down on the couch and that's when iâd strike. He wouldnât see it coming, heâd be too tired to even really be upset about how I tore apart our place, just sat with his back to me. So I sat in my room waiting, my cock getting hard at the thought of the power I held, the idea of corrupting my brother, showing him the good life, what he was denying himself.
It wasnât long before he walked in, sighing dramatically, through the cracked door I could see him run a hand through his perfectly blonde, combed hair. Adjusting his stupid tie he didn't need. He carefully set his bag on the counter, the satchel neatly placed, while his steps forward were all deliberate, his shoes already off.
When he sat down I struck, jumping through the door prepared for anything. I saw him jump, startled at the noise but before he can say anything, do anything I slap it down, his eyes going wide behind his glasses, at first in fear but it quickly transfers to bliss.Â
âTy..Tyler what what was that for!â he says, biting back a moan as I walk around the couch to look at him, the hat starting to shimmer. His body twitches, his limbs seem to scramble for a second, arms shaking and legs spasming. He tries to reach up to the cap, maybe to pull it off but his fingers just wont listen, his twig like arms struggling to stay up as magic PULSES through him.
âNothing bro, just figured you could finally relax a little. Get your head out of your ass and into what did you call my baseball caps last time?â I say smirking, enjoying his struggle, the way his body was fidgeting.
He says something but I ignore it, babbling about how this wasnât funny. âOh yeah get your head out of your ass and into one of those lazy douchebag hats I'm always wearing!â The word douchebag echoes out of my mouth and the magic ball cap starts to turn. Its brim, which was facing forward, started slowly ticking back.Â
âNo, Ty..Tyler bro- fuck I donât say- Tyler stop this, its doi..doin somethin BRO!â His controlled, always frowning, smarmy face relaxing, taking on a dopey grin, he never said the word bro, never was chilled, this was all so new and so fuckin hot. His voice cracking slightly and Phillipâs flailing arms collapsing onto the couch with a thud. The hat was only a quarter of the way when I saw his body start to squirm under his already well tailored clothes.
Another PULSE shot through him, centered around his face and head, his hair going from well manicured, clean and soft to this frizzy, unmanaged greasy pile of curls and sweat. His brow furrowed, the bone underneath strengthening and pushing outward giving his once sharp feminine face an immediate masculine touch, his eyes glazing over as his nose grew stronger, facial hair sprouting forming a chinstrap as his jaw became square, chiseled and his lips plumped up into these perfect kissable DSLâs.
His face was no longer this smooth, cute academic, it looked like a jock, a dumb meatheaded jock.
PULSE
The hat was glowing Brighter âBro..Bro Ty its, its so warm BRO, its takin.. Taking my brain bro.â The pulse moved down his neck, his adams apple growing, his neck thickened. The hat using his brain as fuel, his personality being eaten away. His shoulders broadening, his collar, the seams of his shirt straining. The jacket burst when it got to his arms, the muscle breaking the fabric, it dematerialized, his button down strains further as his pecs explode, becoming this sturdy meaty slabs, but the final straw is his muscle gut that forms, or as he would call it, a beer belly. Memories of my lil bro keeping himself trim, doing cardio are replaced with late night parties, beer runs and keg stands. The shirt is torn to pieces becoming a beat up, smelly stained white tank.Â
PULSE
Reality was being rewritten, Phil was begging for it to stop as his hands became this rough mitts made for grabbing beers, lifting weights and slapping asses. But that begging became moaning as pleasure rippled through him, these deep guttural groans of pleasure like an animal in heat.The hat was more then halfway now His legs were next, the thighs that were almost non existent became thunder thighs from all the heavy lifting, his calves were carved into diamonds even with him sitting on the couch watching tv a lot more recently. He was thrusting up into the air, his glutes packing on fat and muscle became perfect for worshipping
PULSE
It was almost done, the hat was almost all the way backwards, its energy shining horrendously bright as my memory of Phillip was erased, gone for good. The uptight brother I wrongfully resented for wanting what was best for me was replaced with Phil, a hard core horny ex jock who leers at you. Memories of him bossing you around, making suggestive comments about using your mouth and muscled ass. Spanking you when youâd walk by, whistling when it would recoil. I was forced to watch as my wish was twisted and his hard, veiny cock grew through his pants, becoming a monster 12 inches that BEGGED for attention, his balls filled to the brim with cum.
PULSE
My eyes were blinking rapidly, the house changed, no longer freakishly organized everywhere even with the mess I made earlier. It was a messy bachelor pad, underwear and dirty clothes everywhere, beer cans on the ground, pizza boxes spread out. Phillips' satchel was replaced with a different alcohol bottle on the counter Phil had already gone through. Our entire dynamic erased and rewritten, my desire corrupted, the hat was was a fucked up jock monkeyâs paw.
PULSE
The hat was fully twisted around, our fate was sealed and it was only partialÂ
The tv was on, hard core gay porn was playing on the tv and Philâs cock was throbbing, he was lightly moving his hand up and down, teasing it. âYo Bro, wanna come jerk it while this himbo gets his ass pounded!â Phil says, cock leaking precum, getting slicker making it easier for his hands to slide up and down. His breath was hitching as he kept going.
I made a face immediately, grossed out at the offer, my sex obsessed, pervert brother absolutely disgusting to me. âNah Bro, you know this isnât my thing!â i didnât want to start a fight, i didnt want him in here bossing me around.
âWhats not to like Bro, theres something so HOT about a big dumb Himbo bouncing up and down on a cock, pecs jiggling, eyes crossed, only thinking about how to make his top feel good!â Bro moved one of his hands under his wife beater, tweaking one of his nipples as he got off. His eyes were staring right at me now, not at the porn, leering at me at my body, like he was talking about me. I don't notice him grab the hat.with the other hand, how he carefully holds it just off his head, waiting to strike if I say the wrong thing. Iâm to angry, too pumped up.
âIâm not into that shit bro, especially not with you, go take your dick and find a dumb ditzy himbo who will actually like sucking it!â Its said out of rage, out of anger, and disgust. But even if I didnât hate my Bro Phil and how commanding he could be. How he would always try and pull shit like this, try and proposition me or leer at me, I just didnât want to do any of that with my brother.
It was Philâs turn to strike, He leapt to his feet quicker than I thought he could. His hat already off his head, a giant evil smirk across his face as he plopped it down on my shorter frame. It all happened at once, so fast so quick I couldnât get out of the way and I definitely couldnât get it off of me as I felt it CINCH around my forehead sticking to my head.
âYour right Bro, i do need myself a DUMB DITZY HIMBO, who will LOVE SUCKING AND SERVING MY COCK!â his voice echoes as he lightly strokes his massive cock, worry fills my head as I see out of the corners of my eye a dark sickly green glow emanate from the hat, the world slows down.
The first PULSE hit me like a freight train, my skin felt like it was on fire across my body, my semi pale, acne scarred body was WASHED clean, taking on this deep rich tan. My facial and body hair being lasered off by magic and any and all flaws disappeared as if I had been photoshopped. I watched as my bro circled around me, whistling at the first change.Â
Another PULSE, this one deeper in my head, the hat began to tick, and as it ticked and rotated I felt a sucking sensation start in my brain, my thoughts slowing down man, becoming harder to think or focus. Another PULSE, My face taking on this look of a dumb innocent jock, lips becoming thicker, just like my BROâs great DSLâs to suck hi- what the fuck i would never GET DOWN ON MY KNEES AND HOOVER AWAy- I dont think that way BRO, thats my Brother. But this new hunger, this desire to lick along his shaft, eyes glazed over as my tongue gently traces its way around the tip before my lips engulf him. The idea of him grabbing me by my new platinum blonde hair as he fills the hunger that finds itself forming all the way down my throat, that can only be satisfied by his length and his cum.
 My jawline was more chiseled and my cheekbones got higher. My hair took on this bright Platinum blonde while my eyebrows were perfectly tweezed into a nice arch.
PULSE
My body was hit with mass, my neck thickening, shoulders broadening, chest being made into this perfect set of Pillows for my brother to tease and play with while I sucked him off or bounced up and down on his massive coc- fuck no the hat was about a quarter of the way and as it sucked out all my intelligence, free will and identity, so that it could replace it all with him, serving him, his massive body. Doing whatever he told me so I could deep throat his cock, feel it fill my empty tight hole. I felt my arms expand, becoming the perfect gym bunny arms, biceps that bulged like mountains, sturdy triceps and wrists that made my meaty hands all the more stable.
PULSE
God Why wasnât I on my knees RIGHT NOW. Fuck its progressing further, need to get this stupid- AMAZING hat off me. I felt my core tremble as abs cobbled themselves together, my waist tightening giving me this Dorito shape before my hips exploded outwards.I had this perfect V, a slutty waist for my brother to grab me by, to bend me over and hold onto while he fucked me silly.Â
PULSE
It was almost halfway turned around, burning brighter, my head on fire as it fried my brain for all it was worth, I felt it looking around for more fuel, it didn't have much brains to work with like Phillip so it started to creep down my body, sneakily snaking through me. Phil was walking around me when I felt it, him SLAPPING my ass, causing what once used to honestly be kinda flat because I skipped Leg day, to RIPPLE. That warm energy SURGING, becoming a fiery heat as my ass piled on the perfect ration of fat and muscle. These two massive globes looked like a shelf, from every angle they were noticeable, I would never be able to hide them. WHY WOULD WE WANT TO!!! These big bouncy cheeks are gonna make bro so happy I cant wait for him to give them a quick swat, or to gyrate on his lap getting him nice and har- No Iâm not some cock obsessed himbo.
The energy spread further in, diving between the cheeks, I felt my hole TWITCH. That PULSE from before was nothing, this one, this felt like 8 of them going off all at once, I lost my footing as my ass clenched, my hands grabbing onto Phil as my eyes rolled back. My hole, god it was empty, so fucking empty, empty empty empty, i needed it filled, I needed cock, fuck I needed phils cock so bad. I didn't care that I would never have wanted it before, didn't care that this didn't sound like me, the only thing I cared about was his hard, slick cock thrusting in and out of me.
Making this bouncy bubble butt took a lot of energy, fuel, essence and it needed to burn something else, something substantial, something I used. So when the hat finally found it, it wrapped around it, engulfing it in the same fiery PULSE as my cheeks, I felt it, I felt my cock shrink. My once decent six inches, my pride and joy I used for conquests, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch was shrunk down to a tiny nub.I couldnât stop myself from thrusting in the air, my balls which would have swung wildly dwindled down, useless no longer important. Neither body part had use, all my pleasure was focused on my ass, tits and mouth. Why would I need a dicklet when I had big bros to play with?
I felt another PULSE , my legs becoming strong, sturdy, able to hold myself in any position Bro would want me in, my flexibility increasing all over my body as I became the perfect fucktoy for Phil to use however he wanted, whenever he wanted. God I just wanted him, no I NEEDED him to want me and didnât care what it took to please him, I would do it.
I had one last thought that I knew was mine, Tyler, not Tyâs, staring up at Phi, this man who was the peak of masculinity in my eyes, his beer belly out and proud, flexing his arms in a double bicep pose making my already horny mind race at the thought of the musk to worship in those hairy, sweaty pits. My mouth partially opened, pouting begging for his cock as it swung back and forth, drips of pre cum oozing out of his cock and onto my face. It was that I hated Phil, that I wanted Phillip, my annoying uptight brother, I guess you don't really know what you have till you lose it to a magical reality manipulating hat that feeds off of intelligence and cock size..
PULSE
God my Brother was so hot and strong, I love when he would command me to do things. Today were gonna be watching the game, but right now he is seeing how much precum he can paint with my face. His cock leaks it like a faucet and its like the hottest thing ever my god I just want to be covered in it. Some people used to say he was overbearing and commanding but I always found Big bro to be SOOOO HOT.
âYeah, that's a good boy! So cute with your backwards cap on!â My eyes are following after his cock as it swings over my head, his balls hitting my chin. I feel his hand push the cap further down on my head, scrambling my brain one last time, burning up the last reality till I was just an empty headed himbo that needed both his holes filled.
âEven cuter when your eyes follow after my cock!â He does a quick dip/squat his cock swinging into the right side of my face, his precum and sweat glazing my face as he does, my mouth follows after trying to get it in there.Â
âYou are so fucking cock hungry its adorable bro, tell me how badly you need my cock!â he says quickly hitting the other side, my lips are almost able to kiss the side of his dick as it swings.
âPlease Big Bro, i need your cock so bad, Iâm so hungry Bro, im just a cock hungry slut for you bro please fill me up Iâll do anything!â I beg, my hands grabbing his legs, my ass jiggling as I plead with him. I see him stare at me with the predator like hunger, his hand squishing the hat on my hair one last time before ripping it off and throwing it behind him. It faded out of existence like it was never there. His other hand quickly ran through my lush platinum hair before grabbing it and holding it still.
âOkay boy, since your such a good, dumb, cock hungry slut, Iâll give it to you but only because you asked so nicely!â He has the widest grin on his face as he brings his cock down to my lips, smearing more precum across them as I greedily lap it all up. My tongue rolling around the tip of his dick as he lightly applies pressure to my face. I moan just thinking about what happens next.
âOpen up and take it like the bitch you are!â He commands and I listen. Heâs not gentle, why would Big Bro be anyway, he thrusts in, all the way. I love that Phil fucked my gag reflex away with his amazing fuckstick months ago. To feel him go from his tip ALL the way down to the root of his cock in one fluid motion was divine, my eyes rolled back as I felt his pubes smash against my face, his hands on the back of my head now grabbing fistsfulls of hair while he moaned. The smell of his musk, the feeling of it all happening so suddenly, overwhelms me and I canât stop myself from jumping off the edge, eyes rolling back as my tiny dick fires shot after shot.Â
He tsks through light laughter and wags a finger in the air, pulling his cock out halfway, and so quickly that hunger that he had satisfied with plunging all the way down returning, eating away at me. âSo hungry you canât control yourself slut, fuuuck iâm gonna have so much fun tonight!â he says, he quickly slaps one of my cheeks, a quick surge of pleasure floods me as I feel them both shake, he whistles before plunging his cock back in.
I can hear the game going on in the back, his thrusts are fast but even, his balls slapping into my neck. Hearing him talk about some stupid guy named Tyler, how he was happy he could finally get everything he wanted, a bitch to clean up after him, take care of his cock and not make any mess. That some stupid hat was the best thing that happened to either of us.
The sweat from his beerbelly his hot and heavy, soaking through my hair and forehead, his smell ingrained in my mind as an aphrodisiac. My hands move up and down his body, worshipping it like the god he is. His own cheeks clapping with every thrust as he takes exactly what he wants. I hear cheering from the game, someone is apparently near the end zone, Phil is getting faster, his hands are a bit rougher as heâs getting closer. Almost at the edge.
My stomach feels so full from his precum, my throat trying to swallow more and more of him as he skull fucks me silly. Iâm so close again, his moans were getting louder, telling me how I was such a good boy for milking his cock. That I had to get ready to take it all, swallow all of his cum, to be his good lil bitch and that praise, that encouragement was all I needed to have my second hands free orgasm this time around. The thought of him painting my throat white making me throw my head back as he thrusts into my puffy, hungry lips.
âHereâŚhere,...It comess you DUMB HIMBO!â he shouts as the screen yells touch down, he rapidly does three more smaller thrusts as he fores not one, two or three loads, five all down my throat.
âNow be a good bitch and get me a beer!â He says pulling out of my mouth with a plop and playfully slapping my face.Â
God I loved My Big Bro and his massive cock so much, it drives me crazy!
(i just thought these two guys were hot for the purpose of this)
Morris needs a job, Byron Industries needs an lab rat perfect for their new trial to make a mindless (read: horny) grunt. Paging through his favorite book while he waits, for such a reader he surely didn't read any fine print.
Wrote this one for a GSS challenge a bit ago! Here it is ever so slightly touched up with a few images added. This one's for all you real Melville heads out there. -Occam
âCall me Morris!â
The literature grad surely expected at least some reaction to his smallest of Moby Dick references. Itâs not the first time heâs met with silence at the playfully pitiful introduction, but usually thereâs at least confusion. This receptionist simply stares blankly. Perhaps there was a perfunctory smile under the facemask, but it certainly didnât reach his eyes.Â
âMorris Baker, yes? For the interview?â
Still recoiling from his scuffed opening Morris is hesitant to speak up. All the well as the receptionist takes his silent quibbling as confirmation.Â
âSir Byron will be with you shortly, please have a seat and enjoy our lobbyâs amenities.â
Clutching his shoulder bag tightly as he sort of bows before stepping away from the front desk, Morris realizes that heâs not just working himself up. Itâs not in his head, something is off about that receptionist. Sneaking a quick glance back, he sees the clerk is still staring at him. No? Staring through him.
To his credit, Morris stills the shiver that runs up his spine at the realization. Focusing on what matters, Morris convinces himself that between the two of them the secretaryâs the weird one. Thatâs why the man didnât react to his solid Moby Dick reference! Turning with a cocksure grin to take in the amenities the strange receptionist spoke of he wonders what heâll find. Itâs not every day someone like him gets to wander into Byron Romanâs business, after all.
Local celebrity doesnât begin to cover what the titan of industry has become, but itâs certainly where he started. Morris remembers him being the talk of their provincial Texan hometown, nothing exciting ever happened around here so why not discuss the now-billionaire who escaped.
No one ever expected for him to return to their suburban ghost town to set up shop. Apparently disaffected with the West Coast preoccupation with burning money in pursuit of LLMâs and other digital faux progress, he felt a dire need to take his money elsewhere. For he is concerned with the world material.
Staring up at a painting of the great man adorning the wall above an elegant single-cup coffee machine, Morris can hardly believe theyâre from the same ZIP code. That they walked the same high school corridors. Thick silver-speckled beard hiding a jawline everyone knows is as sharp as his mind, Byron seems like a man from a different age. One to be found amongst the pages of Morrisâ classic literature more so than as the chief executive of an R&D company HQâd in bumfuck nowhere.
And to think, Morris is here to work under him. Far, far, far under him presumably. The email didnât say who he was meeting with, or really what he was interviewing for, but it must be for a low level clerk position. At least he told himself this as he signed an âinterview contractâ that he had barely read.Â
Obviously said document could have held these answers and more but Morris was too excited at the opportunity to work for Byron Roman to even glance at the thing before signing. And now itâs almost as if itâs been washed from his mind. Perhaps that would be concerning if he were able to really recall it at all. But right now Morris has bigger fish to fry, sure of his intelligence at least, there is little else about himself he is confident about.
Too gaunt to be considered pudgy, too average to be dubbed attractive. Morris, like the CEO, seems to be pulled from the world of fiction, though one rather distinct from the epic Sir Byron Roman is cut from. No, Morris is more akin to a street urchin busking to sell matchsticks. Some Dickensian side-character that would be left on the chopping room floor.
Stealing another glance at the portrait wondering if he should hazard another cup of coffee, Morris canât believe the sense of gravity he gets from the painting. Itâs as if the man were standing her before him, asserting his masculinity through brushstrokes and painted posture alone.Â
Coming to this exact realization as he awkwardly averts his eyes and starts brewing a cup, Morris jokes to himself, âCan oi interest you in a pape milordâŚâ
Unbeknownst to the off-duty barista, the receptionist has yet to take his eyes off him. Watching as Morris taps away at a coffee machine that inexplicably has a screen, he scans with concentration more like a machine than a man.
Only when the nervous interviewee sheepishly looks over his shoulder at the otherwise empty room does the receptionist at last avert his eyes. Having apparently gathered everything he needs, when Morris sits down with his steaming to-go cup, the receptionist speaks up.
âSir Byron will see you now. Please proceed through the door on my left before entering the third room on the right.â
Letting the manâs words hang in the air for a moment, Morris puffs his cheeks and squints as he realizes this is the second time the secretary has outright stated heâs going to be meeting with the CEO.Â
The first time he had assumed it was a simple mistake, just a slip of the doormanâs hidden tongue. Having spent even a second longer with the mechanical man, Morris feels confident that he is not the type to speak in err. Nevertheless he opts to clarify.
âHey! Hi there~ I donât believe I got your name earlier, Mr..?â His question hangs in the air long enough that he gives up and continues. âRight. Well, I do believe there has been some sort of a misunderstanding? I-Iâm here for a simply preliminary interview, surely Mr. Roman had better things to do than-â
âThis organization is Byron Roman. If he allows some plain well-read fop to represent him in any regard, and that ungainly grunt makes an embarrassment of his name. Well.â
Itâs the most animated Morris has seen the man since he walked in. Despite the cool collected tone heâd swear he saw the manâs eye twitch at the very idea of someone embarrassing the brand. Breezing past being called a grunt and clinging to being called well-read Morris tries to salvage the situation. Sure that if everything goes well that heâll be working to some degree with the severe man before him, he beats down his nerves to perform.
âOf course! Of course~ I completely understand, sir. The squeaky wheel- err? Rather, a man is always judged by the company he keeps! I am simply surprised that a man as great as Byron Roman would make time in his busy day for an aspirant such as myself.âÂ
Unlike the previous hidden grin, at this the secretaryâs eyes light up with a smile. Like a faithful hearing true testimony of their lord.Â
âWell spoken Mr. Baker. Perhaps weâll have a fruitful working relationship after all. Hold fast to that fervor. Now, if you donât mind, please away to the next suite. Sir Byron will arrive to join when he is finished with his current business.â
Once more gesturing to the door to his left, the secretaryâs face resets to its emotionless steel as he awaits for Morris to obey. Coffee cup in his hands he is torn whether to leave it or bring it to the second location. The simple decision almost freezes him in place.Â
He canât help but overthink every single choice before him. Scoffing at himself as he clenches his jaw, in lieu of a decision he follows the path of least resistance and keeps the cup in hands. Still chiding himself for his perpetual lack of volition and his obsession with minutiae, he attempts to beat stoic surety into himself in preparation of meeting a CEO.
The process is interrupted as he crosses the threshold out of the lobby only to find an unremarkable hallway. Warm wooden flooring and vintage wallpaper give the place a homey vibe far more similar to a small-town doctorâs office than the working HQ of a tech company. Even seeing the large elevators at the end of the hallway in a building Morris knows is only the one story tall, he canât help but be lulled by the placeâs provincial decor.Â
âItâs like my mom decorated this placeâŚâÂ
Snooping just enough to check out the other few doors on the way to the promised third on the right, Morris finds only more beige doors. Their handles are covered with a thin layer of dust that his attention just glides past, much like it does regarding the gleaming elevator down the way.
Far less overactive minds would begin telling themselves horror stories and worst-case scenarios about wandering into the back office of a billionaireâs clearly shady studio. Taking a sip of his coffee and stealing one last glimpse of the empty hallway, Morris refuses to give way to anxiety. The rich light roast on his tongue grounds him, it perfectly reminds him why heâs come here today.Â
He is not going to be a barista anymore. The lobbyâs attendant flickers in his mind as he swallows. A job just like that, maybe one where he doesnât need to be quite so dogmatic, is that too much to ask?Â
Lost in thought as he enters the room. From the side of his eye Morris catches movement and spits up coffee as he flinches into the door in surprise. Instantly worried that Byron has been waiting on him and caught this jittery display, he tightens his posture and forces an awkward smile on his face to feign confidence.
His harried resolve immediately drops when he turns completely only to find a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Sighing in relief Morris decides to use the opportunity to freshen up. Setting down his coffee he wanders closer to inspect his reflection.Â
Hair as unfrizzled as heâs able to get it, there are more than a few curly fly-aways sticking out of his tight dirty-blonde bun. Looking down his baggy button-up there are thankfully no coffee stains on its placket.Â
At least everywhere visible is stainfree if nothing else. The same can surely not be said regarding the sweat under his arms, but this is thankfully hidden by a neat cardigan and nigh-medical grade deodorant.
âIâll be fineâ He tells himself on loop, tugging his cardigan down to cover a wrinkle. Looking downwards his pants are simply too long and bag atop dress shoes he only pulls out for very special occasions. His belt still slightly limp even on its most extreme loop, Morris feels nerves prickle on the back of his neck. He absolutely wonât be fine, he looks like a fucking mess!
The barely positive mantra heâs been clinging to is succinctly batted away as the reality of the situation pelts away the hope heâd been foolish enough to trust. He hadnât even applied for any position in particular, simply thrown his resume at the companyâs inbox alongside a pathetic cover letter asking to be used however they see fit.Â
As if their CEO would waste a second of his day besides to come down here and chastise him for wasting his important companyâs time. The receptionist held more worth in a finger than could be found in all of Morris put together, and he thought heâd be able to work a job like that!? Heâd crumble under the slightest obstacle, some rich investor chews him out and heâd dissolve. Morris feels himself tearing up at the very idea.
Or perhaps heâs simply halfway to weeping for being a dumbass who thought things could be better. Always thinking. Too much thinking. He feels his fingers clench into his forehead before he even realizes heâs put his face in his hands. The pain of his fingernails scratching brings him back to his senses and after making sure he didnât leave splotchy red marks on his hairline he takes a deep breath and turns away from his watery-eyed reflection.
Nowâs not the time.
If this is real, and it must be. Then this is a massive opportunity he simply canât waste because he got in his own head. Heâs too smart for that. Heâs smart, and Byron Roman himself has a position in mind for him. This is-
BING BONG DING DONG- DONG DING BONG BING
âJesus christâŚâ
Nearly jumping out of his skin, itâs clear that despite telling himself to calm down he has remained well on edge. Looking up to find the villainous implement that startled him, Morris is shocked he didnât notice the clock before now. Still recovering from the jumpscare he can hear a subtle tick-tock, grounding him in reality as he attempts to find calm.
Centering himself on the consistent clicking of gears nearby, Morris sits in a small chair and sets his bag down beside him. Time to lock in. Reaching down to paw through the couple of belongings he saw as necessary, Morris debates whether itâs best to read through his printed resume or to focus wholly on setting his mind at ease.
Obviously heâs not going to just scroll on his phone. At worst heâll stumble across something thatâll stress him out more. At best heâll look like some screen-addicted zoomer right when Mr. Roman walks in.
Fingers glaze the worn cover of his trusty bible. Melvilleâs masterpiece. Moby Dick. Thinking of the tome and the vastness of the sea within, the classicist feels the constriction in his chest just melt away. Focused on the sound of North Atlantic gulls in his mind, buoyed by the persistent ticking of the newfound clock, how could Morris ever notice the slightest hissing now emanating from the nearby overhead vent.Â
Book in hands, he turns it over a few times before opening it to some choice section on whales and their constituent parts. Morris at last relaxes back into his chair. Despite doing everything right, as he reads his pulse continues to rise. First putting his hand on his chest to feel its racing beat, Morris shakes his head and pointedly ignores how it suddenly feels warmer in the room to read the passage before him.
Fanning out his button-up he frowns and tells himself the discomfort is all in his head. Shifting in his seat he feels the pooling sweat in pits and resolves to ignore it. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he squints at the text and begins to whisper it aloud to himself.
âGnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed unrelenting.. Uh?â Hearing something bump in the hallway he turns to hopefully see his interviewer interrupting him only to find itâs presumably in his head. Scratching at the side of his chest, carefully not shoving his hand deep in his pits, Morris purses his lips and looks back to the book, unknowingly skipping a few lines.
âOr, if for any reason thought to be corpo- uhhh? Corporately, no. Corpor-really? Corporeally? Jeeez, god⌠I must be more stressed than I even thought.â And he certainly thought he was plenty stressed.Â
Leaning back against his chair, Morris closes his eyes and simply tries to find peace in the darkness. His foot anxiously taps on the floor, at first matching the ticking before rapidly outpacing it. And then it falls heavier. His shoes were tight from the get-go having rarely been worn, but suddenly itâs almost like theyâve gotten tighter in the last few minutes.Â
Every muscle in his body tensed, he uses his anxious tension to jump up with a start and pace the otherwise empty office. This does nothing to abate the discomfort in his shoes, but as he does so he begins to find that it is not only his feet that are suddenly acting up. Crossing his arms tightly as he patrols the small suite, his cardigan tugs against his shoulders like it never has before.
With a scowl he looks down at his wrists exposed from both his sweater and shirt. Imagining the surely pristine suit his townâs idol is sure to arrive in he easily works himself up anew about his foolish daydreams. Even worse than before, as if every already extreme emotion had heightened. As if they were still heightening.Â
Throwing his arms down and swinging them to simply remove them from his sight, he refuses to acknowledge how the twigs twitch with every sway. Muscle fibers that have been inactive save to froth milk and open novels suddenly twinge and burn with a need Morris doesnât understand.Â
Struggling to make sense of the strange sensation, with pursed lips his fists cramp and at last it becomes perfectly clear. Aggression. Morris is filled with the all-too unfamiliar need to punch something. His consistent pacing back and forth immediately stops as the urge takes pride of place in his mind. Staring as his dainty hands curling into fists, Morris watches mouth agog as the veins on their backs throb.Â
The sound of his knuckles cracking larger with the force of his clenching is absolutely clear. Wispy blond strands that have long decorated his wrists seem suddenly darker in this office light, to say nothing of the fact that it seems like there are altogether more of them.
Hidden by his cardigan sleeves, Morris suddenly feels his forearms filled with force. Not knowing what a flexor or extensor even is, Morris is dumbstruck as he feels muscles reflexively constrict. Higher up his arm, and far more eye-catching, he is stunned as he sees his sweater catch on biceps like heâs never seen. Muscle like heâd never even been able to imagine on his unimpressive form.
Everything else is washed from his mind as he sees his arms continue to bloat. The shock from his sudden violent streak and even the slight pain still pinging from his shoes pinching more and more, everything fades away as a grin overtakes his shaky face. Panting almost as he lowers and raises an invisible dumbbell, Morris watches as with every lift his sleeves are strained further. And his arms continue to grow.Â
Hands stretch further from the end of his sleeves as the scratchy, darker curls spreading up his forearm continue to thicken. Doing everything short of drooling at his biceps bulging thicker, when it starts to strain against the dress shirt beneath, his vacant expression twitches into one of frustration.Â
Nose flaring in irritation, he unintentionally takes a deeper breath and gasps as he suddenly notices a pervasive stink has begun to fill the room. Sure that it simply canât be coming from himself he raises his heavy right arm to look underneath and can hardly believe the sight. Sweating through both the dress shirt and the thick, once baggy cardigan, Morris canât take his eyes off the dark, spreading stain in his armpits.
Stunned, his face burns bright red and then feels starkly itchy itself. The urge to scratch is waylaid by the far more powerful need to shove his head into his pit and inhale deeply. Get some of that sweat on his face⌠Maybe itâd stay there, stick on his upper lip and heâd get a deep whiff of his musky male odor with every single breath.
âNnno⌠That- I cannâtuhhâŚâ Words dissolve from his mouth and mind as his lips simply fall open.
Tongue almost lolling, his neck that had been surreptitiously thickening itself begins to lean towards his waiting pit. Converted to the cause, his barely cognizant rational self, tries to make sense of his need. How is he to fix the issue without truly understanding it. He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and let his pits breath to the open air.
Mind wont to picture the bushy tangle of pit hair that must be hidden beneath these restrictive layers, he does just that. Thicker than his pubes and almost as scratchy, he imagines the chalky deodorant he threw on this morning simply melting away. Absolutely overwhelmed by the prodigious musk his pits produce, proof of his own prodigious manhood.
Lost in a daydream, one hand slowly reaches over to scratch the armpit he imagines and finds it just as hairy as he imagines. Stomach quivering as higher thought continues to vacate. Buried beneath two tops, even still his fingertips can still feel the deep scratchy strands that have begun to stretch well beyond their underarm stomping ground.
Lips twitching into a grin, Morris moans quietly to himself as blush returns to his pale cheeks as its skin tightens and grows rougher. Standing limply in the center of the room as he continues to fill out his clothes, there are a couple inches of straining dress socks showing from the pants that were ever too long.Â
On the opposite end of the garment, his growth is far more drastic. Never much of a shower or a grower, Morrisâ petit package has more than filled his lucky pair of briefs. While one hand remains preoccupied with his pits, the other enthusiastically goes to cup a cock slowly twitching larger.
Quickly struggling to remove a belt now constricting his widening waist before it snaps, at the very same moment it clinks against the floor he hears his swelling cock strain his briefs. When it at last breaks free from his underwear and begins throbbing down the side of his pant leg, obviously visible, Morrisâ hips twitch forward and he is brought back to the unmistakable reality of his situation.
âOHHHhhh GOddd~â Panting as he tries to make sense of this must-be nightmare, Morris stumbles over to the mirror to try and free himself from this manic hellscape. Thicker lips drooping open surrounded by stubble darkening from its blonde peachfuzz into a real manâs beard, he forces his face into his hands and tries to convince himself that these changes arenât good. Cock throbbing in response itâs not looking good.Â
Thick breath mists the mirror, hiding the vacant look in his eyes as they trail up and down the reflection of his bodyâs new almost pornographic proportions. So focussed on the meaty arms hanging at his side, he had yet to notice how a forming chest suddenly strains the buttons on his shirt. Nipples encircled by lancing curls are absolutely visible through the sweat-stained top.Â
Hunger and need fill the spot left by intelligence in his eyes, he forces a hand to his mouth to stop a loud moan as his chest cracks wider, at last tearing the pitiful dress shirt. Strange new strength filling him more with every moment, he is again felt with the impatient urge to make use of it. To fight, to ff- fuck. Forcing his fist into his mouth he bites down to feel anything but the oppressive sensation pulsing from his cock at the idea.
Desperately willing himself to settle down and figure out how to wake up from this hallucination, Morris slams the fist not cupping his cock into the wall as he bites down hard on his lip to try and force himself back to his senses. âFUCK!âÂ
Clutching his injured mouth he stomps a foot in pain as the taste of iron fills his mouth. This marks the end of his dress shoes as the seams on its front burst open to reveal long toes almost completely visible beneath the sparse threads of a sock barely hanging in there. The sound of leather tearing continues as his freed foot continues expanding and tears the tattered shoe in two.Â
Apathetic to the small trail of red dripping into the thickening stubble on his chin, he looks down at his mismatched feet. One with a shoe hanging on its ankle, still widening beyond the pale. The other barely hangs in there, shining leather filled to the brim with the mass of a foot simply far too large.
Gasping in pain at the feeling of his left foot trying desperately to match its pairâs growth while still confined, thereâs an ice cold pit in his stomach as he at last realizes he canât be dreaming. It just feels too much, too good. And then the other shoe bursts open, sending fabric and laces flying, the slightly humid air of the office a balm to the sole.Â
Somewhere increasingly buried in his mind, he struggles to understand. If heâs not dreaming, then this is real. His back cracks as he adjusts to stand slightly taller. This is impossible.Â
Staring at the remains of the most expensive piece of his outfit now hanging from both ankles, Morris tries to understand. Itâs what heâs best at, making sense of something. Thinking. He has a degree. He was in debate and wrote for his universityâs paper. At least heâs pretty sure he did?Â
Furrowing his brows as they begin to thicken from their patchy blonde, Morris finds it suddenly difficult to recall. Concern at his situation rapidly gives way to frustration which gives way to apathy. Heâll just wait for Byron to come in and explain everything. Surely heâll know whatâs going on.
As it begins to become more and more difficult to recall his higher education, his thoughts begin to drift increasingly to Byron. Picturing the great man does no favors to his libido, his trigger happy crotch is eager to twitch with fervor as Morris struggles to control himself.Â
No matter what heâs not going to be caught masturbating when the mysterious executive walks in. Despite wanting nothing more in the world to do so, he moves to sit down and struggles to tuck the massive cock in between his thighs before doing his best to cross the thick trunks.Â
Vaguely recalling he brought some book with him, Morris looks at the novel tossed aside and picks it up. Thereâs a flicker of recognition as he knows itâs a book he really likes. But as he reads the title he has to stifle a laugh as in lieu of that ingrained peace, he simply reads the words âMoby Dickâ âPffff WAH HAh ah- Hrm.â Clearing his throat as his voice cracks lower, shifting to one which yearns to guffaw rather than giggle.
Steeling himself, as much as heâs able. Morris recovers slightly and sternly tells himself he likes this book. That heâs a big reader, heâs got a degree in books. This is his favorite book. But even as he flails to remember what exactly a B.A. stands for, the memories of going to university feel less true.Â
Surely heâd be smarter thenâŚ
When that thought flits to his mind the pride he holds in his intelligence returns. Determined to prove it by reading a book thicker than he can clearly remember reading, he opens it to a random page once more: Chapter 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
Eyes glazed over, the language is far too advanced for his simplifying mind to even begin to comprehend. Still, they drift over the lines enough for him to pretend heâs grasping anything before at last they catch on something: âSqueeze! squeeze! Squeeze!â Exclamation points calling to him, Morris continues to read Ishmaelâs account of processing spermaceti. And unsurprisingly, he begins to laugh.
While earlier he was reading to focus on the text, now he almost needs to sound out the words for them to sink in. Following the lines with his fatter finger âAll the morn-ing long; I squeezed that- hehheh, Sperm till I myself almost melted into it HAH HAhah- Huh⌠Sperm⌠SqueezeâŚâ
Biting the lip that has miraculously healed already, if only he could recall the injury, Morrisâ now sperm focussed and squeeze happy mind can only do what the written page suggests. Dropping the tome as he manspreads in an office chair that now creaks beneath his heavier load, he swallows the drool pooling in his mouth. Looking to pants now decorated with small tears, the once-academic stares at the too squeezable cock stretching halfway down his meaty thigh.
Pants so tight he can see the thick veins through the tearing fabric, Morrisâ mouth falls open as he drools outright, beginning to rub his own whale through pants seconds away from tearing apart altogether. Feeling it scratch against his curl covered thighs and the cheap satin of his dress pants, he can scarcely recall that heâs in this room let alone the reason why.Â
Pool of pre rapidly pulsing through the vicelike pants, Morrisâ moans echo as he can recall no reason at all to quiet himself. As he can recall nothing but the pleasure emanating from his wanting cock. Louder than the clock, completely covering the ever-present hiss of the vent that has been steadily increasing; not that Morris ever stood a chance at noticing. His twitchy hips rut as he spits up over himself from excitement at release that is soon to come.Â
Every aspect of self and every stray neuron firing is focused on the rising pressure in his crotch. Morris can feel his balls pull up as his free hand clenches the chair about to break underneath his weight. Legs extend as every muscle flexes, and just as that sweet release is on the precipice of freeing him from the grand weight of his worries- the door knob turns.Â
Clad in a tailored three-piece suit more expensive than Morrisâ apartment enters the prodigal chief himself, Byron Roman. Morris veins run cold at being seen in such a compromised position by that most influential man that has ever stepped foot in their podunk shared home town. Bolting up like a bullet, the horny manâs spine is straight as a ramrod.
So too is his cock as it finally wins the war against his cheap dress pants. Sending a small stream of pre flying as it bursts free from confinement, Morris canât help but cross his eyes as it bounces in the air. Hazarding a glimpse, he can hardly believe just how impressive his dick is. Almost twice its previous size and veinier than his arms after the best pump heâs ever had, Morris would have cum at the very sight were he not wholly stunned from being in the presence of Byron.
Closing the door behind him as he enters outright, there is no surprise on the executives face as he inspects the goods. Striding to meet the man, he holds his hands behind his back as he inspects every inch of the man standing firmly at attention. Expressionless as he takes in every detail of Morris.
Zeroing in on whatever bodypart of Morrisâ strikes his fancy, as he stares Morris continues to grow. Accelerating from the attention of the great man before him, as if every muscle and mindless body part were trying to make him proud.
Starting from behind, Byron takes an interest in the manâs ass. Morris twitches as his glutes expand, what remains of his briefs fall irrevocably into their crack as his hairy cheeks hang larger in the open air, stretchmarks painted across their prodigious mass like the work of art it is.Â
Eyes trailing upward, Morris' waist fills out to give his silhouette the most powerful shape one can imagine. Connecting his heavy chest with wide hips and heavy thighs, there is no way someone could look at the drooling man and imagine anything but strength lying within him.
Finishing a slow lap around his aspirant, Byron stands in front of Morris and does one last look down and up. Landing on his face, Morris feels his jaw sharpen underneath the perpetual stubble that coats it. His chin juts out like a superheroâs while his cheekbones and brow ridge grow just as prominent. Thereâs a small crack in the air as Morris feels his nose reshape into something either aquiline or one that has simply broken and rehealed.
Still frozen in place, Morrisâ stunted mind only just realizes that heâs at eye-level with Byron Morris. Itâs so unbelievable that it almost breaks him free from whatever trance heâs in. Feeling the sweat drip down his exposed midriff as a breeze in the room sails through the treasure trail etching itself up his puffy abs mostly hidden by his strong gut, a needy grunt ekes out of his throat.
Finally, Byron gives any real indication that heâs anything more than a passive observer. Waiting for his guestâs glazed eyes to look back at him, the CEO smiles. âSo. What is it that brings you in today?â His voice is like an upright bass alone in an orchestra hall, tightly controlled, smooth, and completely attention grabbing.
Unable to string two thoughts together he grunts and tries to explain himself, âI- I, uhh⌠J- Job- s ssirâŚâ Struggling to swallow drool still spilling from his overactive glands, he tries to stand even straighter to hide the obvious mess heâs in. Taking a deep breath to recover from the strain of speaking, he inhales a hearty dose of his musk and struggles against the handful of twitches his body enacts in response.Â
âI hope you donât mind the subterfuge, from your letter I did gather you were quite desperate. So much so you were quite lax reading the fine print of- Well, I imagine you canât recall anyway so what is the point, right old- Er? What was your name again?â For the first time Byron reaches out to touch Morris, brushing some shred of torn cardigan stuck to his sweaty skin as he asks the question
âIâm Mo- MoâŚâ Finally thickening enough to be the caterpillar-like brows heâs always admired on other men as his brow ridge bulges lower, his eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the simplest of answers. Waiting patiently, Byron starts to massage his bicep, distracting him all the more. Itâs his name. It should be engrained within his mind, within his self more than anything else.Â
Byronâs hand travels up his shoulder before shifting over to cup his heavy pecs, prodding them as if heâs inspecting livestock with a grin. âCome now boy, you must know your name! I read your very brief resume- or I briefly read it, rather. Hm, I suppose you couldnât mind such a dig at this point ah ha ha!â With each laugh he presses firmer into the manâs chest, delighting as he quivers with need.Â
âIâmmm Mmmnhhâ
Byron reaches up to grasp the manâs jaw with his free hand while he travels down the whole of his torso with the other. Batting away the shirt as he easily sails down sweaty abs and haphazardly detangles scratchy body hair, Byron smiles as he forces the man to look directly in his eyes. âYou wouldnât mind if we just gave you a new one? After all, what could you want more than a fresh start under my wing.â
Needily nodding, the now nameless man melts as Byron at last graces his cock with attention. Lightly grazing its veiny surface with his manicured nails, the executive gives one small tug on the meaty cockâs head and watches as pre that has been trickling down his shaft drips onto the floor.Â
Eyes darting to the book lying on the floor, Byron smirks as he brings his hand to his mouth to sample the sticky ichor glazing his hand. âMoby, hm? Isnât that swell.âÂ
Tongue hanging limp from his mouth as he pants like a dog, he must agree the name feels fitting. It feels like him. Or he would if there was a single thought in his mind. At the moment any higher consciousness, much like his blood, was rushing to that most turgid of organs. He was just waiting for Byronâs permission to finally become.Â
As Byronâs hand reaches to grasp what little of Mobyâs cock itâs able, the new hire feels the peace he was always longing for. Mind simplifying with each small tug and twist of the fingers, he feels all he is and was drain into his balls as they pull upward.
Eyes rolling back as his supernaturally rigid posture twitches and almost collapses under the touch of his boss. Thereâs a blank grin on Mobyâs face as he prepares to release the heavy weight of understanding. And with a few simple flicks of Romanâs wrist, Moby does just that.
Erupting like a geyser, everything that made Morris what he was is launched from him in pearly strings. His application and the contract he thoughtlessly signed, his few long years as a barista, his poorly received thesis and the best years of his life precipitating it; all converted to a messy cum splatter on the floor of this corporate office.
 Moby pants as he falls back amongst the pools of his scattered past self. Bleary smirk on his face, the toll of almost doubling in size leaves him drained as his eyelids begin to waver. Pulling up a chair and lighting a cigar that had been hidden in his jacket, Byron Roman watches him overtaken by sleep.
He doesnât remember too much about the man smoking above him. He doesnât remember too much at all. But he knows the man is everything to him. And when he wakes up well, heâs going to do his best to make him proud.
Byron Roman never really saw the point in a grunt. His many underlings all served their purposes, true. But a body man, one always at his beck and call, one always by his side. He always imagined it would be suffocating.Â
Never has he been more pleased to be proven wrong. Moby has performed every duty even better than expected. Given their steamy first meeting itâs not long before their relationship grows beyond that of boss and muscled-up assistant.
His scientists always pushed one of their own to be the lab rat, but Byron has always preferred the humanities. While mechanical intelligence may have sufficed, Mobyâs tortured classical passions gave his final form far more flavor.
Reclined at his desk, incense burning slowly as he stares at Moby standing over watch outside his office, Byron decides itâs time to call it a day. To that end, he calls his grunt over for their now daily ritual. Calling him over, Byronâs mouth curls into a grin as watches Mobyâs tight uniform contort and stretch over his muscle with every labored movement.
âYou rang boss?â
âMoby be a dear, lock the door and close the blinds.â
Blush burns underneath Mobyâs permanent five oâclock shadow as his mouth reflexively falls open. Sprinting to the door to do just that, he bounds back to his boss to do exactly whatâs made for.
Undoing his tie, Byronâs already well-excited himself, zipper creaking as this becomes indisputable. Something about their sessions always leaves him feeling rejuvenated himself. When he looks in the mirror after heâd swear his beard is always a touch darker, the neck it hides thicker. Perhaps heâd worry, but fucking and being fucked by the titan simply has a way of softening his many worries.Â
Stealing one last glance at a weathered blue copy of Mobyâs old book, he cracks his shoulders and feels them reset ever so slightly firmer. âTime to do what you do best, boy.âÂ
REQUEST FOR @exjocklover5: Love to see one where a handsome fit lacrosse player gets turned into a 35 year old beefy hairy carpenter house framer. Be cool to see a story about Joe who was a lacrosse goalie and captain was about to go pro but ended up with a knee injury. He found a sketchy healing drug online but instead it turned him into an exjock bluecollar man with a family in his thirties and an insatiable thirst for Busch light.
I took a few creative liberties here and wrote a long one lol. Enjoy!
-------------------
âCâmon,â Ethan muttered, gripping the back of the couch as he tried to straighten his right leg. âIâve got this... I've... fuck!â
He exhaled deeply and collapsed onto the couch, wincing as the pain shot through his knee. It hurt so much, so fuckin' much. And it wasn't just physical. He could hear his phone buzzing, the messages piling up.
"You coming back this season, bro?"
"Tubing Friday. Your knee good enough yet?"
"Scouts still asking about you btw."
Ethan cursed again. He missed going to practice. Missed drinking with bros. Missed the parties, the dumb arguments, the camaraderie. He missed his life before the injury.
âFuck me...â His head sunk into his hands, "Stupid fuckin' knee."
He glanced up at his stick and the framed photo of the team. Him in the middle with a wide grin and his arm around his bros. Fuck... he wanted to get back to that. And he wanted to get back fast.
"There's gotta be a way..." He muttered.
An hour later he was deep in rehab forums when an ad stopped him cold.
BUILD-U-BACK RECOVERY
NOW ENROLLING IN YOUR AREA: A NEW START, LASTING RELIEF
âSounds fake as hell,â Joe murmured. But when he glanced back at the team photo he felt a pang in his chest. He reached for his wallet soon after.
----------------
This was it. Ethan stood on the empty practice field, stick in hand. The cold night air felt good against his warm skin. The stadium lights already dimming.
"Okay..." He bounced on the balls of his feet, "Okay, I've got this."
He dropped into goalie stance carefully, bracing for the pain. But it never came.
"No way..." Ethan pushed harder, shuffling across the crease before planting sharply off the bad leg, "Oh my god." He laughed with disbelief, "No fuckin' way!"
"Walsh?"
Ethan spun and smiled wider when he saw Luke, "Bro!"
"Dude! You're running!"
"I know! I fuckin' know!" He pointed at his knee, "It's gone, dude! It doesn't even hurt anymore."
"Let's fuckin' go, bro!"
It fuckin' worked. That fuckin' drug actually worked! Ethan stood proud, chest heaving and adrenaline surging. He was back. Practice, scouts, games, parties... it was all back.
-----------------
âDude! First game back, you feel ready?â
Ethan looked up from tying his cleats and grinned. âMore than ready.â
He tugged at the bottom of his hoodie, annoyed again by how tight it felt around his waist and chest. Heâd already stopped wearing some of his older shirts entirely after realizing they didnât fit right anymore. He figured his dryer was doing a number on his wardrobe.
âWe wonât be too upset if you fuck up out there,â Luke said while peeling his shirt over his head. âWe get youâre a little rusty.â
âEat shit,â Ethan laughed, tossing a roll of tape at him before reaching for his own hoodie.
The cool air felt warm against his skin, and Ethan scratched absentmindedly at his chest, pausing for just a moment as his fingers tangled with thicker hairs there.
"The fuck...?" Ethan frowned and looked down.
Dark curls spread across the middle of his chest before trailing down his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sweat glistened faintly through the hair despite the cold room, and when Ethan shifted slightly, the waistband dug tighter against a stomach that suddenly looked thicker than he remembered.
"I shaved this shit this morning..." He figured the hair growth was a side effect of the drug, but he'd spent the last few days making sure he kept it under control. But now...?
Luke whistled low. âDamn, Walsh. Didnât realize the recovery plan involved growing a lawn on your chest and blowing out your waistline.â
A couple guys laughed awkwardly before looking away again.
âYeah, yeah,â Ethan muttered, pulling his jersey on faster than usual. The fabric stretching tighter around his waist than he remembered.
Nobody really said anything after that.
Ethan forced a grin anyway and slammed his locker shut. âAlright, boys,â he called out. âLetâs do this.â
-------------
It was supposed to feel normal again. Friday night. Sports bar packed wall-to-wall after the game. Music too loud. Ethan sat wedged between Luke and Dylan with a cold Busch Light in his hand before realizing halfway through the bottle that he didnât even remember ordering it.
âYou looked like shit tonight,â Luke laughed.
âAppreciate it.â
âSeriously though, you good?â
Ethan scratched at the rough stubble on his chin. âJust playing bad.â
His phone buzzed against the table.
"CONGRATULATIONS ON ONE MONTH! YOUR NEXT PHASE OF RECOVERY STARTS TONIGHT!"
Ethan frowned at the notification before locking the screen again, "Next phase?" He stared at his arm, now dusted with dark hairs.
"Hey Ethan." Luke nudged him, "Someone's staring."
Ethan spotted her across the bar. Blond. Gorgeous. Smiling at him. For the first time all night, something loosened in his chest.
âThere we go,â Dylan laughed when he caught Ethan staring. âThatâs the Walsh we know.â
Ethan grinned and took another sip. Soon after, he was fumbling with his apartment keys while she laughed softly beside him in the hallway. They moved to his bedroom, clothes discarded quickly.
"Fuck..." Ethan whispered, as she kissed slowly along his neck, "I needed..."
"Standby mode protocol upload."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
âWhat?â she asked softly.
âIt's uh... Nothinâ.â
Her hands slid slowly across his chest and draped around his shoulders before pausing.
âWow,â she said with a small laugh. âYouâre kinda hairy.â
Ethan glanced down automatically, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hair curling across his shoulders and down his back.
"That's not..." He knew it wasn't there five hours ago.
âSorry,â she added quickly, still smiling. âYouâre just hairer than most guys Iâve been with.â
"Pleasure directives stem from labor initiatives."
Ethan winced hard enough that she finally pulled back slightly.
âYou okay?â
âYeah. I just...â He rubbed at his forehead. âI donât feel right.â
She kissed him again anyway, her hand sliding lower across the thicker, softer shape of his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers and around his flaccid cock.
âOh,â she laughed gently, trying to mask her confusion.
Ethan glanced down, a wave of sickening humiliation washing over him. His cock stayed completely dead. Buried in a dense, coarse mat of newly thick pubic hair and a rapidly expanding fat pad, his dick looked distinctly shorter, stubbier, and entirely useless
âYou okay?â she asked again, quieter this time.
âYeah. I just...â He swallowed hard. âI dunno. It's not working... I... Sorry.â
âItâs okay,â she said softly, âSeriously. It happens.â
A few minutes later he stood awkwardly by the door while she slipped her shoes back on.
âMaybe just stress?â she offered gently.
âYeah.â Ethan forced a laugh. âProbably.â
After she left, the apartment felt painfully quiet again. Ethan stood there shirtless for another minute before walking to the fridge automatically and grabbing another Busch Light.
------------
A week had passed, and Ethan exhaled heavily as he stepped out of the shower. Heâd stopped changing in the locker room after practice a few days ago, tired of catching teammates staring too long at his stomach or shoulders before awkwardly looking away. Now, alone in his apartment, there was nobody else left to notice except him.
âJesus Christ...â he whispered at his reflection.
The mirror across from the bed reflected somebody that looked wrong. Dark curls spread heavily across his chest and shoulders now, while rough stubble shadowed his jaw despite shaving before practice that morning. Even standing still, his body looked heavier than it used to.
âIâm exercising,â Ethan muttered weakly. âIâm eating healthy...â His eyes drifted toward the empty Busch Light cans scattered across the nightstand, âI...â
"Standby initiating."
Ethanâs breath caught as the voice echoed in his head.
âWhat the...â
"Standby mode active."
Every muscle in his body locked instantly.
Ethan jerked hard against it on instinct, but nothing responded correctly. His fingers twitched once beside his thigh before going still again. His chest continued rising and falling normally. He could blink. Breathe. Swallow. But that was it.
âWhat... the fuck...â he forced out weakly.
Hours passed as Ethan sat frozen on the edge of the bed staring into the mirror. The rough hair across his chest thickened slowly while his stomach pushed heavier against his lap with every shallow breath. His face itched constantly as a dark beard spread across his jaw until he looked like he hadnât shaved in weeks.
A knock on the door and the sound of heavy footsteps entering his apartment made him tense. He watched as two men in BUILDING-U-BACK jackets entered his room and stopped mid-step when they saw Ethan in nothing but a pair of tight sweatpants.
âJesus,â he muttered. âThatâs the lacrosse kid?â
âYeah. CRW-57F.â
The younger guy kept staring. âStill got some of that frat-boy face left.â
âNot for too long.â
The younger rep shook his head slowly. âWeird seeing one this young.â
âDonât worry,â the older rep said casually. âGive it a week and you wonât even be able to pick 'em out from the others.â
Ethan strained against the paralysis hard enough that his jaw twitched once.
âYou know whatâs crazy?â the younger rep continued. âSix months from now heâll be drinking beer after shifts talking about kids that donât exist like the rest of âem.â
âYeah well, the whole family-man thing makes clients comfortable. People trust workers who look settled.â
One of them glanced toward the empty Busch Light cans beside the bed.
âDamn,â he muttered. âHeâs already self-reinforcing.â
âGood sign.â
Ethan let out another whimper as he tried to reach for his phone, but his arm wouldn't budge.
âOh shit,â the younger rep said suddenly. âYou think he knows what weâre saying?â
âNah,â the older rep replied casually. âThe lab guys say there's not much left going on upstairs during standby.â
Ethan felt something cold settle quietly in his chest. The older rep finally looked directly at him and nodded toward the hallway.
âCâmon CRW-57F," He tossed him his old lacrosse hoodie, "Housing assignmentâs ready.â
Ethan stood automatically.
------------
Ethan barely remembered the drive to the facility. He had been packed into a van shoulder-to-shoulder with a few other hirsute guys sporting beer guts. His eyes remained fixed on the man across from him, and Ethan realized with growing dread that it was like looking in a mirror.
"There's been a mistake!" He tried to call out, but the words in his head wouldn't leave his mouth, "Please..."
When they did finally arrive at the facility, he was walked to a featureless room with a table and a few bins.
"This is CRW-57F." A man said to his colleague, entering the room, "Originally Ethan Walsh. Signed up for the program for an injured knee." He looked down at his clipboard, "Worker identity is officially Joe Mercer."
"Joe Mercer? That's not..." He thought, but the name Ethan was already starting to feel distant.
"Alright, let's get him in the system." The man continued, "We're going to need your personal belongings, CRW-57F."
Joe felt as he reached into his pocket and gripped his phone. He quickly dropped it into one of the bins, along with his keys, wallet, student ID.
"Oh shit, that's the college kid?" One of the men said, looking down at the ID.
"Yeah, lacrosse player, if you can believe it now."
"Damn, that drug did a number on him." The man sighed, "Okay, CRW-57F, need the clothes too."
Ethan winced as he gripped his team's lacrosse hoodie and yanked it off. Cool air hit the thick hair covering his chest and stomach, and he heard one of the employees exhale quietly through his nose.
âDamn,â he muttered. âHope the knee was worth it.â
"Update on the apartment?"
"Cleaning crew is taking care of that, lease will terminate tomorrow."
"N-No..." Ethan thought, imagining them clearing it out. His team photo. His lacrosse gear. The clothes crammed into the closet. Every piece of evidence that Ethan Walsh had ever existed.
"Family updated?" The other man nodded, "And..."
"What do you think? Took it poorly." The other man sighed, "Kidâs barely old enough to drink and now heâs gonna look older than his dad."
"Visitation scheduled?"
"In a month."
Ethan felt his stomach twist. The thought of his parents seeing him like this made him want to disappear.
"By then he'll be settled enough that it won't matter much." The rep muttered, "They all stop trying eventually."
One of them picked up Ethan's student ID and looked at the picture for a second before tossing it into the bin with the rest of his belongings.
"Poor kid."
"Yeah."
The lid snapped shut. A folded stack of clothes landed in Ethanâs arms a second later. Gray work shirt. Plain jeans. Steel-toe boots. The employee checked another box on his clipboard.
âAlright CRW-57F,â he said casually. âlet's get you downstairs.â
------------
Ethan barely slept.
The worker housing smelled like sweat, musk, sawdust, and stale beer. The bed made his back ache. Men wandered the halls at all hours wearing gray shirts and work pants, scratching at thick stomachs or rubbing sleep from heavy eyes while they talked about wives, back pain, football games, and their kids.
âTylerâs putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.â
âYeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!â
Ethan sat quietly on the edge of his bed with a Busch Light in his hand, staring toward the floor while his body moved through routines his brain still hadnât fully accepted. Every few hours that same pressure built behind his eyes again, and afterward his thoughts always came back slower.
"Who are these people?" He wondered, "They all look... the same..."
But when he looked down, he realized how much he looked like them too. Even more than the night he was brought to the facility. The gut, the hair, the beard, the weathered skin... what the fuck had they done to him?
âTylerâs putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.â
Ethan looked up slowly. A different pair of workers stood near the vending machines now.
âYeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!â The exact same laugh followed.
Ethan felt his stomach tighten. It was the same conversation, the same cadence⌠the same everything. They all talked like that. All looked the same. Nothing to distinguish them...
"Lacrosse." He thought suddenly.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture the locker room. The smell of the gear. The roar after a clean save. He could almost see the jersey. Blue. Or green? No... Red?
Ethan shuddered and took another swig of his beer.
------------
He couldn't recall the drive out here. One moment he was climbing into his assigned bunk, the next he was hauling lumber across a chaotic job site. Sweat drenched the thick hair across his torso. He reeked, too... of sawdust, exhaustion, and that stale musk clinging like the rest of them. He craved a shower, but knew better. Management preferred them this way.
"57F?" Two reps walked past him, "Still not meeting his quotas."
"Really? You'd think with him having been a star athlete..."
"Eh, you would think." The rep muttered, "We've found it really doesn't."
"Shame. We'll ship him out to Ohio tomorrow then, they're looking for more men and he's slowing us down."
He continued to work, but their words kept repeating in his head. A month ago, he was a star. Always getting positive feedback, always being commended. Now, he was failing at whatever this nightmare was.
"Joe?" He turned immediately to see one of the workers approach him, "You remember my boy, yeah?" The man smiled, "Tylerâs putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man."
"Yeah?" The word left his mouth before he could even think about it. In fact, he didn't even really process it. Everything slowed suddenly, simplified in his brain. Lacrosse? Old apartment? Friends? Suddenly, it felt far from reach, "Mine just turned thirteen." He'd heard those words before from the other workers. The exact same words. Delivered in the same cadence, with the same gravely voice. Now... those words were coming from him, "Kid's eating me out of house and home already!"
Both men laughed. But as the other worker stepped away, Ethan's eyes widened.
"Fuck... no..." His thoughts were slower than they had been just two minutes prior. But so was his anxiety. Everything suddenly felt so much simpler, "La-lacrosse... lacrosse... not this..." He repeated for as long as his mind let him.
The pressure behind his eyes returned immediately. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the lumber until his knuckles turned white. He tried to hold onto the panic, tried to hold onto the certainty that something terrible was happening to him, but even that feeling seemed to be slipping away. The fear was still there. He could feel it. Yet every second it felt smaller, duller, less important than the work waiting around him.
"Joe!" He looked up automatically. One of the workers waved him over, "Quit daydreaming. Grab this end."
He did as he was told and the pressure vanished. Relief flooded him, washing away the confusion, the panic...
"Appreciate it," the worker said.
"No problem." The answer came naturally, "I ain't no slacker."
The two men carried the load across the site together while talking about football, kids, weekend plans, and just how good the cold beer at the end of the day would taste. Across the yard, one of the reps glanced up from his clipboard.
"Huh... Looks like Ohio's getting him just in time."
"I guess so..."
Joe adjusted the lumber on his shoulder and laughed at something one of the other workers said. The sound blended effortlessly with the rest of the crew as they disappeared into the noise of the job site.
You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.
"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"
"Jason is like totally the hottest."
"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."
"Did you know Mike is single? I can'tâŚ"
You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.
"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright⌠welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"
The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. Heâs got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.
âYâall ready?â Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. âLetâs go!â He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"
"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.
"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.
The host claps, "Thatâs what I like to hear! Alright, letâs get started!"
You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.
"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"
Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.
"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"
"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"
"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.
"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."
"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"
You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.
"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.
"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.
"No shame in that, brah!"
You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.
"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"
Zak scratches his head, "Dude⌠tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"
"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"
The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.
"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"
Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.
"Chlorophyll."
"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"
Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"
The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.
"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.
"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little moreâŚyour speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"
You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."
"Correct!"
"Woah bro, nice one!"
Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.
"What the�"
The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexingâŚ
"WhoaâŚ" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "HowâŚ?"
The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that⌠demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"
"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."
But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?
"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."
You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!
"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.
"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."
You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...
"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.
"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."
The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...
"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"
"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."
"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"
"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.
The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?
"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."
"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"
"Dead lifts..."
"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."
The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"
"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."
Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?
"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.
You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.
"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.
"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."
Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift positionâback straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed backâas if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel⌠alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.
"The answer is hips, bro."
"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.
As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.
"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.
Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind- Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.
When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what youâre thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?
"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.
Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.
Somethingâs off, right? Like... this ainât how it used to be. You know that. You werenât⌠this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. Youâre absolutely shredded. I mean, câmon, those arms? That chest? You donât just wake up lookinâ this jacked without beinâ⌠well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?
A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.
The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."
"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.
"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.
"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz⌠I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"
The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for⌠COLT!"
The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.
"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."
Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.
The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.
With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.
"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.
And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forgetâŚ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Constantly annoyed by his androgyny, David stumbles onto a spam ad that leads to his first facial hair and unknowingly condemns his latest overly masc ex to the twinkdom he's leaving behind.
Pretty standard role swap/masc theft! Twinky bottom to hairy top though much of the opposite changes happen off screen. At any rate, hope you enjoy this tale of Twink Theft! -Occam
And so began the same argument that has led to the end of each and every one of Davidâs previous relationships. Sure, he knows heâs beautiful. Angelic many of his one night stands and observers from afar frequently point out. Heâs a model by default and his face card is perfect bait for men to just fall at his feet.
David frequently finds himself with men almost stereotypically masculine, alpha bros and DL hoes are always drawn to his androgyny. But rarely do they ever consider anything but his looks. When the cherubic man can no longer hold back his ire at being considered just a pretty face they fight and then abandon him for some other waifish twink. Leaving him feeling like nothing more than a soft-skinned doll for them to play with and abandon.
Curled up in the passenger seat of his current horndog flingâs car, David looks from underneath his tangle of perfectly coiffed curls as Mattias just stares down the open road. Glancing at the hairy jungles covering the manâs torso and pits, David yearns to feel the scratch of hair against his body. The closest thing he can ever experience to growing it himself.
For half a moment the model believes that perhaps Mattias is reflecting, thinking about their argument. Considering Davidâs point of view at all. When a hand drifts to adjust a bulge clearly visible in his pants itâs clear thereâs only one thing on his mind. And David is certainly not going to let that happen tonight.Â
âYouâre not even listening.â
âShiiiit, I mean câmon babe. Be serious. You couldnât even grow facial hair if you tried. I just dunno why youâre being such a lil bitch about it.â
Bony arms hugging his long legs, draped with pants he purloined from a shoot, David feels a fire burning within him. Heâs not even been allowed to try. His agency would can him on the spot. Staring at the small mustache decorating Mattiasâ upper lip he reaches to feel his own smooth, soft face. Heâs going to try.
âI donât care what you think, Iâm going to stop waxing. Keep complaining, see what else I might decide to try. Asshole.â
Eyes flitting to his passenger, Mattias reaches over to feel Davidâs inner thigh. âSo, uhhh, that means weâre not-â
âFuck off you horny fucking- Spend half an hour thinking about anything but my ass and maybe, maybe I wonât lose your number.â
Clicking his tongue, Mattias throws his head against his headrest and starts rerouting to drop David off at his home. Sure that his dick is anything worth craving he assumes Davidâll come crawling back to him by the end of the week, femme-er than ever. Smirking as he nods farewell to the man, he imagines soft hairless cheeks bouncing on him come Tuesday and quickly redownload Grindr to try and satisfy his still throbbing cock.
Watching yet another mindless jerk abandon him to his insecurities, David is of a different mind. This time itâs going to be different. As soon as the tail lights of Mattiasâ shit box are out of sight, David begins his research.Â
Itâs not long at all before David comes across a targeted ad. Formatted like any other, on the left thereâs a twink that the model swears heâs seen before, on the right is a perpetually bear-faced man. Face overgrown with itchy stubble and capstoned by a burly mustache that makes Davidâs mouth water.
Averse to cumming in his pants from a spam-ad, David does his best to stop imagining the twinkâs journey to become the hairy hunk opposite him. He can just picture the bleach blonde hair giving way to that ruddy brown as his hairline retreats. Stubble growing so quickly itâs not even worth trimming. David bites his lip to stop from imagining his bulky figure out of frame.
Trailing past both the familiar ditzy twinkâs lolling tongue and the alluring garden of chest fur on his alleged new self, David reads the caption. âHow I became a man with ONE simple trickâ
Rather than inviting whatever malware hides behind this jpeg onto his system, David scrawls through his instagram hoping against hope that he does actually know this man. Lo and behold he miraculously finds him, though as of late the twinkâs has been dry.
Refusing to acknowledge the reality that this ad probably just stole an image from this mystery modelâs account, David prepares to cold-DM this man he doesnât really know. Desperate to feel the way he has always craved, desperate to change, he types his message:
âHey Hi! Peyton right? Funny thing :P I just found an ad of u and this like,,, lumberjackey otter? U know anything about this?â
Within the minute the man replies:
âlmaooo ya thas me dude so u wanna fucc or what?â
Shocked at the bizarre response, there are a few false starts before David lands on a message. While he certainly wouldnât be opposed to getting fucked by the man on the right, his eyes are on the prize of being more like him than anything else.
âAhhhh unfortunately I was more just wondering about the trick the ad mentioned. Like,, is that real? Surely thats like a joke huh?â
Across town and annoyed at the boner that wonât be satisfied now that Peyton knows what David wants, the hirsute horndog whines and starts absentmindedly playing with his cock as he prepares to offer David the route to join him. Much like Davidâs string of horny tops, heâs slightly disappointed for the world to lose such a pretty boy, but he would never stand between someone who wants to join him in his most-masculine form.
And he knows itâs not the only change to erupt from Davidâs ascension.
âits easy brother just click the link and type the guys name inâ
âThe guy?â
âthe dude who made u feel like shit lil bro sumone u want to take down a pegâ
Obeying the strange manâs prescription, David takes a deep breath before clicking the ad to find nothing but a small empty text box. Left with nothing to go off besides the manâs words, David pictures the most recent jerk to wrong him.â
Imagining Mattiasâ sneer as David explained the pain he feels when he looks in the mirror, the mustache twitching with his lips is impossible to ignore. He yearns to just rip it off the manâs face and put it on his own. David quickly types his name into the box. And nothing happens.
MATTIAS
Worried heâs fallen for some phishing scam or at the very least made a fool of himself, David quickly hits his keyboard to ask for next steps from Peyton:
âWhat now?â ⌠âHello, you there? I typed his name inâ ⌠âK. Well thanks for nothingâ
After spamming the man who got him this far with a few more dms, unaware that the man has simply muted his notifications to quickly masturbate, David refuses to be awake any longer and falls into his bed. Tomorrow heâll be over it. Itâll be just another day. Heâll go to a shoot, pose, go home, do his regimen, and then go to bed again.Â
 Sinking into his mattress, David stares at his ceiling. Dimly lit by the computer monitor left on he swears he can see Mattiasâ cocky face watching him. After a blink he sees his own, gaunt and smooth, like carved marble.
Seeing his face reflected in the funhouse mirror of his mindâs eye, David doesnât know when sleep overtakes him. When he begins to dream about the man he is going to be, a small smile twitches across his sleepful lips as the slightest itch begins to burn atop them.
The changes he finds in the morning are already too drastic to outright explain, if he could notice anything new besides the slight but unmistakable new mustache, that is. Fingertips instantly poking against the adamant new prickles decorating his face, David rushes to the bathroom to find his new reflection.
Quickly tearing out his phone to get permanent proof of his first facial hair beyond peach fuzz, David is ignorant to how his messy ringlets retracted into the spiky new fade that crowns his slightly retracted hairline.
So focused on the new lip candy as to miss this most prominent of changes, the many more minute alterations absolutely breeze past the excitable new man. Staring at the stubble promising future growth on his chin, he doesnât notice the rougher hands holding up his phone or the ruddier complexion covering his face.Â
Underneath the shirt he fell asleep in the first steps of body hair begin to slowly prickle out. Struggling in a biome designed to prevent regrowth, Davidâs lasered chest and perma-waxed pits tingle as the first brave new curls begin the first steps towards a total rout of his smooth twinkish form.
Unable to do anything but grin as he delights in the first glimpse of a life and body he never truly saw for himself, David rushes to thank Peyton for putting him onto that strange site. He canât believe all it took was some manifestation! Funny how a stupid little text-box prompt could be so helpful!
Blissfully unaware of the ocean of changes brewing beneath his skin, David is waylaid by a handful of notifications. Grin turning to a smirk as he imagines itâs his manager on his ass for being late to a shoot; little does he know heâs got a far bigger surprise in store. Scratching at the barely noticeable itch in his pits, his fingers free the musk that had been baking all night under his heavy shirt.
Half-preparing to send the selfie he took to the man who fought for him to stay femme more than anyone else, David instead finds the handful of texts are from his personal trainer. Of course heâs had one since he was brought on by his agency, but reading the handful of missed messages, David is thrown for a loop.
As far as he could remember their routines have always been on keeping him lithe. Maintaining his stick thin figure. Ensuring his cortisol stays low at any cost. To see message after message tearing into David for not taking strength training and bulking up seriously completely derails his train of thought.Â
Something deep within his chest turns at the idea and without even changing into something more appropriate for the gym, David tears out the door and sprints to his trainerâs side. With every step further from his austere apartment, his body continues to adapt to its new status quo.
Calves designed to be draped with baggy pants burst with muscle as each rushing pace springs with more strength. Working from increasingly strained shoes upward, his calves begin to blanket with a soft garden of hair. Burgeoning curls tug at the air soaring by as they yearn to connect with the thickening patch of pubes surrounding a permanent-semi that David is struggling with as he continues his heady jog.
Before he even arrives at the gym he has already become an altogether different man. The step-above-peachfuzz mustache that languished on his face when he woke up has continued to thicken and now hangs entirely over his upper lip. Across his whole body his bony figure has continued to fill out from the exertion of his sprint to the gym.Â
Biceps bulge onto his thin arms as they cut through the morning air on his run. Sleeves of a shirt not designed to be within a city-block of a gym are quickly strained as dark stains under his burgeoning shoulders show the beginnings of his tangled pits seeding proof of their existence.
Smelling the unpleasant odor of his morning breath joining the aura of body odor steaming in his wake, David feels his underwear strain as his hips readjust and grow mid stride. Panting like a dog he moans from soreness burning as new muscle strands thicken and bulge onto his powerful limbs.Â
Filled with gratitude greater than he can understand to the man who ushered him into this ecstatic change, he once more goes to message Peyton only to find a plethora of new messages from none other than Mattias.Â
âWhat did you fucking do to me you bitch.â
Absolutely no idea what thatâs about, David stares dumbfounded at the screen before his attention span in high-demand is summoned by his trainer as he bumbles into the gym, late. âYou ready to go or what princess?â Butterflies in his stomach quiver at the words, heâs not a princess anymore. And heâs going to prove it to Mattias, his trainer, and anyone else who gets in his way.
His chest burns with a need to grow as he makes his way over to a bench. The act of laying down alone causes his thin chest to bulge larger. The buttons that always hung loosely on his sternum fly off into the gym as pecs fill his sweat-stained shirt to its breaking point before sending lancing tears further down his chest.
Through each new open seam and widening hole, the hidden hair prickling across Davidâs torso makes itself known. Having expanded well beyond a paltry patch connecting a handful of curls swirling around his formerly petite nipples, the swath of tangled jungle covering his bulging pecs races to make itself seen. His growing chest aids in this as the single button still feigning modesty on his shirt bursts free to reveal the curls climbing towards his neck.
Feeling the pump of growth, his heart racing, David grunts and groans as torso firms and expands to compete with his strengthening limbs and eye-catching chest. Quickly filling the shirt like rising dough in a tin, David barely holds back a horny scream as he feels the fabric tear to shreds off his body.Â
Standing nearby for obvious reason, Davidâs trainer simply stares blankly as his once doelike ward has grown into a stag. Watching as his face prickles with thicker stubble surrounding his gritted teeth, staring as arms that he swears were to be deliberately untouched thicken and trail with veins, the trainer has a burning urge to keep him here in the gym as long as possible.
To this end he reaches up to usher David to the next machine, opting to reach for the small of the manâs back for lusty greed alone, he bites his lip as he feels the beginnings of his traineeâs ass hair creeping up towards his shoulders. Unlike the still perma-poised David, the trainer doesnât quite quiet a whimper from feeling up his sweaty back. âMhhmm~â
Shocked to hear as much from someone David wouldâve sworn was straight, David turns in surprise to stare at his visibly horny trainer. Blush paints the broish manâs cheeks and the twitching package he canât hide makes it clear heâs certainly not red in the face from his own scant workout.
Stepping away David watches as his needy hands fall away. Gulping with need, thereâs surely a part of the hitherto professional trainer that knows there is something strange alluring him to David, but when he sees the growing manâs bicep twitch even larger his train of thought has no recourse but to pull out all the stops to keep him close.
David knows heâs hot stuff, and this wouldnât be the first time heâs gotten googoo eyes from a âstraight man,â but somethingâs off. Scratching his head he feels how his hair texture has shifted. As clear as he feels itchy tufts of thick hair in his pits rubbing the sides of his chest as he moves his arm, his thicker fingers feel hair that is both thicker and thinner than it should be.
Texture more akin to fur than the downy curls he once had, in real time he feels whatâs left of his modelâs do retract into a tight and rough buzz. Memories of a hair routine before bed every night dissolve to be replaced by David just rolling into a barber and getting the most basic cut they have to offer.
Glancing towards his trainer he feels something profound shift within his chest. Heâs used to attention sure, but having a truly masc man stare at him with needy jealousy has awoken something within him. His own cock twitches and he reaches down to adjust it. When the trainerâs needy eyes follow Davidâs hand his newfound cockiness only grows.
He can almost feel the thick hair coating his chest thicken as his adorerâs mouth falls open in need. He does feel the cock that heâs only recently begun to fondle grows even more, only a semi thus far if David didnât know any better heâd swear it was already larger than the most turgid erection heâs ever had.Â
Having humored the man enough, Dave feels a profound urge to play with his food for just a second longer before dipping. Glancing at the muscular figure heâs always admired he doesnât feel nearly the same heat that the trainer evidently has for him. Feeling his phone still blowing up in his back pocket heâs reminded heâs got a bitch- er, heâs still got Mattias to deal with.
To point he challenges his trainer.Â
âWhatâs the problem with you?â
Sheepishly the trainer averts his eyes from the center of Daveâs chest where the hair is so thick that one truly can only guess that thereâs skin beneath. Halfheartedly pointing to the next machine he viscerally feels any authority he once had over Dave slip away.
âJust let me go.â
Knowing deep within himself that this is profoundly wrong, that the twink he was hired to keep fit and keep femme has grown into a man like heâs never seen, when Dave pushes past him towards the exit of the gym the only thing he can do is giggle from feeling his sweaty skin against his own. Dave doesnât even look back as he stomps out of the gym, hairy feet exposed as the tennis shoes he had on finally give way to the massive stompers this top heavy body requires.
Left behind, the trainer feels lightheaded as the source of his confusion leaves him be. Slightly worried heâs going to get chewed out for something out of his control, by the time Dave pulls out his phone and begins walking towards Mattiasâ he doesnât even remember having Dave as a client. Itâs not like his employers had any interest in fashion for men who think deodorant is optional.
Finally free from the gym, Dave allows the asshole blowing up his phone some attention. Every message is whinier than the one that came before. Scrolling up to the first, Dave finds it the usual aggressive diatribe heâd expect from a man he chose explicitly for being a macho loser but with every step closer to the present his messages tinge with emotion.
âI no u did this u little bitch when i see u its over
âLook idk what I did but u need to stop it. Please I cant show up to my boys lookin like thisâ
âFine, shit! Maybe I deserved it but you gotta stop. I donât want to be some hairless twink.â
âPleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.â
Every message only makes the hunger within Dave grow. Reading Mattias beg and whine and cry only makes him feel more. Bigger, hairier, hornier. Each heavy step towards this manâs house hits harder as his thighs bulk up to support his widening chest and the thickening cock between them.Â
The mustache on his face thickens and hangs lower to cover the entirety of his upper lip. The dense thicket on his pecs decides itâs not enough as thick curls launch towards his shoulders and musty pits. His midsection continues to thicken as the thin arrow of a treasure trail that once pointed to his tangled pubes widens to engulf the whole of his heavy new muscle gut.Â
Gym shorts he didnât remember changing into are taut on his ass as it sends a couple tears straight down his ass crack, partly exposing his jockstrap and the dense tangles it struggles to corral to the open air. Dave canât help but continue to read Mattiasâ appeals as he grows. Thick vein bulging down his biceps as a coat of curls races down his muscular shoulders to meet the prodigious jungle on his forearms.
Grunting as he feels his cock strain the front of his shorts he wonders if heâs going to make it to Mattiasâ without being criminally indecent. Seeing his thick cockhead near the lip of his shorts he finds Mattiasâ most recent messages have switched their tune.
âIâll fucking do anything babe please, anything but my cock.â
âI wish I had a cock like yoursâŚ
âGod youâre so hot, I just wish I could be more like youâŚâ
Doubletaking at the idea of this once vainer than life machismo obsessed douche yearning to be like him, less than a moment later Dave smirks and remembers his reality. Of course Mattias wants to be like him, who wouldnât. The twinkâs wrapped around his meaty finger just like anyone lucky enough to get to ride on his cock would be. Scratching his hairy gut he decides he wants to see his prize.Â
Deigning to reply at last, Dave just sends two words. âFacetime meâ
Within a second Daveâs phone is ringing for Mattias. Seeing his old profile picture Dave canât recognize the middling man before him. Nothing like the twink he knows and loves to fuck, still he lets the mystery manâs face stay on his phone for a moment longer to leave Mattias waiting. Offering the perfect juxtaposition between Mattiasâ new and old self.
âHey daddyyyy~ Are you coming over or what?â
Even the most powerful supernatural effect couldnât stop Dave from being stunned in his tracks, shocked at the twink, jittery with need, now performatively shimmying on the facetime call. Staring at the pathetic remains of the mustache and goatee Mattias once prided himself over, Dave feels his cock twitch and drip with pre as it finally escapes his shorts.
Accidentally grabbing a few curls on his thigh as he yanks his shorts back down to poorly hide his throbbing rod, Dave grunts in pain which causes Mattias to gasp as his thicker lips purse into a pout. âAre you okay baby?â
His airy whine drives Dave into one final wave of changes as he grunts out a âBe right over. Youâd better be ready.â Shorts almost shearing off his meaty thighs as he begins sprinting towards his layâs home, Dave pants like an animal in heat as he feels everything about him grow more extreme. No inch of skin is spared as his coat spreads to cover every inch of his sweaty skin.Â
Swinging between his legs, Dave makes no attempt to hide his thick cock during his flight. Prioritizing speed above everything, his hairy feet do their best and miraculously the accidental nudist arrives at Mattiasâ house with nothing but his hairy ass having been seen.
Stumbling into the front door, always left unlocked for him, Dave follows his nose to the floral scented bedroom and finds Mattias just where he wants him. Even thinner and smoother than he was on their call moments ago, Dave smirks at the pouf of manicured curls on his head and the pitiful few strands of hair clinging to his pits, the dregs of his masculinity.
Pouncing on the bed to straddle Mattias, he sees a sparkle in the twinkâs eyes as his massive cock bounces hard in the air. Shocked at just how large it is compared to Mattias thin waist he rests upon the small man and rubs his smooth skin with hands rough from the gym and a life lived with altogether no attention to skincare.
Feeling his cock buck of its own accord as it spews viscous pre onto Mattiasâ hairless chest, Dave experiences for the first time just how powerful it feels to be The Man in bed, in a relationship, in life. Give him a few seconds and he might just cum from the very feeling.
Doing his best to restrain quick-cumming he leans down to whisper in Mattiasâ ear, he feels his mustache scratch the twinkâs regimented cheek. âGet on your stomach and letâs get this started.â Blushing like heâd never have done before, what is Mattias to do but obey the sexiest man heâs ever been with.
Hey! Big fan of your work, especially your jock to bear/daddy tfs. Would love to see another story similar to For The Team. Maybe the head of a construction crew is tired of the young lazy guys on his team so decides to transform them into 'real men' to get the job done faster?
"Dude, Steve's dad is fuckin' nuts."
"Think I don't know that, bro?"
"Not sure the beers are worth it, man. Seriously."
The heavy clack of a dropped pipe wrench followed by a string of muffled expletives made both young men snicker. When Liam and John signed up to help Steve move into his new rental, they expected heavy lifting, not an absolute gauntlet. Steve's father, Mr. Richards, was a certified, old-school hard-ass.
"What're you boys laughin' at?"
The booming voice of Mr. Richards cut through the dusty air of the living room. He stepped into the doorway, framing a physique built like a seasoned workhorse. The man practically oozed discipline, sweat, and sawdust. He was always going on about the pride of the construction crew, how it was a real manâs job, and how he wished Steve would show at least half that grit. To him, Liam and John were just "good-for-nothin'" distractions diluting his son's potential.
"Spendin' all your time laughin' it up," the older man barked, glaring at them with hardened eyes. "You pretty boys are useless. Always jokin' around. Can't take a single damn thing seriously."
"All due respect, sir, we're just here to help our friend," Liam said, straightening his posture. John nodded in solidarity, both of them standing tall to prove their loyalty to Steve.
Mr. Richardsâ eyes flashed with a sudden, unsettling intensity. "Help him? Oh, I know jus' the way."
Before either could react, Mr. Richards moved with a terrifying, explosive speed that completely defied his age. His calloused hands clamped onto their arms, violently pulling the two young men together.
"What the fuck?!" John yelled.
"Shit dude, let go!" Liam wrestled to break free, but the moment their skin collided, a bizarre, visceral heat flared at the point of contact.
Their arms didn't just touch... they melted. The skin fused, the underlying muscles twisting and braiding together, expanding exponentially as their shared mass coalesced. Youthful, smooth skin rapidly thickened, weathering into a sun-baked, rugged texture right before their eyes.
"Dude! Get off me! Stop pushing!" Liam panicked, his voice cracking.
"I'm trying! I can't move my arm!" John screamed.
Mr. Richards simply grinned, watching as the anomalous reaction rippled through their clothes, shredding the fabric until they were entirely exposed. In a desperate bid to separate, Liam shoved against Johnâs chest, while John raised his other arm to defend himself. The moment their hands collided, the phenomenon struck again. Their limbs fused into a second massive, heavy arm, padded with thick muscle and dense labor-ready bulk.
Terrified, Liam slipped on the hardwood floor, pulling them both down. He landed hard on his back with John pressed tightly against his front. They hit the floor with a heavy thud, gasping for air.
"You're each worth about half a man from my crew," Mr. Richards smirked, looming over them like a foreman inspecting raw materials. "And two halves equal one whole."
A sudden, overwhelming wave of intense, heavy pleasure spiked through them as their lower halves collided. Liam and John both let out a strangled groan as their groins began to merge. Their cocks melting into each other, settling into a thick, heavy shaft took shape above two massive bull nuts. The cool draft left their new manhood throbbing, threatening to shatter their panicked minds.
"Oh fuck... what is this..." Liam moaned against his will, his thoughts fracturing.
"Feels so heavy..." John gasped, biting his lip as their hips melded seamlessly, reshaping into a wide, immensely thick set of glutes: a solid, powerful dump truck of an ass forged from dense muscle and heavy fat.
As they bucked against the floor in a daze of sensory overload, the transformation surged downward. Their legs collided and fused into pillars of pure power. Thick, hairy thighs took shape in seconds, their calves bulging and their feet stretching into a pair of size 13 giants. They flexed their heavy, calloused toes against the floorboards as the raw, unbridled pleasure continued to reshape their biology.
"Look at that," Mr. Richards chuckled, leaning down to firmly grip their newly formed manhood. "Feels good, don't it? Becomin' somethin' better. I always treat the boys on my site right."
The dual consciousness inside the collapsing minds of Liam and John whimpered. They closed their eyes tight, desperately trying to stifle the embarrassing, breathless sounds escaping their throats. But Mr. Richards wasn't done. He forcefully pressed Liam's upper torso deeper into Johnâs.
"There we go, nice and easy."
Both young men had prided themselves on their gym routines: lean abs, cardio endurance, and neat definitions. But as their torsos violently slammed together, the superficial fitness vanished. An intense pressure replaced the pleasure as their midsections expanded outward. Layer after layer of dense, heavy muscle packed itself around their shared spine, immediately followed by a thick, proud layer of solid beer-gut fat.
"Fuck, stop! Please!"
"I can't take it...!"
Mr. Richards just rolled his eyes, stroking them rhythmically to keep their minds compliant. A massive, proud muscle gut finalized its shape, heavily blanketed by a dense forest of dark chest hair and a thick treasure trail.
âThatâs the stuff.â Mr. Richardâs muttered running his other hand along their hairy stomach, âReal men ainât smooth.â
The transformation climbed into their chests. Their pectorals collided and swelled dramatically, expanding into two heavy, dense slabs of rock-hard muscle and jiggling fat that rested heavily atop their new gut. It was meatier and wider than anything either youth had ever possessed, completely covered in a rugged mat of coarse hair.
"You're lookin' good," Mr. Richards praised, his voice echoing in their ears. "So close, boys. Well, shouldn't really call you 'boys' anymore."
Everything from the neck down was now a singular, towering, powerhouse of a man. Only their two distinct heads remained, frantically looking at one another in sheer terror.
"Wh-what are you doing to us...?"
"Please, just turn us back..."
"No tears now, c'mon," Mr. Richards smirked, reaching up to pinch one of their heavy, shared nipples. A sharp, shameful moan erupted from both mouths simultaneously. "You're about to be a real man for the first time in your sorry lives. And when I'm done, you'll never know anythin' different."
"Wait! Don't!"
Mr. Richards grabbed both of their heads and forced them together.
A final, muffled cry filled the room as their facial structures dissolved into one another. Their youthful features melted away; their hair fell out completely, leaving a smooth, bald head. The nose widened and flattened into a rugged profile, while a dense, perfectly trimmed beard sprouted across a heavy, square jawline. Youthful eyes shifted, taking on the heavy, weathered look of a man who had spent forty years working under the blistering sun. Their neck thickened into a massive column of muscle, and their skin darkened into a leathery, tanned complexion.
Then, absolute silence fell over the room.
The only sound was the deep, heavy breathing of the massive, lumbering man sitting on the floor, sweat glistening across his newly forged muscles, thick hair, and heavy gut.
Mr. Richards smirked, placing a heavy hand on the bald head. "How's it feel, Chuck?"
The name echoed through the shambles of what used to be Liam and John. Their old memories were scattered, disorganized, and rapidly fading into irrelevance. Who were they? It didn't matter. Chuck was here now. Chuck was strong. Chuck was a real man. He knew exactly who he was. A stupid, satisfied grin spread across his heavy, bearded face.
"Fuck, boss..." Chuck's new, booming baritone voice rumbled in his chest, a sound that made Mr. Richards smile with professional pride. "Can you finish me off?"
"Not until you finish the job," Mr. Richards said, letting go of Chuck's manhood and stepping back. "Got it?"
"Guess that's fair." Chuck grunted, easily pushing his massive, heavy frame off the floor with his bulky arms. "Alright, let's get to it."
Chuck moved with absolute efficiency. He carried three times the weight Liam and John ever could, moving boxes and heavy furniture like they were made of cardboard. He was a real man, and real men knew that if you wanted your reward, you had to put in the honest work first.
As he hauled a massive oak dresser toward the master bedroom, the front door clicked open. Steve walked in, holding a cold twenty-four pack of beer. He stopped dead in his tracks, looking up at the towering, bald, bearded laborer.
"Oh, hey... are you one of my dad's friends?" Steve asked, blinking in confusion. "I'm Steve."
"Chuck," the big man rumbled, offering a brief, respectful nod.
"Thanks for coming by to help," Steve said, looking around the room with a puzzled frown. "Uh... have you seen my friends? Liam and John? I finally brought the beers."
Chuck looked down at the cold cases, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his rugged face.
"Can't say I have," Chuck rumbled, wiping a bead of sweat from his thick brow. "But I'll definitely take one of them beers."
You woke up to the sound of footsteps against the hardwood flooring. Your head was pulsing with pain and the morning light burned your eyes when you tried to open them. All you could make out was the silhouettes of three guys across the room from you.
You tried to get up, but thick ropes restrained your hands and feet to the chair you were sitting on.
"What the hell?" You groaned.
You managed to open your eyes enough to see properly. Two of your frat bros were stood across the room talking to some man you didn't recognize, even weirder was the fact that the man was completely naked.
The more information you gathered, the stranger your situation got. Why were you tied up, who's the naked stranger, what happened last night. Your mind started to race.
You got bits and pieces of memories from the night before. You remember it being a graduation party for the frat, but all you could recall was that you started drinking and socializing before waking up here.
Your attention was redirected when you noticed the mysterious man started to touch your frat bros, and in, like, a gay way. He was feeling up their bodies like he was appreciating a piece of art. That was when things seriously got weird. Your frat bros started to grow as the man touched them. Their shirts tightened around their arms and chest, causing the fabric to strain before ripping open. Their already strong bodies looked even more jacked than ever, with a thick coating of hair covering their chests and stomachs, which was weird given the fact that you knew they shaved often.
Your heart started to beat out of your chest, this had to be a dream, right? How could they not react to their bodies growing out of their clothes in the span of mere seconds. They just stood there with blank expressions.
It didn't stop there though, the man kept shaping them like they were an art project for him. You watched as your 20 something year olds frat bros start to go grey. Their dark brown hair became salt and pepper as they both start to go bald. One of them had his hairline recede back further and further until there's nothing but a short band of hair around the back of his head while the other had his hair thin on top, just on the cusp of balding. It wasn't just the hair either, their faces wrinkled and weathered as if they'd lived 30 years in the span of seconds. All topped off by greying facial hair covering their softer jawlines.
They looked older than your own father. That's when it came back to you, what happened last night. An older guy walked into the party, he stood out like a sore thumb, being around your dad's age in a house full of 20 year olds. You're not gay or anything, but even you could admit this man was handsome. Short grey hair with a groomed mustache and wearing some expensive looking business casual clothes. A real silver fox. You chatted with him for a bit, sharing a drink with him, but that's as far as you could recall.
Your frat bros continued to transform. Their defined abs swelled into beer bellies and their flat asses fattened into two perky globes that quickly ripped through their shorts. Their hairy round bellies contrasted with the chiselled body of the man transforming them.
The man stepped back for a moment, as if to admire his own work. He then pushed the two transformed frat bros together, snapping them out of their trance. You expected shock or fear to be their first reactions, but you couldn't be further from the truth. The two frat bros embraced, intently staring at each other for a moment before locking lips. One of them reached down and started groping the other man's cock and one wrapped his man hands around the other man's ass.
The older man started feeling up the transformed frat bros as they made out with each other. He then turned to face you, the first time he did so since you woke up.
Your jaw dropped as you realized it's the silver fox you met the night before, just without his fancy clothes on. He grabbed one of the frat bros by the cock while maintaining eye contact with you, as if to taunt you.
Alright. Iâve seen a lot of requests about turning cocky guys into twinks â totally fair. But Iâd like to ask for the opposite, or almost that.
My favorite stories of yours are the ones where some poor guy is in the wrong place at the wrong time and ends up becoming a cocky bastard (Gridirion Brew, Make Sense, Gone Fishing).
So how about a story about a needy twink looking for a cocky, dominant top⌠and a poor, recently engaged guy â studious, respectfull, devoted to his beautiful fiancĂŠe, â who crosses paths with the wrong person at the wrong time.
âIâll see you tomorrow, buddy,â Adam slowly shut the door to his best man's room. âDrink some water before you pass out this time.â
âYeah, yeah,â somebody groaned from inside. âYouâre about to be someoneâs husband and still sound like my mom.â
Adam shook his head, smiling as he headed toward the elevators. His bachelor party had turned into exactly what he expected: too much drinking, too much yelling, and the people he loved most acting like complete idiots together... Heâd loved every second of it.
âWouldnât trade those idiots for anything,â Adam muttered as he stepped into the elevator, scrolling through reels Claire had sent him.
The doors had barely started closing before hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.
âWait! Hold it!â
âGot you.â Adam stuck his arm out automatically.
âOh, thank god,â the stranger breathed, his eyes lighting up the moment he saw Adam. âYou seriously just saved my evening. I was starting to think Iâd have to go upstairs alone.â
Adam laughed awkwardly, âI think you mightâve misunderstood something, Iâm not looking forâŚâ
âShhhhh.â The guy stepped closer. âThatâs okay. Youâre gonna make me feel really fucking good tonight, stud.â
Adam blinked. âWhat?â
âName's Nico,â he said lazily. âDonât ruin this for me.â
Before Adam could answer, Nico leaned forward and kissed him. Adam's hands came up to shove him away, but he froze.
âI⌠sorry, I think you got the wrong...â
Then Adam looked at him again, words catching in his throat. His eyes dropped to Nicoâs ass in those tight black jeans.
"You like?"
âOh...â Adam swallowed hard. âNo, I... I shouldnâtâŚâ His thoughts raced. âIâm not into guys. Iâm getting marriedâŚâ
âOh fuckâŚâ Adam panted suddenly as his hand grabbed a fistful of Nicoâs ass.
Nico smiled instantly. âThere you go.â
Nico's hands slipped beneath Adamâs shirt, cool palms dragging over his stomach and chest before squeezing a growing pec. Adamâs breath caught instantly, the kiss turning rougher before he even realized it.
âMmm⌠fuck,â Nico sighed against his mouth.
Adam groaned, fingers kneading the firm curve of Nicoâs ass, while rough stubble grew along his jaw with every slow squeeze.
âYouâre really into this now.â
âNo⌠Nico, I canâtâŚâ Adam broke away, face flushed, hands still on Nico's ass. âJesus Christ⌠Iâm getting marriedâŚâ
âShhhh.â Nico smirked, sliding his hands up Adam's shirt and through the hair spreading across his chest, âOh my god,â Nico breathed. âYou feel so fucking good already.â
âFuckâŚâ Adam gripped his ass harder as nails scratched down his back. âI need disâŚâ The words hit his ears wrong. âNo⌠what de hell...?â
"Follow me, big guy."
And he did. The second the elevator doors opened, Adam followed. Right to Nico's room. The guilt twisted hard through his stomach.
âClaire...â Adam shuddered. âCan never know... about dis⌠fuck⌠she canâtâŚâ
"Oh she never will." Nico giggled and pulled Adam into his hotel room.
Clothes were quickly discarded and Adam groaned as Nico's smooth bare skin pressed against his increasingly bulkier, hairier, and sweatier form.
âFuckâŚâ Nicoâs hands slid over the thickening muscle in Adamâs arms, âI needed a man like you tonight.â He buried his face against Adamâs increasingly hairier pit and inhaled. âMmm⌠you smell incredible.â
With a grunt, he shoved Nico against a wall, hand wrapping around his bare ass. Warm skin flexed beneath his palm, impossibly soft without the denim in the way... smooth, firm, and perfect in a way Adam had never thought about another man's ass before.
âOh fuckâŚâ Adam groaned shakily against Nicoâs throat. âYa Allah⌠you're drivin' me crazyâŚâ
Nico smiled lazily while grinding up against him. âMmm. Been thinking about you fucking me since the elevatorâŚâ
The words hit Adam hard and Claireâs face flashed through his mind again... Unaware her fiancĂŠ was naked in a hotel room with another man. The guilt swelled, but Adam still shoved Nico onto the mattress.
âYeahâŚâ Adam breathed heavily. âYou... like dis? You want dis?" Adam climbed over him, their eyes locking as dark brown rings spread slowly through Adamâs blue irises.
âFuckâŚâ Nico's hands slid across Adamâs sweaty, hairier pecs, âThatâs it⌠come here, big guyâŚâ
Nico shifted and rolled onto his front, raising his bare ass against Adam's throbbing cock. Adamâs breathing turned ragged, stomach twisting hard. He wasn't this kind of man... He was Claire's dependable fiancĂŠ. Her best friend. Her future husband... Not the man currently grinding his cheating cock against another manâs ass.
âFuckâŚâ Adam tightened his grip on Nicoâs hips. âDis isnât me⌠'uqsim, hadha lays 'ana." Adam froze... that language... he didn't...
"Huh? Wh... fuck... Wh-what did you say?" Nico smirked and looked over his shoulder, "Oh fuck..."
Adam felt it before he saw it. His cock throbbed and grew to a size beyond anything Adam ever possessed. His cock head emerging from a sheath of foreskin he knew shouldn't be there.
"Dere is no way..." He whispered, "It's so..." He moaned as he grew another inch, cock now pressing against Nico's tight entrance.
"Please... I need it." Nico begged, "It's all I need tonight."
Adam gasped suddenly as his pecs filled with muscle. And as they did, his new chest hairs suddenly curled longer and darkened toward black against his heavier muscle.
âFuckâŚâ Claire used to fall asleep with her head against his lean chest. But these heavier pecs were damp with sweat and dark curling hair now, nothing like the body she loved. âYa Allah⌠look at dis⌠it just keeps gettinâ thickerâŚâ
âMmmâŚâ Nico moaned, glancing back at him.
âOh fuck⌠whatâs dat smell?â Adam grimaced.
âThat's⌠you big guy."
âMustaheelâŚâ Adam muttered, lifting an arm and grimacing at the thick musk clinging to his sweat-soaked, matted pit hair, âY-you like disâŚ?â
"Fuck⌠yeah. Smell like a real man⌠mmm, so fucking hotâŚ" Nico whimpered.
Adam shuddered hard at the words. Claire used to steal his hoodies because they smelled clean and comforting. She wouldâve recoiled from this heavy masculine musk pouring off him now.
"You're perfect..." Nico groaned, pressing his ass against Adam's erection, "Just... fuck me already."
âWallahâŚâ Adam nearly obliged, but Claireâs smile flashed suddenly through his mind, "What de fuck is wrong wit me?â
He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, catching on something unfamiliar along his cheek. He touched his jaw again instinctively and recoiled. Stubble. Thick, perfect stubble. He'd always joke about never being able to grow a real beard. Claire always told him she loved his clean-shaven look.
"How de fuck....?" He watched as dark hair thickened across swelling forearms and olive blotches crept slowly over pale skin, "Wallah?"
The mirror caught him briefly and he froze. Damp blond hair darkened toward black while brown swallowed the blue in his eyes. Those eyes Claire adored. The hair she loved threading through her fingers.
"I... I want you inside me..." Nico moaned, "J-just..."
Adam looked down and back to the mirror. The man staring back at him still carried traces of Adam in places, but not enough. Not enough for his friends or best man to recognize him. Barely enough for Claire. Even his own mother would hesitate⌠And panic rose in his chest. He just wanted to go back downstairs, back to his friends, back to the man Claire loved, back to being Adam again. Because right now, Adam didnât feel like Adam anymore.
He grunted suddenly before he could even process that thought. His cock leaked as a low groan vibrated deep through his chest before he could stop it.
âYa AllahâŚâ His rough hands spread Nicoâs ass cheeks. âYouâre gonna take all dis for me, yeah?â The words hadnât felt chosen. Neither had the smug grin slowly pulling across his face while his heavier body settled more naturally over Nico.
âMmm⌠there you are...â Nico whispered softly, sounding relieved.
He couldn't hold back any longer. With a guttural growl, he buried his cock deep into Nico's ass. The twink let out a choked cry, back arching sharply as he was impaled.
Thrust.
Dense muscle any gym bro would be proud of settled over him in all the right places. Stronger hands pinned Nico down instinctively while his pace roughened.
âFuck⌠ya AllahâŚâ He stared down at himself breathlessly. âBro⌠look at dese⌠fuck⌠Havinâ a body like dis feels so fuckin' goodâŚâ
âMmm⌠trust me...â Nico whimpered. âFeels even better underneath you.â
Thrust.
Warm olive swallowed the last pale traces across his skin while heavy musk and cheap cologne clung permanently to his body.
âMmm⌠such a slut... for my scent.â He grunted.
âFuckâŚâ Nico whimpered. âI wanna bury my face in your pits so badâŚâ
Thrust.
The last traces of his old facial features disappeared forever behind the thick beard, dark brown eyes, and a permanent cocky grin devoid of his usual warmth.
âMmm⌠datâs right,â He smirked when Nico stared up at him breathlessly. âKeep lookinâ at me like dat while I fuck youâŚâ
Thrust.
âWh-whatâs your name, big guyâŚ?â
âKareem,â he answered immediately.
âMhmm⌠that name...is... always popularâŚâ
âDen scream it for me."
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
Kareem slapped Nico's jiggling ass, âMmm⌠datâs right, habibi⌠take it,â he groaned smugly, "Fuck... Dis hole was... made for my... fat Arab cock... wasn't it?"
Thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust...
Kareem grunted, pace quickening. The engagement ring felt uncomfortable around his swollen finger, so he instinctively pulled it off and tossed it somewhere in the room.
âMmm⌠fuckin' slutâŚâ Kareem groaned, "Ya Allah⌠look at dis⌠all dis fuckinâ muscle⌠you fuckin' love it.â He slowed down, "You want me to finish?" He teased, "Want Kareem to fill you?"
"Pl-please..." Nico moaned into the mattress, "Kareem... oh fuck!"
"Ya Allah⌠you needed dis dick so bad.â Hands squeezing Nicoâs hip harder. âSlut gets one real Arab guy smellinâ like dis on top of him and forgets his own nameâŚâ
Kareem buried himself deep inside Nico's ass, followed by a guttural roar as his cock erupted, flooding Nico's insides with thick, hot seed.Â
"Take it all, bitch... fuckin' take it!" he growled, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.
As the last pulses subsided, Kareem collapsed forward, his sweaty chest pressing against Nico. His softening cock still inside Nico. And Kareem's eyes closed.
-------------------
He woke slowly beneath tangled sheets, groaning as dense muscle shifted across his chest and arms. He scratched at the dark hair on his chest, his nose twitching at the scent of sweat, cologne... of him. For a few moments, he stared at his body, processing the sight.
âYa AllahâŚâ Kareem smirked to himself, âDat twink ainât ever recoverinâ from meâŚâ
âOh, youâre awake.â Nico glanced up from his phone. âYeah... you're one of my best works yet...â
âWhat da fuck does dat mean?â
âNothing.â Nico shrugged casually. âAnyway, you should leave... like now.â The words landed and the larger man froze.
Kareem blinked, sitting up slowly. âW-waitâŚâ Uncertainty cracked faintly through the swagger for the first time. âWhere do I go? What should I...?â
âAlways the same questions.â Nico smirked, unable to recall the number of times he'd heard them, âI dunno. Thereâs a gym down the street? Download Grindr? Yeah... Youâre hot. Someoneâll take you in.â
âDatâs it?â
âI donât really care.â
------------
Kareem stared in the mirror of a public restroom, wresting with the sense that he was supposed to be somewhere else doing something important. But without a phone, wallet, or anything else, he was lost.
But then he caught him. Some twink washing his hands, staring at him. And Kareem knew that look. The lust... A cocky grin spread across Kareemâs face.
âMmm⌠you keep lookinâ at me like dat, Iâm gonna start thinkinâ you want somethinâ.â
The guy flushed immediately. âS-sorry, I justâŚâ
Kareem smiled lazily. Cute. Nervous. Kareem would have him wrapped around his finger easily.
âMmm⌠yeah. Youâll do just fine for now, habibi. You got a place nearby or what?â
It had been one year since Danny started working for his dad's construction company. It wasn't ideal, but he needed a job after he graduated and this was a temporary solution until he could get a job in business.
Danny opened the door of his truck, instantly feeling the chill in the air. Spring had been awfully cold, it seemed to be getting everyone sick, even his father had called in sick this morning. He grabbed his jacket and threw it on before putting on his hard hat.
"Hey bud *cough* how ya doin?" His foreman, Mike, asked Danny as he walked into the site.
"I'm good, you?"
"I'm alright, *cough* I think I caught something." He said between fits of coughing.
"Maybe you wouldn't be sick if you ever wore a jacket." Danny joked as he tugged on his foreman's thin T-shirt.
"What are you, my dad?" Mike chuckled.
The morning was a bit boring, but the work went by fast. They were nearly done excavating for an extension to a fancy looking laboratory. Danny overheard Mike talking about it being some well funded government deal, but it was too boring to bother paying attention to it.
It was only a couple hours into his shift when Danny felt a tingle in the back of his throat. It started small, something that would go away when he cleared his throat, but it quickly worsened. He tried holding in the coughs, but it didn't work. His face grew more and more red before he burst out into a cough.
"You okay, bud?" Mike asked.
Danny didn't speak, he couldn't speak. He flashed a thumbs up, but he wasn't okay. He suddenly felt burning hot and his skin became irritated. Clearly flustered, he stumbled towards his truck and closed himself inside it.
The coughing started to slow down just enough for him to catch his composure, but he still felt a burning heat welling in his stomach. He felt his shirt tighten around his midsection, and upon looking down, he noticed his stomach rising. He didn't even know how to react as his flat stomach swelled into a modest belly.
"What the fuck..."
Danny placed his hand on his stomach, feeling it sink into the soft fat that bulged out in front of him. He barely had time to react as the rest of his body also began to change. His strong pecs grew both with muscle and fat, pressing tightly against his shirt while not quite losing their shape. He could feel his arms fill out the sleeves of his shirt, constricting tightly around his thick biceps as his hands grew strong and meaty.
"Fuck yeah!" Danny laughed as he flexed his massive arms.
Similar to his arms, his legs started to thicken, filling out the space in his jeans. His ass grew wide and perky, straining his belt as his thighs threatened to burst through his pants. He even felt his feet curl up as they outgrew his boots.
Danny relaxed as the changes seemed to slow. Out of curiosity, he pulled down the sunshade to check himself in the mirror. It was hard to see his body in the tiny mirror, but he noticed something off about his face. His face had filled out, with a slight double chin peeking below his softer jawline, but it wouldn't be visible for long. Thick black hairs sprouted all over his clean shaven face, weaving into a bushy beard that covered his jawline. Even more shocking was when most of the hairs turned grey all the while his features began to age. Wrinkles formed around his eyes and on his forehead, and he could feel his hairline receding slightly.
He sat there, slack jawed as he stared at his bulky middle aged body in the mirror. But the shock didn't last long before his expression turned to satisfaction.
"Lookin' good, big guy." Danny said to himself in the mirror. He was shocked by how his deep voice boomed through the empty truck.
He made different expressions in the mirror and flexed his thick muscles, finding a deep attraction to his own dad bod. But his modeling session was cut short when someone swung the truck door open.
- Meanwhile -
Ring Ring!
Pete woke abruptly to his phone ringing. He slowly rolled out of his husband's arms and reached to grab his phone.
"What?" Pete answered, clearly annoyed.
"Well you're in a lovely mood." The voice on the other side mocked.
"This is my day off, why are you calling me this early."
"This is urgent. The alarm went off at one of our labs and none of the researchers are answering their phones. I need you to check and see if everything is fine." The man asked, seemingly stressed.
"Why me?" Pete argued, still groggy.
"The lab is right down the street from your house. I'm on my way now, but you can get there faster than I can. I just need you to make sure there isn't a leak. The research in that lab cannot get out!"
"Jeez, okay. I can be there in a couple minutes."
Pete hung up his phone and jumped out of bed. He threw on his uniform and gave his husband a kiss on the forehead.
"Bye John, I'll be back soon."
He quickly sneaks out of the room, throws on his boots, and heads out the door.
For a cold Spring morning, the sun was beading down really hard on Pete. He threw on some sunglasses and rolled up his sleeves as strolled down the sidewalk.
After a couple minutes of walking, he could already see the lab down the street. Luckily, it didn't look like there was anything wrong from where he was, no fire, no panic.
Once Pete got closer, he tried looking for something out of the ordinary, but the only thing that looked out of place was some construction going on outside the lab building. He walked into the site to see an older guy standing alone.
"Hello, sir." Pete caught the man's attention. "Are you the foreman?"
"Yes sir." The man reached out for a handshake. "Name's Mike."
"Mike... Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary around this building?" Pete asked.
"Ugh... No not really. Though I've had a pretty nasty cough since I got here, it seems to be hittin' my boys harder than me tho."
"And where would they be?" Pete questioned.
"One just went to take a piss and the other went over to his truck." Mike pointed to Danny's truck. "He's been in there a while now, I'm starting to get worried."
"I'll go talk to him." Pete said as he walked over to the truck.
He peeked through the window and saw an older man, around Mike's age. Pete knocked on the window, but couldn't seem to catch the man's attention, so he yanked the door open.
The man stumbled out of the truck, still coughing up a lung. Pete stepped back, trying not to get run over by the larger man. He tried to calm the man down, but he continued to cough right in Pete's face.
It wouldn't be long before Pete felt a tingle in the back of his throat. The sensation quickly grew into a violent cough, and with each cough, his chest rose. His pecs swelled until they ripped through his shirt, revealing a broad and hairy chest underneath. His arms thickened until his sleeves ripped in half while a thick pelt of hair grew over his arms, all the way down to his thick man hands.
"What is happening...to me?" Pete struggled to keep his balance.
He pants also tore in dramatic fashion as he stepped up onto a nearby picnic table, leaving him in nothing but a tight jockstrap and boots. His ass perked up and his thighs grew to the point that they rubbed together when he walked.
Unbeknownst to Pete, his face had also begun to change. His five o'clock shadow grew into a small beard while his nose grew and his eyes wrinkled.
"Pete!?" A familiar voice called out.
Pete looked up and smiled as he saw a familiar face.
"What's up boss?" He asks in a mature gruff voice.
"My god..." The man's eyes widened. "It's too late."
"What are ya talkin' about, bud." Pete asked as he approached his boss.
"It leaked. It can't be contained, it'll just keep spreading." The man spiraled.
"Relax, buddy. I'm sure it'll be fi-"
Pete paused mid sentence before coughing directly into his boss's face. It didn't take long for him to start growing out of his clothes, but Pete barely noticed, his mind seemed somewhere else.
"John!" He shouted before running back towards his house.
It became harder and harder to run as his body continued to grow. His stomach swelled with every breath, quickly becoming a solid beer gut. His shoulders broadened as a thick layer of fat grew over his pecs.
Meanwhile, his body continued to age. His growing beard started to go grey as his hairline receded all the way back, leaving a thin ring of hair left under his hat. His body hair became more dense as it too started to go grey.
The pressure on his aging knees grew as his height soared past 6 and half feet, making him slow down to a brisk jog. He could feel the growing fat in his body bounce with every step he took, and for some reason, it made him horny. His growing cock strained against his tiny jockstrap, begging for release, but he couldn't just yet.
He stumbled into his house, having to duck just to fit through the door. And just as he slammed the door behind him, his throbbing cock burst through the jockstrap, leaking with pre cum.
He ran upstairs and barged into his room, but John wasn't there. Panicked, he rummaged through his wardrobe for some clothes that would fit and found his father's old jeans. They're a bit short for him, but fit perfectly around his larger waist.
He walks back downstairs and sees his husband in the backyard, but something's off. Getting closer, Pete sees a much bulkier and hairier version of his husband barbecuing out back.
The sight of his handsome husband only made his cock leak even more.
He slid the glass door open and approached John. Pete slid his arms around his waist, pinching his soft belly as his rock hard dick pressed against the back of John's American flag speedo.
"Hey, Babe." Pete said as he rubbed his beard on the back of John's neck. "You're lookin' handsome."
Pete lifted John's round belly and let it drop, sending ripples through his soft body.
"I thought you'd like to see this ass in a speedo." John laughed between coughs. "None of my other clothes fit anyway."
"You're a hell of a lot sexier when none of your clothes fit." Pete said as he kissed the back of his neck.
"I bet you can't wait to see me to grow out of this." John flirted.
"I'm sure I won't have to wait long."
- Epilogue -
"Breaking News! A strange outbreak has been taking over New York. Reports suggest that it is a viral infection that is airborne and only infects men, though early accounts suggest that men above the age of 40 are asymptomatic. Their symptoms include a drastic increase in testosterone, characterized by fat and muscle gain, faster growth of body hair, increased libido, and rapid aging. The government has put in early efforts to prevent the spread, but the infection is spreading faster tha-" The news anchor paused as his focus shifted to someone behind the camera. "What are you doing here.... Hey, who are you, you can be in here... Wait... Don't... *Cough cough*"
"What are you watching, Babe?" John asked as he snuggled up beside Pete.
"Just the news. Watch this nerd grow out of his clothes." Pete let out a hearty laugh as the anchorman succumbed to the infection, growing into a fat dad.
John chuckled as he reached to grab some of Pete's popcorn. He took a big handful and stuffed into his mouth when suddenly, his speedo snapped in half.
"Told ya I wouldn't have to wait long." Pete smiled while rubbing John's growing belly.
John simply smiled as he rested his head on Pete's fuzzy chest.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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5k follower special. This story is based on your votes on how I would be transformed and what I would transform into.
-
I could feel my body relax as I walked out of my last exam. The weight of university had suddenly lifted from shoulders and the burden of corporate life hadn't yet set in. It felt amazing.
Under the refreshing spring sun, I started walking home. I pulled out my phone, planning on listening to some music like I normally did, but something caught my attention. A notification from tumblr.
"Hey man, you should try this podcast, it really changed my life."
It was a message from an anonymous user with a link embedded. Normally I would be a bit more careful, but I was in a good mood so I clicked on it.
It brought me right to a podcast on Spotify, making it easy to start it up and continue my walk.
The podcast began with the buttery smooth voice of a man, maybe around 30. Something about his voice brought me comfort, like there was something hollow in my life that he filled.
I raised my head and puffed out my chest as I walked, now filled with a strange self confidence that had never felt before. But then, my stomach sank as the charming podcaster began to devolve into weird manosphere shit. I clocked out as soon as he began ranting about what makes a real man.
I reached for my phone to turn off the podcast, but I couldn't. I tried again and again, but it was like my body wasn't responding to my brain.
"Now that I've got you." The podcaster said, "let me tell you what makes a real man."
My mind panicked as my body continued walking like nothing was going on.
"Real men are protectors, they build their bodies like fortresses." The man said.
Almost immediately when those words entered my head, I could feel my body change. My shirt tightened as my chest rose into two meaty pecs and my biceps grew until my sleeves were on the verge of ripping. My legs quickly followed suit, making my legs look like any other gym bros.
What do you mean gym bro, I thought. I never go to the gym.
"Do you feel strong now?" The man asked.
"Yes." I heard my voice speak.
No! I mean yes, I do feel strong, but I don't want this!
"Good." The man continued. "But muscle isn't enough to make you big and strong. A real man needs to have his presence be known wherever he goes. A man should take up a lot of space in any room that he's in."
I could feel my perspective shifting higher as my height increased significantly, I must have been at least 6"4. My shirt looked more like a crop top, allowing the breeze to brush against my bare stomach.
Then my stomach sank, it felt like the sun was boiling inside me. I wanted to scream but my body didn't react, it just kept walking. But all of the pain was quickly released as my stomach surged outward, swelling with soft fat until it sagged over my waistband. My waist softened into thick love handles that also spilled over my waistband, giving my body a much wider look.
That was only the beginning, though. My strong pecs became buried in soft fat, growing thick enough to finally rip through my shirt. And the muscle definition in my arms and back disappeared under a thin layer of fat. My legs similarly thickened up, and my body seemed to subconsciously adjust by spreading my legs out as I walked, preventing my thighs from rubbing together. And finally, my ass expanded into two juicy globes that threatened to rip through my tight shorts.
The transformation had completely taken my attention, I had almost forgotten that the podcaster was still talking.
"Now we can't forget what truly makes a man, masculinity. Real men are mature testosterone filled machines, they're sweat covered hairy beasts and they're proud of it."
"Fuck yeah!" My voice shouted in a deep, mature voice.
Stop saying that, I don't mean that. You know I don't mean that, right?
My body quickly became engulfed in an intense itchiness as thick hairs began to sprout all over my skin. You'd be hard pressed to find a spot on my body that didn't have hair, though it was especially thick around my belly, chest, and arms. Also, my clean shaven face soon became covered in a thick black beard.
And just when I thought the changes were over, I felt a pain emerge in my knees, then in my back.
Am I, getting older?
I felt my facial features start to weather and age, though I couldn't quite tell how much I had aged. I felt the sun beating down on my head as my hairline receded slightly. At the same time, patches of hair on my chest and my beard began to go gray, leaving it salt and pepper.
My hand moved up to my belly, moving my thick man hands through the sweat drenched hair on my belly. The feeling felt so foreign to me, I didn't have a belly, let alone a hairy one.
"Fuck..." I moaned as I felt up my growing body.
No! No this is too far.
"How do you feel, big guy?" The podcaster asked, as if he was talking specifically to me.
"God, this feels great." I responded in a gruff voice.
It does feel good, but I hate it.
"Good man. Now, we can't have a man with pasty white skin. A solid tan shows you're a strong working man, and some tattoos always make you look tougher."
The sun felt like it was burning my skin as it took on a more golden colour, though my chest and shoulders turned bright red.
Without me thinking, my hand reached into my backpack to grab a baseball cap. I threw it on to protect my balding head from the intense sun.
The burning on my skin progressed past a normal burn as tattoos began to appear on my chest, arms and neck. I could feel a sense of pride in the tattoos despite the fact that I would never get tattoos like these.
"Now you're becoming a real man," the podcaster continued, "but there's something you're missing. Any real man needs a package that suits his imposing manly body. The kind of dick that can make any woman, or man if that's what you're into, see god when you fuck' em."
The bulge in my tight shorts started to grow as my dick snaked down the side of my leg, nearly peaking through the bottom of my shorts. It grew to a massive 9 inches, creating an obvious bulge in my skin tight shorts. I wanted so badly to cover up, to not be seen like this in public, but my body still wouldn't listen to me. I just kept walking along with a cocky smirk, extremely proud that any passerby would have no choice but to notice my package.
"Now to wrap up this episode, let's deal with that mind of yours." He said.
Wait what!?
"A real man shouldn't have to think that hard. Who needs a university degree when you've got big muscles like that."
No, please, just let me go!
"You love being a dumb jock that let himself go after his days on the highschool football team."
I wasn't on the football team, was I? And I didn't let myself go!
"You love being a rich dad who does nothing but fuck and relax around with mansion."
I have a mansion? Right, I do have a mansion. And you're right, I love fucking.
"Good man. Now make sure to share this with someone that needs to be reminded of what a real man is."
The podcast cut off at the perfect time as I arrived home. Something felt off as I stared at the lavish mansion in front of me, but the feeling quickly faded. As soon as I got inside, it took off the tiny shorts I was wearing. Normally I would just go for a swim naked, but my stupid neighbour complained, so now I have to wear swim shorts.
That's when a great idea popped into my head. As I walked to my backyard, I pulled out my phone and sent the podcast over to my neighbour. A real man wouldn't judge another man for wanting to be naked in his own backyard.
With that out of the way, I stepped out into my massive yard and jumped into my in ground pool.
The time flew as I was floating around the pool, I couldn't tell how long it had been before my phone buzzed. It was a text from my neighbour.
"Why don't you show me what a real man looks like."
My plan worked. My cock jumped at the idea of seeing my stuck up neighbour as a big horny man. I took a video of myself as I walked out of the pool, making sure to show off the star of the show, my belly.
I sent it over and impatiently awaited a response.
"Come to the fence."
My heart skipped a beat as I approached the fence that split our yards. Peaking over, I saw an older, fatter, and hairier version of my neighbour lounging on a chair.
He simply lifted his hand and gestured for me to come over.
It is not original idea but I have it from an old story that forgot the title. There is an organization with agents working as reality correction. They change the fate of people to its "right path". So, What if, instead of being adopted by a wealthy family and having excellent degree, a young man's fate were "corrected" to be raised by a construction worker?
A bit of a longer one! Hope you enjoy and thanks for the requests! Any feedback is welcomed!
âThis isnât a road you want to go down.â
Looking back, maybe Thomas shouldâve listened. At the time, though, he couldnât even begin to understand what William meant.
âHe was my father, just as much as he was yours,â Thomas had shot back. âYouâre not cutting me out.â
Their father had been obscenely wealthy... real estate, contracting, the kind of empire that didnât leave room for doubt. And like many men in his position, heâd had affairs. Thomas was the result of one of them. But instead of denying him, their father had claimed him, raised him, given him every advantage. Now, after his death, that decision was being dragged back into the light.
âFather shouldâve never...â
âWell, he did,â Thomas cut in, already tired of the argument. âAnd he loved me. He wouldnâtâve approved this. He wouldâve wanted me to...â
âI warned you,â William interrupted coldly. âYouâre not getting a thing from this estate.â
----------------
âExcellent report, Thomas.â
He smiled at his bossâs praise. âThank you, sir.â
He hadnât needed the family business to succeed. His work ethic and easy charm carried him forward at a startup where he was quickly making a name for himself. He was building something on his own terms. Something he could be proud of.
Later, changing for an evening walk, he queued up a philosophy podcast and grabbed an iced green tea.
âAlright, letâs...â
A knock interrupted him and when he answered, he was greet by two men in suits.
âAre you Thomas Lancer?â
"Yeah, that's me.â he said slowly. âIs something wrong?â
âWeâre with the Department of Ontic Corrections. Youâve been identified as a potential infringement.â
----------------
They were called "docs". Agents of the DOC. Most people didn't want to run into these guys.
âWe ensure predictability,â one agent explained as proceedings began. âAnd in predictability, we find stability.â
Thomas sat in a stark room, surrounded by agents, judges, lawyers. William sat across from him, smirking. Thomas could only listen as his life was dissected into probabilities, reduced to numbers. And after several hours of discussion, the head judge spoke.
"Thomas Lancer, it is our belief that your existence itself deviates significantly from the expected trajectory based on the most likely statistical outcomes. Moreover, this anomaly has significant ramifications for the Lancer family and therefore confers necessary corrections."
Thomas swallowed hard. William had won. Embarrassed him. Demeaned him in front of everyone.
âFine,â he said bitterly. âI donât need his money. You can have it.â
âAh,â the judge replied, âbut removing you from the inheritance does not resolve the underlying deviation.â
Thomas frowned. âWhat does that mean?â
William smirked. âIt means you shouldn't have been raised as my brother.â
The room went silent.
Thomas felt his blood run cold.
âWh⌠what?"
------------------
Thomas barely had time to process what William's words meant before he was dragged by the DOC officers to a sterile white room filled with strange pod-like devices.
"Welcome Mr. Lancer." A man in a different suit greeted him outside the pod, "I'm DOC Assessment Officer Davis. I'll be overseeing your correction." He smiled and looked down at his tablet.
"Correction?" Thomas whispered, "I don't... what're you going to do to me?"
Davis didn't look up, "We reconstruct the life you were statistically meant to live, introduced directly through our system. As those layers integrate, the pod makes corresponding physical adjustments so your body aligns with that history. Itâs comprehensive, seamless. You wonât experience it as loss, Mr. Lancer⌠if thatâs what youâre worried about."
âBut... I built my job myself... my life is mine now.â
Davis gave a small, almost sympathetic smile, though it didnât reach his eyes. âBut the core deviation is still there. This outcome was never part of your probable trajectory. Weâre not taking anything from you, Mr. Lancer, weâre aligning your life with the outcome you were always most likely to reach.â
âThatâs not restoration,â Thomas argued, pulse pounding. âYou can't do this. I won't just...â
âYou don't have a choice.â Davis replied softly, gesturing toward the pod as it hissed and opened, "Now please undress."
Thomas hesitated only briefly before complying, folding his clothes with trembling hands as if the small act of neatness might anchor him to himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the pod. Lean, toned, swimmerâs build, smooth skin, the careful maintenance of someone who had always had time to care.
"Please enter."
The interior glowed faintly, sterile and inviting in a way that made his stomach turn. He stepped inside, lying back as the curved surface molded to him, sealing him in.
--------------
At first, it wasnât pain. It was⌠intrusion.
A warmth spread along his temples, threading inward, and suddenly there was a memory... Forceful, overwhelming something else that had been there. A cramped living room. The hum of an old TV. The sharp scent of cheap beer.
âTommy,â a rough voice called, casual and familiar in a way that made Thomasâs chest tighten. âGrab me one while youâre up.â
The name landed wrong... Tommy- and yet, disturbingly, it didnât stay wrong for long. He could see himself moving through that space, younger, grabbing a bottle from a fridge that rattled when it opened.
A man... Greg, his momâs boyfriend, sat sprawled on the couch, broad, worn, solid in a way that radiated authority without effort.
âAtta boy,â Greg muttered, taking the beer.
--------------
Inside the pod, Thomasâs body slackened slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased. The sterile hum of the machine blended with the low drone of that TV, the two realities overlapping until the difference blurred. The memory of his real father- tailored suits, polished offices- felt⌠distant. Thinner. Less lived in. Gregâs presence, by contrast, was heavy, immediate, grounding.
--------------
The next shift came harder.
Thomas... no... Tommy... stood in front of a mirror, but the reflection wasnât quite right. The frame was thicker, the edges of muscle less refined and more functional, built through repetition rather than design. His hair looked less styled, more⌠neglected. He lingered there a moment too long, staring, trying to reconcile what he was seeing... trying to understand.
âDonât just stand there gawkinâ at yourself,â Gregâs voice snapped from behind him, sharp with irritation. âMirror ainât gonna do the work for you.â
--------------
Inside the pod, Thomasâs breath hitched sharply as sensation followed the memory. His muscles tightened, then shifted, a dull, spreading ache as fibers seemed to knit differently beneath his skin. It wasnât dramatic, not all at once, but it was real. His arms felt heavier, denser. His chest expanded, rising with each slow breath.
"Dial it up." Davis said, watching Thomas's progress closely.
--------------
The shift into the next phase did not come gently. It hit like impact. Sudden, jarring, full of motion. Tommy was on a field, the ground uneven beneath his cleats. Someone slammed into him, and instead of fear, there was a surge... hot, immediate, good. Football. Not swimming or golf. A real man's sport.
âGet up!â Gregâs voice cut through from the sidelines, louder than anyone elseâs, full of rough-edged approval. âThatâs it! Hit âem back!â
--------------
Inside the pod, Thomasâs back arched as sensation flooded him. His muscles tightened violently, then began to swell... not grotesquely, not all at once, but undeniably. His shoulders broadened, the clean, streamlined lines of a swimmer thickening into something denser, more impact-ready. There was weight to him now.
"Wait..." Thomas mumbled, voice flat and distant.
--------------
The next wave came rougher. A flick of a lighter in the dark. The sharp inhale of smoke burning down his throat, making him cough hard enough to double over while laughter echoed around him.
âDonât be a wuss,â Greg muttered, though there was a crooked grin behind it. âYouâll get used to it.â
The burn dulled into something tolerable, then familiar. Again... and again.
--------------
Inside the pod, Thomasâs lungs seized for a moment, a phantom irritation scraping through his chest before settling. And then he felt it. A craving. A need for a cigarette. And the memories didnât stop.
--------------
A cheap bar, loud and crowded. The sticky floor beneath his boots. Someone bumping into him too hard... and the reaction was immediate. A shove. A shout. Then fists.
âAtta boy,â Greg said later, voice approving even as he handed Tommy something cold to press against his face. âCanât let people walk all over you.â
--------------
In the pod, Thomas gasped as his face twitched, a deep, aching pressure forming along the bridge of his nose before settling. Not breaking, not fully, but changing. Less refined. Slightly off. His skin, too, seemed different. Less cared for, faint imperfections surfacing, the kind that came from sun, from work, from not paying attention to things that used to matter.
"How's his progress?"
Look for yourself."
Inside the pod, Thomasâs body had begun to tell the story before his mind fully caught up. His frame thicker now, muscle settling in with a denser, work-built weight. Fine hairs had started to gather across his chest and stomach, subtle but new. A faint shadow of stubble edged his jaw, and along his arms, the ghost of ink- half-formed lines of tattoos- lingered just beneath the skin, not yet complete, but no longer absent.
"Perfect."
--------------
This time, the memory didnât force itself in. It settled. Tommy leaned against the side of a work truck, metal warm from the sun, dust clinging to his skin. He shifted and caught his reflection in the window.
Something felt off. He stepped closer.
His frame had filled out. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, solid rather than sculpted. His hair sat uneven, pushed back without care, and a rough layer of stubble shadowed his jaw. When he tugged at his collar, he noticed darker hair spreading faintly across his chest.
--------------
Inside the pod, Thomas grimaced as it happened. The itch across his chest, sharper now, as hair thickened. His jaw tightened as stubble coarsened.
--------------
âSchool starts next week.â
âYeah⌠donât think Iâm goinâ back.â
No conflict. Just relief. Greg glanced over from where he stood, sizing him up for half a second before giving a small nod.
âFigured,â he said. âYouâre already makinâ yourself useful.â
--------------
"St... stop..." He whispered, eyes half lidded. His awareness of the word around him overwhelmed by the memories he was being guided by.
Thomas tried again to hold onto something... an idea, a plan, the importance of what he was losing... but each attempt came up shorter than the last. Thoughts simplified... the need for anything more complex was fading. In their place came something steadier. The memory of a long dayâs work settling into his muscles. The satisfaction of finishing something tangible. The ease of sitting back with a drink, not thinking too far ahead. His breathing slowed. Deepened. The panic flickered... and then faltered.
--------------
The podâs hum shifted again. Lower, denser, like it was pressing inward rather than surrounding him.
There was no space for thought anymore. Just overflow. Drowning out anything that was left of "Thomas Lancer."
--------------
Nights stacked into each other without edges. Cheap beer burning down his throat after work, laughter he didnât need to explain, cigarette smoke curling out into streetlight haze. Ash flicked away with an easy motion. The weight of his body collapsing into whatever chair, curb, or bed was closest. Exhaustion, release, repetition. Each memory slid into the next without pause, stripping away anything that required reflection to hold.
The morning light woke him up. He dragged himself upright in a narrow, unmade bed, sheets twisted and half-hanging off the side. The apartment around him was dim and cluttered. Empty beer cans on a table, clothes tossed wherever they landed, the air thick with a stale, musky smell that clung to everything. He didnât notice it. Didnât care.
"Hell..."
He stretched slowly, arms pulling up over his head, back arching as something popped along his spine. His pits were damp, hair thicker there now, holding onto the smell of yesterdayâs sweat. He exhaled through his nose, scratching idly at his chest, fingers dragging through the coarse spread of hair. A low grunt left him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He shuffled toward the bathroom, bare feet dragging slightly against the floor, and leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror without really thinking about it. Ran a hand through his hair. Messy, sticking out in places, flattened in others.
Scratched at his beard. Spat into the sink. For a moment, he just stood there. Not analyzing. Not questioning. Life wasnât complicated. Get up. Go to work. Get paid. Grab a drink after if the day was rough, which it usually was. Maybe catch a game if something was on. Didnât need much more than that. He snorted softly to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. "Could be worse."
--------------
Inside the pod, there was no resistance left to mirror. Only completion. His body settled into itself fully. Weight distributed differently now, thicker through the torso and limbs, every inch of him carrying the quiet density of years of labor. The last traces of softness gave way to something more permanent, more worn-in.
--------------
The site was already loud when he rolled in, gravel crunching under his boots as he hopped out and lit a cigarette.
"Harris!" someone barked.
He jerked his chin up. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Damn, canât even get a smoke in first?"
A couple guys chuckled.
Tom Harris now... had been for years. "Tommy" didnât stick past being a kid. He grabbed his gear, spitting to the side. "Alright, what're we hittin' first?"
--------------
Inside the pod, his eyes fluttered beneath sealed lids, a faint groan slipping out as his head shifted against the surface.
"Aw, damn⌠my headâŚ"
--------------
Leaning against a truck during a break, cigarette hanging loose from his lips, someone nudged him. "You still lookin' for steadier work?"
Tom shrugged, flicking ash onto the gravel. âLong as it pays better than this crap.â
âLancerâs crew is hirinâ. Bigger jobs. Better hours.â
He squinted slightly, rolling the name around in his head for all of a second before exhaling smoke. âLancer, huh? Yeah⌠sure. Iâll give it a look.â
The name didnât stir anything... no memory, no connection, not even a passing sense of familiarity. Just another company, same as any other, another crew, another paycheck at the end of the week.
Later, filling out paperwork, he barely glanced at the logo stamped across the top.
Lancer Construction
His pen scratched across the line beneath it:
Tom Harris
Signed clean. No hesitation.
No idea.
--------------
The pod opened with a low hiss, and Tom stepped out slowly, his body heavy in that dull, satisfying way that followed deep sleep. He stretched without thinking, arms rising overhead as his back cracked, chest expanding with a slow breath that carried no urgency. The air felt cooler against his bare skin, but it didnât bother him. His gaze drifted lazily to the folded clothes nearby, lingering only a moment as if trying to place them before the thought slipped. They didnât feel like his. He turned instead to the rough denim and worn fabric set aside for him, already reaching for them without question.
âEverything checks out,â one of the DOC agents said, glancing up from the tablet. âIdentification, employment, residency are all aligned. Tom Harris, you're good to goâ
âYeah?â Tom tugged on the jeans, rolling his shoulders as the fabric settled naturally against him, then pulled the shirt over his head. âGood. Didnât feel like stickinâ around here anyway.â
--------------
Out in the hall, he slowed slightly when he spotted a sharply dressed man lingering nearby. Something about him stood out... clean, put-together, out of place.
âHey,â Tom said, nodding. âYouâre Lancerâs kid, right? Seen you on-site.â
Williamâs smile came easy, thin and satisfied. âI was curious how things turned out,â he said, voice smooth. âSeems youâve landed exactly where you belong.â
Tom scratched at his chest through the fabric, frowning faintly. âYeah⌠guess so,â he muttered, glancing him over. âKinda weird you beinâ here, though. Donât you got people for this stuff?â
Williamâs expression didnât shift. âI like to stay involved.â
Tom huffed lightly, already losing interest. Still, as he walked past, a faint thought tugged at him... what was he himself doing here? But it slipped loose before it could settle.
--------------
The site noise hit him full force as he arrived, boots crunching over gravel, cigarette already between his fingers as he lit it.
âHarris! You dragginâ ass today?â someone called.
He took a drag, exhaling slow. âYeah, yeah, keep talkinâ. Iâll outwork you anyway.â
A couple of the guys laughed and he got to work. It came naturally, his body moving without hesitation, every motion familiar in a way that didnât need thinking. He adjusted his grip, muscles tightening as he lifted, falling into rhythm with the others.
For a brief second, something felt off... but the weight in his hands grounded him again, steady and certain.
âQuit starinâ into space and move,â someone barked.
Tom smirked faintly, shifting the load. âYeah, yeah! I got it.â
