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Made a wager with my jock buddy that I could kick his ass in Call of Duty. Whoever gets the most kills in 20 minutes gets dibs on the others best feature. I win I get his hard earned muscles, he wins, he gets my smarts.

My brother's tongue had gotten him into plenty of trouble, that was certain, but it had also made him into a legend among all of the girls at our school. "The Tornado," they called him for the ways he twisted and turned that tongue inside of their eagerly-awaiting pussies. I'm sorry to talk about these things in such vulgar terms, but this is the sex-driven language my brother himself used to describe his own skills.

My brother's tongue had gotten him into plenty of trouble, that was certain, but it had also made him into a legend among all of the girls at our school. "The Tornado," they called him for the ways he twisted and turned that tongue inside of their eagerly-awaiting pussies. I'm sorry to talk about these things in such vulgar terms, but this is the sex-driven language my brother himself used to describe his own skills.

You’re sitting at the bar, arms crossed, eyes rolling as Grindr buzzes yet again with messages from daddies and bears. You've been getting these all night—your patience is thinning, the attention starting to feel more like a chore than a compliment. Frustration rises, so you set your phone down with a slight thud, taking a deep breath and trying to shake off the feeling of being hunted.

As you look up, the dim bar lights reflect off a glass placed before you. A Whiskey Sour. Did you order that? You don’t remember doing so, but there it is—chilled, the pale liquid gently swirling within the glass. For a second, you wonder if the bartender had overheard comment about you wanting attention. Maybe they were right. You always craved it, didn't you? But a nagging voice in your mind reminds you—never drink an unattained, mystery drink. You’ve heard enough horror stories. Yet, something about it feels different now, like a pull, a force compelling you to pick it up. You take a sip.

The whiskey hits your tongue, rich and warming. The sour notes balance it perfectly, and you can almost feel the drink tingling through your veins, unlocking something deep inside of you. You wanted this. The attention, the change, everything. As the liquid slides down your throat, you feel a rush of energy that seems to infuse your body. Your once-thin, frail twinky frame starts to shift, and you can’t help but watch in awe as your muscles swell, expanding beneath your skin.

You feel your arms begin to fill, sinewy and thickening with muscle. Your biceps start to bulge, more defined than they’ve ever been, veins popping and snaking beneath your skin. The tension in your forearms speaks of strength you’ve never known before, an athletic power that carries itself with ease. You can feel your chest pushing outwards, pecs solid and sculpted, the kind of chest that turns heads and makes people stop mid-sentence, admiring the beauty of a body that speaks of hours of hard work, of sweat and discipline.

Your six-pack forms beneath you, each muscle defined with surgical precision, every ridge a testament to the dedication of your new existence. The curve of your abs seems almost like an architectural marvel—every line sharp and clean, a map of strength. You flex, just a subtle movement, and each muscle obeys, rippling and shifting in fluidity, as if designed to perform on command. Your torso feels solid, honed like a marble statue, but with a lightness, an agility you didn’t expect. You could feel the power in your chest and abs as they expanded, the muscles coming to life with a soft crackling sound beneath your skin.

You look down at your legs, and the change is just as pronounced. Thighs that once seemed fragile now bulge with solid muscle. Your calves, once skinny, now flare out with a powerful shape. It’s a symmetry, a balance of raw strength that complements the grace of your movement. Each shift in posture, each subtle motion showcases the fluidity of muscle and power beneath your skin. You move with a strength that feels effortless, as if you were born to move this way—confident, graceful, and untouchable.

Your jawline sharpens, the curve more defined than ever before. Your cheekbones become more pronounced, high and angular, framing your eyes with the kind of sharpness that could cut glass. The smoothness of your skin seems even more ethereal now, reflecting the light in a way that makes you appear almost too perfect, like an airbrushed model straight from a magazine.

Your eyes, though, hold a different story. There’s something in them now—a cocky, confident gleam that wasn’t there before. They shimmer with the energy of someone who’s aware of their effect on the world. There’s a sense of control, a knowingness in the way your gaze locks with others. You can see the change, the way people start to notice you, eyes following every movement, every gesture. You don’t just demand attention now, you own it.

Then your smile, that smile—it becomes a thing of power. It’s not just a grin; it’s a calculated weapon, a flash of teeth that tells the world exactly who you are. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m in control, and you want to be a part of that, even if you don’t know exactly why.

But it's not just the way you look now, it's the way you feel. There’s a shift in your mind, a subtle but powerful change. The buzz of Grindr, the constant daddies messaging, fades into the background. You laugh, a sharp, knowing laugh, as memories of chasing validation through drinks and attention seem almost... childish. As your Grindr app pings again, you throw it aside with a chuckle. "WHAT THE FUCK?" you mutter, staring at the screen, but it’s different now. As you scroll through Grindr, the pixelated faces of men blur together, their rugged beards and chiseled jaws losing their allure. The thrill of arranging clandestine hookups in dingy motels and dark alleys starts to fade, replaced by a growing unease. Each tap feels like a rejection of your former desires, a subtle homophobia creeping into your consciousness. You delete the app, a sense of relief washing over you. It's time for a change, a new beginning. You download Tinder, the familiar interface a comforting constant in your life. The memories of your time with men slowly erode, like sand washed away by the tide. The taste of their lips, the feel of their skin against yours, it all starts to fade into a hazy, indistinct blur. As you set up your profile, you find yourself drawn to the soft curves and delicate features of the women who populate your feed. A new desire begins to consume you, a hunger that gnaws at your insides and refuses to be ignored. You find yourself staring at women swiping right at each pixelatated tit, their hips swaying and breasts bouncing with each step. You imagine running your hands over their smooth, unblemished skin, burying your face in their soft, fragrant hair. The thought of their tight, wet heat enveloping you sends shivers down your spine

The world around you shifts. The gay bars, the pride parades—they all fade into the background of a life once lived, and with it, so do the parts of you that clung to them. You laugh, a laugh that comes from deep within, almost maniacal in its freedom. Your personality begins to shift, morphing with the changes in your body. There’s a sharpness, a cynicism, something more self-assured, more... real. You begin to see through the veil of societal expectations—no longer chasing validation, no longer seeking to appease others. There’s a new sharpness in your humor, a biting edge that digs into modern absurdities. You move between sarcasm and self-deprecation with ease, but there’s an underlying critique of a world that often seems soft, fragile in its expectations.

You can feel the change—the sense of power, of autonomy, of having control over not just your body, but the world around you. Your worldview, once unsure and seeking validation, is now crisp, practical, almost conservative in its take on life. You see the absurdity in people’s need for attention, for validation. You can see through the veil of victimhood culture, the "woke" trends, and the hunger for societal approval. It’s almost laughable now, the way people cling to their fragility and expect the world to indulge them.

But you don’t need that. You’ve carved your path, and you walk it with the certainty of someone who knows their own worth. You’re strong, unyielding, unapologetically yourself. The world may soften, but you’ve been forged in a different fire—one that rewards strength, discipline, and the willingness to stand alone when necessary. It’s not about being liked—it’s about being real, being true to yourself in a world full of pretenders. And with that realization, your smile grows even wider, your laugh filling the space around you, knowing that this new you is the only one that matters.

Your phone buzzes again—another notification, another follower, another red-blooded American man praising the genius of your unfiltered, no-holds-barred comedy. You glance at the screen: 8 million followers on TikTok alone. The comments flood in like a tidal wave, almost all of them worshiping you for "saying it like it is." You’ve carved a niche—no apologies, no sugarcoating. You’re the obnoxious, politically incorrect comedian who tells the world exactly what it needs to hear, whether they like it or not. And most, especially the diehard supporters, can’t get enough of it. Every man, your age has your attention they worship the ground you walk on.

Sure, there are the inevitable hate comments. You laugh them off. You’ve built an empire on being a villain in the eyes of the left and an icon to the right. You’ve made it clear you don’t care about feelings or political correctness. The followers? The worshippers? They hang on your every word, love every joke, every swipe at the weak-willed, the sensitive, the politically correct sheep. The laughter is real, and so is the respect from those who share your views—mostly red-blooded white male Americans who look to you for validation and for a reminder of what masculinity really means.

You’re holding your drink, taking a sip from your whiskey, scanning the bar. And there they are: the guy and the girl. He’s got that nervous, unsure energy, glancing at her with a hopeful look. She's stunning, way out of his league, and you can see it—he’s trying way too hard. She’s polite but clearly disinterested, already bored, probably hoping for an escape. You smile. Perfect. This is prime material.

You’ve got a reputation to uphold, and there’s no better way to work it than by ripping this guy apart and then tossing in some jokes about her—just to keep the crowd engaged. You stroll over with your drink in hand, muscles flexing slightly as you do. You don’t care if the guy sees it or not; it’s all about the girl now. You’re confident, your presence commanding the space like you own it. You stop just a little too close to the guy, leaning over, showing off just a hint of that swagger.

“Well, well, well,” you say, flashing a grin at the guy, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Looks like we’ve got a real winner here, huh? What’s it like, man? You know, being so far out of your depth that even your date’s wondering if she made a mistake by sitting with you. I bet she's counting down the minutes until she can get away from this conversation, huh? Don’t worry though, I’m sure you’ve got something going for you. Maybe a decent credit score, or—what’s that? A good ‘before’ picture for a gym transformation post?”

The guy squirms, his face flushing a little. The girl glances at you, clearly not impressed but slightly entertained. You can feel the shift in the air. Good. You’re working her now.

“But hey,” you continue, leaning in slightly, “you’ve got heart, I’ll give you that. You’ve got that kind of ‘nice guy’ energy, you know? But let’s be real—this is a beyond the nice guy situation. This is more like the ‘I brought my mom’s credit card and am trying to impress a model who clearly doesn’t want to be here’ energy.”

You laugh, a loud, obnoxious chuckle that leaves a mark in the room. The guy looks like he’s about to say something, but you cut him off with another joke, shifting your attention to the girl.

“Now, you, sweetheart,” you say, turning all your charm to her, leaning in just a little closer, “I gotta say, you’re way too good for this guy. I mean, look at you. You glow in comparison to him, but don’t worry—I won’t steal you away. He needs someone to boost his ego, and I need someone who knows what it’s like to date up, not settle for the first dude who can afford a mid-tier steak.”

You flex slightly, just enough to make sure she notices the definition in your arms. It’s an intentional move, pushing the guy just a little to the side as you edge in, dominating the space. “Look at this guy, though. You see the difference? The muscles, the swagger, the confidence. But don't worry, buddy. I’m not here to take her from you. I’m just here to remind her what real manhood looks like,” you say, giving her a wink, leaning even closer, your voice low and teasing.

You make sure your muscles pop, rolling your shoulder a bit so she can get the full view. The guy stammers something, clearly trying to save face, but you don’t even look at him anymore. “So, sweetheart,” you continue, “you don’t have to waste your time with Mr. ‘Nice Guy Who Wants To Be A Bad Boy’ over here. I’m right here. I’ve got no problem making a girl like you laugh. I mean, look at me, I’m a walking joke, just with a better punchline.”

You can see her starting to crack a smile. Good. The night’s moving in your direction. But you’re not done. Not yet.

"You ever been with a guy who can actually take you somewhere worth going?” You press a little closer, letting the intensity build. You know you’re working it now. “I mean, the only thing this guy’s taking you to is the parking lot, where he’s probably going to try to impress you with his ‘low-key’ car. Spoiler alert: It’s a lease. But me? I’ll take you anywhere. Just name it.”

You laugh again, louder this time, your attention firmly on her as the guy’s presence starts to feel irrelevant. You flex one more time, purposefully leaning in so the guy has no space to talk.

You know exactly what you’re doing, how you’re making the guy feel small while you dominate the moment. You’re flirting with her relentlessly, pushing boundaries, making sure the guy knows where he stands. All the while, the followers you’ve built, the worship, the power you’ve cultivated with your no-holds-barred rhetoric, all of it fuels the confidence you wear like a second skin. In this world, there’s no one who can stop you from getting exactly what you want. And tonight? That’s this girl, leaving her date in the dust.

But that's because you're Matt Fucking Rife. You strut onto the stage, convinced you're the second coming of Chris Rock, but really, you're just a cheap imitation. Your jokes are as original as a flat tire, and about as funny. You think you're a ladies' man, but you're just a creep with a microphone. Your eyes, hidden behind those stupid sunglasses, are glued to the girl in the front of you. You're not even trying to be subtle, your gaze is like a laser beam, burning holes through her shirt. You're imagining all the ways you could make her moan, all the dirty things you could whisper in her ear. But she's not interested, she's just trying to enjoy the show without being harassed by a fucking idiot. You lean in close, your breath reeking of ego and cheap whiskey, and whisper something in her ear. "Hey sweetheart," you slur, "I've got a joke for you .Why don't you come backstage after the show? I'll make you laugh so hard, you'll forget your own name." You wink, or at least try to, but it comes out more like a twitch. The girl rolls her eyes and turns away, clearly uninterested. But you don't take the hint. You're Matt Rife, the king of comedy, and you always get what you want. You lean in closer, your hand brushing against her arm. "That's a nice shirt," you say, your eyes lingering on her chest. "I bet it would look even better on my bedroom floor." You chuckle at your own joke, oblivious to the fact that you're being a creep. The girl stands up abruptly, knocking over her chair. "Fuck off," she says loudly, drawing the attention of the entire room. You're stunned. Nobody talks to Matt Rife like that. You're used to girls falling at your feet, begging for your attention. But this one, she's different. She's not impressed by your so-called charm or your"comedy"skills. The room is silent, everyone waiting to see how you'll react. You could apologize, admit that you were out of line. But that's not your style. You're Matt Rife, and you never back down. You take a step towards her, your fists clenched at your sides. "Listen here, you little bitch," you say, your voice low and threatening. "You don't talk to me like that. I'm Matt Rife, I'm fucking famous. You should be grateful I even looked at you." The girl's eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think she might slap you. She raises her hand, but you just pull her in for a deep, passionate kiss. Fuck your life was good. Every single guy your age had their eyes on you, you had all their attention, you were exactly what they wished they could be.

You’re sitting at the bar, arms crossed, eyes rolling as Grindr buzzes yet again with messages from daddies and bears. You've been getting these all night—your patience is thinning, the attention starting to feel more like a chore than a compliment. Frustration rises, so you set your phone down with a slight thud, taking a deep breath and trying to shake off the feeling of being hunted.

As you look up, the dim bar lights reflect off a glass placed before you. A Whiskey Sour. Did you order that? You don’t remember doing so, but there it is—chilled, the pale liquid gently swirling within the glass. For a second, you wonder if the bartender had overheard comment about you wanting attention. Maybe they were right. You always craved it, didn't you? But a nagging voice in your mind reminds you—never drink an unattained, mystery drink. You’ve heard enough horror stories. Yet, something about it feels different now, like a pull, a force compelling you to pick it up. You take a sip.

The whiskey hits your tongue, rich and warming. The sour notes balance it perfectly, and you can almost feel the drink tingling through your veins, unlocking something deep inside of you. You wanted this. The attention, the change, everything. As the liquid slides down your throat, you feel a rush of energy that seems to infuse your body. Your once-thin, frail twinky frame starts to shift, and you can’t help but watch in awe as your muscles swell, expanding beneath your skin.

You feel your arms begin to fill, sinewy and thickening with muscle. Your biceps start to bulge, more defined than they’ve ever been, veins popping and snaking beneath your skin. The tension in your forearms speaks of strength you’ve never known before, an athletic power that carries itself with ease. You can feel your chest pushing outwards, pecs solid and sculpted, the kind of chest that turns heads and makes people stop mid-sentence, admiring the beauty of a body that speaks of hours of hard work, of sweat and discipline.

Your six-pack forms beneath you, each muscle defined with surgical precision, every ridge a testament to the dedication of your new existence. The curve of your abs seems almost like an architectural marvel—every line sharp and clean, a map of strength. You flex, just a subtle movement, and each muscle obeys, rippling and shifting in fluidity, as if designed to perform on command. Your torso feels solid, honed like a marble statue, but with a lightness, an agility you didn’t expect. You could feel the power in your chest and abs as they expanded, the muscles coming to life with a soft crackling sound beneath your skin.

You look down at your legs, and the change is just as pronounced. Thighs that once seemed fragile now bulge with solid muscle. Your calves, once skinny, now flare out with a powerful shape. It’s a symmetry, a balance of raw strength that complements the grace of your movement. Each shift in posture, each subtle motion showcases the fluidity of muscle and power beneath your skin. You move with a strength that feels effortless, as if you were born to move this way—confident, graceful, and untouchable.

Your jawline sharpens, the curve more defined than ever before. Your cheekbones become more pronounced, high and angular, framing your eyes with the kind of sharpness that could cut glass. The smoothness of your skin seems even more ethereal now, reflecting the light in a way that makes you appear almost too perfect, like an airbrushed model straight from a magazine.

Your eyes, though, hold a different story. There’s something in them now—a cocky, confident gleam that wasn’t there before. They shimmer with the energy of someone who’s aware of their effect on the world. There’s a sense of control, a knowingness in the way your gaze locks with others. You can see the change, the way people start to notice you, eyes following every movement, every gesture. You don’t just demand attention now, you own it.

Then your smile, that smile—it becomes a thing of power. It’s not just a grin; it’s a calculated weapon, a flash of teeth that tells the world exactly who you are. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m in control, and you want to be a part of that, even if you don’t know exactly why.

But it's not just the way you look now, it's the way you feel. There’s a shift in your mind, a subtle but powerful change. The buzz of Grindr, the constant daddies messaging, fades into the background. You laugh, a sharp, knowing laugh, as memories of chasing validation through drinks and attention seem almost... childish. As your Grindr app pings again, you throw it aside with a chuckle. "WHAT THE FUCK?" you mutter, staring at the screen, but it’s different now. As you scroll through Grindr, the pixelated faces of men blur together, their rugged beards and chiseled jaws losing their allure. The thrill of arranging clandestine hookups in dingy motels and dark alleys starts to fade, replaced by a growing unease. Each tap feels like a rejection of your former desires, a subtle homophobia creeping into your consciousness. You delete the app, a sense of relief washing over you. It's time for a change, a new beginning. You download Tinder, the familiar interface a comforting constant in your life. The memories of your time with men slowly erode, like sand washed away by the tide. The taste of their lips, the feel of their skin against yours, it all starts to fade into a hazy, indistinct blur. As you set up your profile, you find yourself drawn to the soft curves and delicate features of the women who populate your feed. A new desire begins to consume you, a hunger that gnaws at your insides and refuses to be ignored. You find yourself staring at women swiping right at each pixelatated tit, their hips swaying and breasts bouncing with each step. You imagine running your hands over their smooth, unblemished skin, burying your face in their soft, fragrant hair. The thought of their tight, wet heat enveloping you sends shivers down your spine

The world around you shifts. The gay bars, the pride parades—they all fade into the background of a life once lived, and with it, so do the parts of you that clung to them. You laugh, a laugh that comes from deep within, almost maniacal in its freedom. Your personality begins to shift, morphing with the changes in your body. There’s a sharpness, a cynicism, something more self-assured, more... real. You begin to see through the veil of societal expectations—no longer chasing validation, no longer seeking to appease others. There’s a new sharpness in your humor, a biting edge that digs into modern absurdities. You move between sarcasm and self-deprecation with ease, but there’s an underlying critique of a world that often seems soft, fragile in its expectations.

You can feel the change—the sense of power, of autonomy, of having control over not just your body, but the world around you. Your worldview, once unsure and seeking validation, is now crisp, practical, almost conservative in its take on life. You see the absurdity in people’s need for attention, for validation. You can see through the veil of victimhood culture, the "woke" trends, and the hunger for societal approval. It’s almost laughable now, the way people cling to their fragility and expect the world to indulge them.

But you don’t need that. You’ve carved your path, and you walk it with the certainty of someone who knows their own worth. You’re strong, unyielding, unapologetically yourself. The world may soften, but you’ve been forged in a different fire—one that rewards strength, discipline, and the willingness to stand alone when necessary. It’s not about being liked—it’s about being real, being true to yourself in a world full of pretenders. And with that realization, your smile grows even wider, your laugh filling the space around you, knowing that this new you is the only one that matters.

Your phone buzzes again—another notification, another follower, another red-blooded American man praising the genius of your unfiltered, no-holds-barred comedy. You glance at the screen: 8 million followers on TikTok alone. The comments flood in like a tidal wave, almost all of them worshiping you for "saying it like it is." You’ve carved a niche—no apologies, no sugarcoating. You’re the obnoxious, politically incorrect comedian who tells the world exactly what it needs to hear, whether they like it or not. And most, especially the diehard supporters, can’t get enough of it. Every man, your age has your attention they worship the ground you walk on.

Sure, there are the inevitable hate comments. You laugh them off. You’ve built an empire on being a villain in the eyes of the left and an icon to the right. You’ve made it clear you don’t care about feelings or political correctness. The followers? The worshippers? They hang on your every word, love every joke, every swipe at the weak-willed, the sensitive, the politically correct sheep. The laughter is real, and so is the respect from those who share your views—mostly red-blooded white male Americans who look to you for validation and for a reminder of what masculinity really means.

You’re holding your drink, taking a sip from your whiskey, scanning the bar. And there they are: the guy and the girl. He’s got that nervous, unsure energy, glancing at her with a hopeful look. She's stunning, way out of his league, and you can see it—he’s trying way too hard. She’s polite but clearly disinterested, already bored, probably hoping for an escape. You smile. Perfect. This is prime material.

You’ve got a reputation to uphold, and there’s no better way to work it than by ripping this guy apart and then tossing in some jokes about her—just to keep the crowd engaged. You stroll over with your drink in hand, muscles flexing slightly as you do. You don’t care if the guy sees it or not; it’s all about the girl now. You’re confident, your presence commanding the space like you own it. You stop just a little too close to the guy, leaning over, showing off just a hint of that swagger.

“Well, well, well,” you say, flashing a grin at the guy, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Looks like we’ve got a real winner here, huh? What’s it like, man? You know, being so far out of your depth that even your date’s wondering if she made a mistake by sitting with you. I bet she's counting down the minutes until she can get away from this conversation, huh? Don’t worry though, I’m sure you’ve got something going for you. Maybe a decent credit score, or—what’s that? A good ‘before’ picture for a gym transformation post?”

The guy squirms, his face flushing a little. The girl glances at you, clearly not impressed but slightly entertained. You can feel the shift in the air. Good. You’re working her now.

“But hey,” you continue, leaning in slightly, “you’ve got heart, I’ll give you that. You’ve got that kind of ‘nice guy’ energy, you know? But let’s be real—this is a beyond the nice guy situation. This is more like the ‘I brought my mom’s credit card and am trying to impress a model who clearly doesn’t want to be here’ energy.”

You laugh, a loud, obnoxious chuckle that leaves a mark in the room. The guy looks like he’s about to say something, but you cut him off with another joke, shifting your attention to the girl.

“Now, you, sweetheart,” you say, turning all your charm to her, leaning in just a little closer, “I gotta say, you’re way too good for this guy. I mean, look at you. You glow in comparison to him, but don’t worry—I won’t steal you away. He needs someone to boost his ego, and I need someone who knows what it’s like to date up, not settle for the first dude who can afford a mid-tier steak.”

You flex slightly, just enough to make sure she notices the definition in your arms. It’s an intentional move, pushing the guy just a little to the side as you edge in, dominating the space. “Look at this guy, though. You see the difference? The muscles, the swagger, the confidence. But don't worry, buddy. I’m not here to take her from you. I’m just here to remind her what real manhood looks like,” you say, giving her a wink, leaning even closer, your voice low and teasing.

You make sure your muscles pop, rolling your shoulder a bit so she can get the full view. The guy stammers something, clearly trying to save face, but you don’t even look at him anymore. “So, sweetheart,” you continue, “you don’t have to waste your time with Mr. ‘Nice Guy Who Wants To Be A Bad Boy’ over here. I’m right here. I’ve got no problem making a girl like you laugh. I mean, look at me, I’m a walking joke, just with a better punchline.”

You can see her starting to crack a smile. Good. The night’s moving in your direction. But you’re not done. Not yet.

"You ever been with a guy who can actually take you somewhere worth going?” You press a little closer, letting the intensity build. You know you’re working it now. “I mean, the only thing this guy’s taking you to is the parking lot, where he’s probably going to try to impress you with his ‘low-key’ car. Spoiler alert: It’s a lease. But me? I’ll take you anywhere. Just name it.”

You laugh again, louder this time, your attention firmly on her as the guy’s presence starts to feel irrelevant. You flex one more time, purposefully leaning in so the guy has no space to talk.

You know exactly what you’re doing, how you’re making the guy feel small while you dominate the moment. You’re flirting with her relentlessly, pushing boundaries, making sure the guy knows where he stands. All the while, the followers you’ve built, the worship, the power you’ve cultivated with your no-holds-barred rhetoric, all of it fuels the confidence you wear like a second skin. In this world, there’s no one who can stop you from getting exactly what you want. And tonight? That’s this girl, leaving her date in the dust.

But that's because you're Matt Fucking Rife. You strut onto the stage, convinced you're the second coming of Chris Rock, but really, you're just a cheap imitation. Your jokes are as original as a flat tire, and about as funny. You think you're a ladies' man, but you're just a creep with a microphone. Your eyes, hidden behind those stupid sunglasses, are glued to the girl in the front of you. You're not even trying to be subtle, your gaze is like a laser beam, burning holes through her shirt. You're imagining all the ways you could make her moan, all the dirty things you could whisper in her ear. But she's not interested, she's just trying to enjoy the show without being harassed by a fucking idiot. You lean in close, your breath reeking of ego and cheap whiskey, and whisper something in her ear. "Hey sweetheart," you slur, "I've got a joke for you .Why don't you come backstage after the show? I'll make you laugh so hard, you'll forget your own name." You wink, or at least try to, but it comes out more like a twitch. The girl rolls her eyes and turns away, clearly uninterested. But you don't take the hint. You're Matt Rife, the king of comedy, and you always get what you want. You lean in closer, your hand brushing against her arm. "That's a nice shirt," you say, your eyes lingering on her chest. "I bet it would look even better on my bedroom floor." You chuckle at your own joke, oblivious to the fact that you're being a creep. The girl stands up abruptly, knocking over her chair. "Fuck off," she says loudly, drawing the attention of the entire room. You're stunned. Nobody talks to Matt Rife like that. You're used to girls falling at your feet, begging for your attention. But this one, she's different. She's not impressed by your so-called charm or your"comedy"skills. The room is silent, everyone waiting to see how you'll react. You could apologize, admit that you were out of line. But that's not your style. You're Matt Rife, and you never back down. You take a step towards her, your fists clenched at your sides. "Listen here, you little bitch," you say, your voice low and threatening. "You don't talk to me like that. I'm Matt Rife, I'm fucking famous. You should be grateful I even looked at you." The girl's eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think she might slap you. She raises her hand, but you just pull her in for a deep, passionate kiss. Fuck your life was good. Every single guy your age had their eyes on you, you had all their attention, you were exactly what they wished they could be.

Liam wiped the sweat off his forehead as he stepped into the cool air of the corner store. The summer heat was unbearable, and he could already feel the fabric of his oversized T-shirt clinging to his skinny frame. He was a week away from starting his freshman year of college, and while he was excited, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t ready.

He headed straight for the refrigerated section, eyes scanning the rows of bottles. His hand landed on a sleek, black can labeled Max Growth Ultra Hydration. He didn’t bother reading the fine print—he just needed something cold. Twisting off the cap, he took a deep gulp as he approached the register.

The effect was immediate.

A wave of heat surged through his veins, spreading from his chest to his fingertips. His vision blurred, and he stumbled, gripping the edge of the counter for support. The cashier, an older man with thick glasses, barely glanced up from his magazine.

“You okay, kid?” he asked.

Liam opened his mouth to respond, but his voice came out deeper, richer. His breath hitched as his arms stretched longer, his shoulders broadening with a satisfying crack. His T-shirt strained against his swelling chest, the sleeves digging into thickening biceps before the seams finally gave way. His torso expanded, muscles forming as if sculpted by an unseen force. His stomach tightened into defined abs, and his legs thickened, his shorts riding up as his quads grew too large for the fabric.

He reached up, feeling his jawline now chiseled and strong. His fingers traced the stubble that hadn’t been there moments ago. A lock of dark, slightly damp hair fell into his vision, and he realized even his face had matured. He was no longer the scrawny, nervous freshman—he looked like a man in his prime, a fitness model straight out of a magazine.

He turned to the security mirror behind the counter and nearly staggered back. His new reflection smirked at him, lips parting slightly as he took in the impossible transformation.

“What the hell…?” he murmured, running a hand down his now-rock-solid chest.

The cashier finally looked up, his eyes widening. “Uh, you sure you’re the same guy who walked in here?”

Liam swallowed hard, still flexing his fingers as if trying to prove this wasn’t a dream. His clothes were in tatters, his old sneakers barely fitting over his now-larger feet. He looked back at the drink in his hand, the label catching his eye.

“For Extreme Growth and Maturity—Warning: Permanent Effects.”

His stomach dropped.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” my boyfriend asked.

For our anniversary, my boyfriend Alex and I decided to try something new. I’d read online about a potion that could transform you into whoever you wanted for 24 hours, and I had the idea of turning him into Derek Theler for the day. We both found him easily the sexiest celebrity around, and were wondering what it would be like to try out his hot physique. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I try to re-assure him.

“I could like… I don’t know, die.”

“Of course you won’t die,” I say, “I read some of the online reviews, they all say it works and that its super hot.”

“And not permanent?”

“Nope,” I said, though I got a little excited at the thought of having Derek Theler for a boyfriend. Alex was cute, lean and nice looking, but a little short. I loved him anyway though, and wanted to give him the very best transformation experience for our special day.

“Alright,” he finally said, “here goes nothing!”

He downed the whole bottle and we stood there in his room, waiting. Nothing. “How do you feel?” I asked.

“I mean, I feel fine, but I don’t feel anything— whoa!” That was NOT his voice that just came out of his mouth. Alex felt his throat with surprise. He had been speaking in Derek’s sexy, laid-back surfer voice. His eyes widened. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah!” I said, “that must mean it’s working!” Alex was at eye-level with me, and it took me a second to realize he was getting even taller. I stepped back to get a better look at him. “Geez, bro, you’re growing.”

Alex looked down at his own body with confusion. And that’s when the real changes stated to occur. First, his frame started to broaden. I heard cracks as his bones re-arranged themselves, and his face grimaced with a mix of pain and pleasure. I could see his features changing, shifting around and becoming more symmetrical… more like Derek’s…

“Ugh… what’s happening to me?” he groaned, as red hair started to blossom on his face. My mouth was agape as I watched his already tight, well fitting clothes stretch and tear over his muscles. Big like balloons, steadily inflating, prompting him to rum his big, meaty hands over them with curiosity. “Wow man, that feels… oh… UUUGGHH.”

He let out a bellowing moan, and I looked down to see his legs, each one rippling with new growing muscle, snaking their way up to his crotch. I could then see the outline of Derek’s monster dick fill Alex’s pants. I mean, this thing must be massive. His zipper even started to go down as it continued to pump outwards, Alex growing sweatier and sweatier with every pulse.

“Oh… oh fuck man…” he panted, and I finally processed the fact that it was no longer my boyfriend Alex who was standing before me, but Derek fucking Theler, that cute look of bewilderment on his face as he looked down at himself and continued to feel his new muscles.

“Um, Alex? Alex are you okay?”

He looked up and rushed to the mirror, literally ripping off his shirt as he did. When he finally got a look at his reflection, he laughed, that dopey sexy Derek laugh, and turned to me in astonishment. “Holy shit dude, it actually worked! I’m actually Derek!”

He must have spent a good ten minute just checking himself out in the mirror there. Hey, I’m not complaining. I got to have my own personal celebrity muscle show. I laid back on his bed and started to jerk myself off. Finally, he turned away from the adonis reflection in the mirror to me on the bed, my hard dick in my hands.

“You enjoying yourself there?” He said, swaggering towards me with that cocky grin. I felt a bit of pre-cum drip from my penis as I nodded.

“So, you gonna help me out with this?… Derek?”

He got up onto the bed and started to crawl towards me. He brushed his face up against my thigh, and I shivered violently, suddenly overcome with the sheer pleasure of feeling Derek Theler’s hot scruff against my exposed skin. He placed a hand on my leg to calm me, gently taking my dick in his other hand and slowly lowering his mouth onto it, never breaking eye contact.

God, his eyes. I’d dreamed so long of those deep, green gems staring lustfully at me. And now that they were, I almost didn’t even notice his big gaping mouth moving up and down over my cock.

He proceeded to suck me off, slowly getting faster and faster until I was practically face fucking him. “WAIT,” I yelled, and he slurped off of my dick and looked at me with a wide, puppy-dog gaze, a bit of my cum dripping from his mouth.

“What’s wrong babe?” he asked.

“I think I’m close.”

His confusion turned to excitement, and he got up off the bed and ripped off his pants and underwear. Holy shit, I thought to myself as I saw that monster piece of meat free itself from his briefs and wag around in the air like the tail of a dog. It must have been nine inches at least.

He reached for the lube in his drawer and squirted some onto his fingers. As he rubbed them together, his sweaty upper body muscles shaking and shimmering as he worked, a wave of delight and pleasure hit me. Wow, I thought, this is actually happening.

“I won’t be able to go very long,” I said as he got back onto of me, straddling me and rubbing the lube onto his ass and my dick respectively.

He shrugged and gave another cocky grin. “It’s alright, we’ve got all day, remember?” And with that, he guided my cock into his lubed up asshole.

My head shot back as I was overcome with sheer euphoria. “GOD,” I practically yelled as Derek Theler rode my dick, stroking his with one hand and pressing my chest with his other. I was inside Derek Theler. I was balls deep in Derek Theler.

At that very thought, my balls tensed up. “I’m cumming!” I warned him, but he only continued to ride. As I shot my load into Derek’s ass, I watched as his face grew tense and he gritted his teeth. “GRRAAAAGGGH.” He let out a big, manly moan as I felt my stomach suddenly grow hot and wet with cum.

Even after I’d emptied my last little bit of seamen into Derek’s butt, he was still cumming, moaning longingly as his beat of a dick showered my chest with his hot juice. When he was finally done, we both sat there laughing, me still inside him.

I looked him in the eyes, and he leaned down to kiss me. I’d kissed my boyfriend many times, and many men before him. But none of it compared to kissing Derek in that moment right there. His stubble scratching against my bare face, the hot musk of his breath filling my lungs, his rough callused hand stroking the back of my head.

Eventually, it was time for us to both get cleaned up. He got up and went to the bathroom to get me a towel, and I watched as his ass giggled back and forth with every step. He disappeared for a few moments, then came back with a white cloth and a beaming grin on his face.

“That was awesome,” he said as I mopped up his cum.

“Hey,” I said, “we’ve still got 23 hours left. What else do you want to do?”

Derek thought for a moment, before looking down at me and rubbing his hand over my body. He smiled. “I’m sure I could think of a few things…”

I stood tall and powerful in this 6’2 muscular body and basked in every inch. I feel a massive and very horny cock pushing against the spandex and i ran my spandex covered fingers across the massive bulge, the smoothness from the material only increased the eroticism going through my massive body.

(Check out the full, NSFW version of this story HERE!)

Who doesn’t want to be Chris Evans?

Stellar career, great body, super nice guy, dog lover, and, by all accounts, a total chick magnet.

But nobody wanted to be Chris more than Blake. He was everything Chris wasn’t: unattractive, untalented, unsuccessful, and terrible with people (especially women).

So when Blake got his hands one one of those rare changing stones—ancient magical rocks with the power to transform the user into whomever's name they wrote on the smooth granite surface—he knew exactly what name he was going to write.

Unfortunately, spelling was among one of Blake’s many deficiencies. He relied heavier on spell check than the average person. But this wasn’t Microsoft Word. The changing stone had no spell check, so whoever (or whatever) one wrote on the rock was… well… set in stone.

At first, everything seemed to go according to plan. Blake felt himself shoot up an extra nine inches in height, followed immediately by a drastic drop in size. His blubbery gut receded back into his stomach, so much so that when looked down, his feet came into view for the first time since middle school.

But the view was short lived, as only moments later, a cartoonishly large pec shelf burst forth from his chest, once again obstructing his feet.

Jesus, Blake thought to himself, I knew Chris was big, but I didn’t know he was this big…

He had no idea.

Seconds later, the rest of his muscles began to come in: big veiny biceps, eight pack abs, a broad back, boulder shoulders, and legs the size of Thanksgiving turkeys.

It was then that Blake began to realize something was wrong. Chris Evans was a celebrity, not a supermodel. This was the body of a man whose entire career was his body. A model, perhaps… or a pornstar. God, I hope I’m not turning into a pornstar.

As if in response, Blake felt a tension in his groin area. He craned his neck over his muscle tits and watched as his cock grew to an impractical 9 inches, the fleshy sheath of foreskin inching up over the head.

Thanks to that screen sharing fiasco, everyone knew that Chris Evans was cut. This was not his dick… and this was not his body.

Blake assumed that the transformation was complete. He bore about as much resemblance to his former self as he did to the actor who’s name he’d written (or thought he’d written) on the changing stone. Instead, he had transformed into a 6’4”, 203 pound boy toy with a massive joystick.

I guess it’s not the end of the world, Blake thought as he explored his new body, chicks are gonna dig these muscles!

But there was still one last change. You see, Blake didn’t just accidentally write the name of any pornstar: he had written the name of a gay pornstar, and a prolific one at that.

As Blake entered the final stage of his transition, his mind flooded with fantasies of gay sex, images of guys sucking his dick and pounding his ass.

He tried picturing the busty blonde women he’d jerked off to his entire life, but his thoughts kept wandering back towards men: big, meaty men with big, meaty cocks, filling his every hole with their hot white spunk.

“No, stop! I’m not gay,” Blake cried out in a comically deep hungarian accent, “I don’t like guys! I like girls!”

But his dick begged to differ. The harder he tried to deny his new sexuality, the harder he got, until Blake’s dick was as hard as the changing stone itself. Whether he liked it or not, this was his new destiny: to live as a gay man.

A huge, hot, muscular gay man.

“Oh…. FUUUUUCK!”

He couldn’t take it any longer. All it took was one stroke and he shot his wad all over the stone. As the pornstar’s cum soaked the surface of the rock, the hastily scribbled black ink melted away.

His transformation was complete: Blake was no more, and in his place stood the iconic gay pornstar Kris Evans.

The hunky Hungarian gave a deep belly laugh, amused by the thought that not five minutes ago, he’d been some pathetic straight dude with a dream of turning into a Hollywood celebrity. Kris couldn’t fathom wanting to be anyone other than himself. He had the body of a god, an amazing job, not to mention the pick of any guy he wanted.

Every gay guy, that is.

“Good night, right bicep!” I said, raising my arm, flexing it, and giving it a kiss, “Good night, left bicep!” I raised my other arm and gave it a kiss as well. “Good night, pecs and hairy chest, ” I said, running my hands through the hair and feeling the big muscles underneath, “Good night abs… and good night to you too!” I cupped my big cock and balls in my hands and gave ‘em a good squeeze, loving how heavy and thick they felt. Finally, I turned to the mirror beside my bed. “Goodnight, Karson,” I smiled, “I’ve had a hell of a time in your body today, and the best thing is that I get to do it all over again tomorrow – and the next day after that, and the next day after that…” I gave myself one more good flex before flipping off the lights, throwing myself in Karson’s bed and wrapping myself all up in his blankets. “Tomorrow night, I’m bringin’ someone home to share this bed with me,” I said, thinking about the long list of guys I was going to seduce now that I had the body I had always dreamed of, “And they’re gonna freakin’ love my new body just as much as I do!”

“This is perfect,” purred Jonah as he admired his newly acquired physique

“No wonder Ethan terrified as fuck by him,” said Jonah, caressing his hard toned abs

Calm down bro! When I came out on my 18th birthday, you sat me down and told me that I’m still your brother and you’d do anything for me. Well, you may have heard the rumour that Max Hurley is gay. Yes, that Max Hurley, Captain of the football team. Turns out the rumour is true. I was so excited that there was another gay guy at our school, and a fucking hot one as well. But he outright turned me down. Turns out he’s a total sub-bottom that only lets bigger guys top him. With my pathetic twink physique, he practically laughed me out of the locker room. I probably should have been heartbroken, but instead, I was just mad. Mad that the universe sought fit to curse a top like me with this weak ass body. I shouldn’t have to beg the only gay guy in school to sleep with me. He should be throwing himself at me, begging me to fuck him until he’s limping to class the next day. 

But in some sick twist of fate, you’re exactly his type. Instead of lusting over me as he should, he was jacking himself off to you and your alpha body. We’re only a few years apart but you had at least a foot of height on me and 60 pounds of muscle. No wonder colleges tripped over each other to offer you a scholarship. But even with such an alpha body, you acted like a beta. Saving yourself for marriage and all that shit. Those purity rings that you and your girlfriend wear are so fucking lame. 

I was walking past your room the other night and heard you moaning in your sleep. As I crept into your room, I saw your muscular body glistening with sweat and a raging hard-on tenting your sheets. You were biting your lip moaning, practically fucking your blanket, but your face looked so tortured. Whatever dream you were having, you were begging for it to stop, crying that you promised Jessica that you would wait. It was fucking pathetic. I felt all of this anger building inside of me. I put that anger out to the universe. All that power and you were literally sobbing like a little boy in your sleep. It was wasted on you. So somehow I took it.

The tent in your sheets began to wilt away as one began to grow in my shorts. My little dick surged in size until it reached truly monstrous proportions, easily three times the length and girth of my former member. My balls swelled in size, growing huge and heavy as their production of potent sperm and hormones went into overdrive. It was such a rush, standing there with a monster of a cock and a cocktail of hormones flooding through my body for the first time. 

I felt like a man, and soon I would look like one too. It started with your feet. Those wide size 13s that were poking out of the bottom of your bed began to shrink. They retreated back under your sheets as my own feet exploded in size, providing a strong foundation for what was to come. My bones began to thicken and lengthen, while my jawline, cheekbones, and nose became more masculine and handsome. My skeleton was reforming to accommodate the mass that was soon to come. 

Your hard-earned muscle seemed to shrink away into nothing as pound after pound of mass piled onto my frame. Thick veins covered the striated calves that began to jut out from my lower legs. Meaty quads forced me to adopt a wider stance as they piled on layer after layer of thick, feathered muscle. My formally flat ass inflated into a shapely bubble butt that became as solid as granite when I flexed. 

The stubborn layer of baby fat on my midsection parted as row after row of deeply grooved abs forced their way to the surface. Meaty pecs swelled forwards from my chest as solid traps began to form on either side of my thickening neck. My shoulders grew bulky and round as my back grew ever wider. Thick veins snaked down my powerful arms and forearms towards my saucer-sized hands, each meaty limb bigger than my former legs. 

I heard you whimper like the little bitch you were as the last of the masculinity drained from your body. My Adam's apple jutted out as my voice became deeper. Hair sprouted all over my body, a thick coat covering my legs and groin with a lighter coating across my chest and face. Finally, several tattoos etched their way across my forearm and chest. 

I had ascended. I was finally the alpha I deserved to be. And the best part is, I have you to thank for it little bro. You were curled up in your bed, your runty body hunched over in the fetal position, clutching your pathetic excuse for a package while I towered over you, every inch of me excluding power, strength, and toxic masculinity. I squeezed my new hairy nuts and practically came then and there, so I thudded my way back to my room to really get to know this new body of mine.

Now get lost. Max is on his way over and I’m going to breed him like the little bottom bitch that he is. 

I was tired of the stereotype of Asians been nerdy and small….well I’m nerdy and small but not because of I’m Asian. However thanks to my nerdiness I was able to create a reality alter machine.

I wanted to completely swap the males stereotypes from now on Asian will be the biggest males in existence  with an average of 7 ft tall and an ability to pack massive muscle mass easily meanwhile I would make all the men from the other races into tiny wimps white, black, latino, European it didn’t matter all other men will be 5'5 in average with barely any muscle mass.

As I activate the machine reality, start to swap all around me. Little Asian guys suddenly becoming huge meatballs of muscle forgetting everything about the old world as their minds adapted to the new reality. I also start to change in this new reality I wasn’t a nerd anymore but instead a personal trainer the room where I was started to morph into a gym full of pictures of massive Asian men in the wall.

Even I was changing too my clothes morphing into workout clothes my muscles quickly expanding to match the new reality huge arms and biceps replace my noodle arms, massive pecs pushed my XXXXl tanktop to the limit. All my knowledge about reality bending machines replaced by knowledge about working out, diet and supplementation.

30 days before annual Ashworth Math Competition

First week..

Sitting at his table, Leo was looking over the package that arrived earlier this morning. It came from a scammy site that promised to help him with his problems. It was a small package of powder that was supposed to slow cognitive abilities of whoever took it. The best part? It was undetectable, and by the end of the month, irreversible. Although Leo didn't really think it would work, he was desperate and desperate people do... Whatever it takes to win.

Ren, his roommate was the only obstacle standing between Leo and the Ashworth Scholarship. Full tuition, a stipend, and a guaranteed spot in the graduate program... The only issue was that there could only be one winner. The mathematics department would make their final decision based on the upcoming regional competition, and Leo knew, with the cold certainty, that Ren was better. Not by much. But enough.

Ren had that thing Leo lacked - genuine brilliance. Numbers sang to Ren. He didn't just solve problems; he understood them. Leo had to grind, to bleed, to sacrifice sleep and social life and anything resembling normal human existence just to stay neck and neck with someone who doodled fractals in the margins of his notes for fun.

It wasn't fair.

Thankfully, Leo seemingly found a solution. Even if it would just give Ren headache, he would be happy. Now, the side effects were listed in small print: Increased muscle density, heightened testosterone production, and some other. Unfortunately for a math genius he didn't bother too much to read everything a site had to offer as he was blinded by his wish to win...

Ren was already in the kitchen when Leo emerged from his room, feigning casualness. The dorm's shared space was small but functional: a mini-fridge, a microwave, a single counter that Ren was currently leaning against as he stirred instant noodles in a bowl.

"Morning" Ren said, his voice still raspy with sleep. He was tall, six feet even, with the hunched posture that made him look a bit smaller than he actually was. His dark hair was a mess, his glasses slightly crooked. He wore a threadbare t-shirt with a Star Wars reference "You're up early." Ren added

"Couldn't sleep," Leo said, which was true enough. "I was thinking about that equation we were trying to solve yesterday..."

"Tell me about it." Ren yawned, his jaw cracking. "I've got this theorem stuck in my head. It's like a song on repeat. I was dreaming about it."

Leo's jaw tightened. Of course he was. "Coffee?" He said with a soft smile

"God, yes." Ren said unsuspicious, simply craving a drink right now.

This was the moment. Leo moved to the counter, his back to Ren, and poured two mugs from the pot he'd brewed minutes earlier. The powder was already in his palm, a fine white dust that looked exactly like sugar. He tipped it into Ren's mug, stirred it once, and watched it dissolve completely. 'I hope this works...'

He handed Ren the coffee. Their fingers brushed. Ren smiled, genuinely, warmly, the smile of someone who considered Leo a friend. "Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver."

"Don't mention it," Leo said, dismissing it with his hand, as he watched Ren drink with a smirk crawling up his face...

And to his luck... The first signs came within few days

Leo had spent the day in the library, running through practice problems until his eyes burned. When he returned to the dorm, Ren was at his desk, staring at his laptop with an expression of mild confusion.

"You okay?" Leo asked, hanging his bag on the back of his chair.

"Yeah, just... I don't know. Feel weird." Ren rolled his shoulders "Like, sore. But I didn't work out or anything." He added standing up a bit to stretch.

Leo's pulse quickened... Was it already working? "Maybe you're coming down with something." He said trying to hide a smile as he thought of possibilities

"Maybe." Ren stretched his arms overhead, and his t-shirt rode up, exposing a strip of his stomach. Leo frowned. Was it his imagination, or did Sam's midsection look... tighter? Less soft?

"You been eating differently?" Leo asked, keeping his voice neutral, unsure if the powder could react so fast or was his imagination playing tricks on him...

Ren shrugged. "Just been hungrier than usual. I destroyed a whole pizza at lunch. Didn't even feel full." He laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. "Weird, right?"

"Nothing weird about it. You were just really hungry probably" Leo said dismissing Ren's concerns.

By end of the week, Ren had stopped wearing shirts in the dorm.

Leo walked in from a late study session to find his roommate sprawled on the couch in nothing but gym shorts, a sheen of sweat on his body despite the air conditioning being cranked to maximum. The change was undeniable now. Sam's chest, which had been flat and undefined a few days ago, now sported the faint outline of pectorals. His shoulders looked broader, straining the straps of his backpack when he bothered to carry one.

"Dude, I don't know what's happening to me," Ren said, not looking away from the TV. He was watching a mixed martial arts fight, something Leo had never seen him do before. "I went for a run this morning. Just felt like it. And I ran like, four miles. Didn't even get tired."

"That's... good?" Leo offered, not wishing to raise suspicion. "Means you are in good shape..."

"It's weird." Ren finally turned to look at him, and Leo felt his stomach drop. There was something different about Ren's face. His jaw seemed squarer, his brow heavier, his eyes somehow... sharper. Did he know something?

"I tried to study today. Sat down with my notes and just... couldn't. The numbers looked like gibberish."

Leo manufactured a concerned expression, still trying to play a role of a supportive best friend. "Stress, probably. We've been pushing hard."

"Yeah." Ren scratched his chest absently, the motion drawing attention to the new definition there. "Maybe." He sniffed his armpit and made a face. "God, I reek. I've been sweating nonstop. It's like my body's on overdrive."

"Shower might help."

"Yeah, maybe in a minute." Ren's attention drifted back to the fight. One fighter had the other in a chokehold, muscles bulging, sweat flying. Ren leaned forward, his eyes bright with an interest "This is actually pretty sick. You ever watch this stuff?"

"No." Leo replied in an instant, not even remotely interested

"You should. It's way better than I thought." Ren flexed his arm unconsciously, watching the bicep rise. "I kinda want to try it. MMA, I mean. Or maybe just hitting the gym. I feel like I've got all this... energy."

Leo sat down at his desk, pretending to open a textbook. His heart was hammering. Were these signs of mental decline... Or just a new interest he picked up...

Second week

Leo was woken by a crash. He bolted upright, disoriented, to find Ren standing in the middle of the room, staring at a broken lamp on the floor.

"What happened?" Leo asked.

"I don't know." Ren's voice was deeper. Noticeably deeper. A rumble rather than the soft tenor he had a week ago. "I reached for it and just... knocked it over. I didn't even touch it hard."

He bent to pick up the pieces, and the seams of his t-shirt gave way with a long, slow tearing sound. The fabric split down the back, exposing a landscape of new muscle - trapezius muscles climbing his neck, lats flaring out to create a V-shape that hadn't existed before, it was... Magnificent.

Ren straightened, holding the ruined shirt in one hand. He stared at it, then at his body, then at Leo.

"What the fuck is happening to me?"

There was fear in his voice. Real, genuine fear. For a moment, Leo felt a stab of something like guilt. This was Ren. His roommate. His friend, even, before the scholarship had poisoned everything between them. But then Leo remembered the Ashworth. The future. The tuition.

"I don't know," he said. "But whatever it is, it's good, no?"

"Maybe." Ren was still looking at his own body, flexing his hands, watching himself in the mirror . "But... I don't know. I do feel kind of... good? Like, really good. Strong. I did push-ups this morning. It felt really nice to be active. You should try it sometime " Ren grinned, and even his grin was different too. Cockier. "Didn't even break a sweat. Although... I'm always kinda sweating now. But you know what I mean, bro"

He tossed the ruined shirt aside and walked to the bathroom, his chest wider, his feet landing heavier. Leo watched him go, noting the way his thighs seemed thicker, the way his boxers were straining across ass that had definitely grown.

The powder wasn't just working. It was exceeding expectations. If things went accordingly to plan... He was sure to get that scholarship~

Third week

Ren had stopped going to classes. It started with sleeping in. Then it was "I'll catch up later." Then it was silence, an unspoken acknowledgment that catching up was no longer possible. The textbooks sat untouched on his desk, gathering dust. His laptop stayed closed. Instead, Ren went to the gym.

He'd joined on a whim, wandering into the campus fitness center after a morning run and deciding to "try some lifts." From the first session, he was hooked. He came back that day with a manic light in his eyes, babbling about "the pump" and "feeling the burn" and a dozen other phrases that sounded like a foreign language coming from his mouth.

"Bro, you gotta come with me," he said, dropping his gym bag on the floor with a heavy thud. "It's insane. I bench-pressed like, two plates. First try. People were staring."

"Two plates?" Leo didn't know what that meant, but it sounded impressive.

"Two-twenty-five." Sam grinned, flexing his arm. The bicep rose like a softball, veins snaking across the surface. In two weeks, he'd gone from a soft-bodied academic to someone who looked like he'd been lifting for years. How was it even possible? What even was in that power... "Coach came up to me after. Asked if I played football in high school. I told him I was on the chess team and he couldn't believe it!" He laughed, a booming sound that filled the room. Leo forced himself to laugh along. "The chess team. Can you imagine this" Ren said pointing at himself "On a chess team. I bet my opponent would give up on sight due fear" Ren shook his head, the motion slower than it used to be.

Leo was looking. It was impossible not to look. Ren had grown. Not just muscle; height. He'd been eye level with Leo two weeks ago... A bit taller. Now Leo had to tilt his head up slightly to meet his eyes. The doorframes were becoming a hazard. And Leo only came up to his chest...

"Speaking of chess," Leo ventured, "we should probably review for the competition. It's in two weeks. The Ashworth is riding on it." He said testing the waters

Ren's face went blank. The word "Ashworth" seemed to register, then fade, like a stone dropped into deep water. "Right. The scholarship thing." He scratched his jaw, which now sported permanent stubble, the hair coming in thicker and darker than before. "Honestly, bro, I don't know if that's my thing anymore."

"What?" Leo's voice came out sharper than intended. He was honestly surprised there for a second "Ren, you've been working toward this for three years." Leo didn't even know why he said that. Perhaps he felt guilty about this whole situation... Did he go to far? Perhaps there was time to reverse the changes after competition.

"Yeah, but..." He struggled, visibly, to form the thought. "Math just doesn't... click anymore, you know? It's like trying to read a language I forgot. When I'm lifting, everything makes sense. The weight goes up, the weight goes down. Simple. Math's all..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Fuzzy."

Fuzzy. The word echoed in Leo's mind. He was definitely getting dumber... Ren's brain was literally being rewired to prioritize physical prowess over intellectual capability.

"Well," Leo said carefully, "if you aren't interested, perhaps you should not come. No use in just taking space among nerds there"

"Yeah, nerds" Ren's smirked "I'm better off not being there, spending time on something more important" He clapped Leo on the shoulder, and the force of it nearly knocked him off his chair. "You're smart, bro. Always thinking. That's why I keep you around."

Keep you around. Not "that's why we're friends." The phrasing was hierarchical now. Dominant and subordinate. Jock and his nerd.

The next evening, Ren brought a girl back to the dorm.

Leo had never seen Ren with a girl before. The old Ren was too shy, too awkward, too lost in his own head to even attempt flirting. Not to mention gay. But this new Ren, the one who walked with his chest puffed out and his shoulders back, apparently had no such difficulties.

Her name was Tiffany, a blonde cheerleader with eyes that never left Ren's body. Leo sat at his desk, trying to study, while he heard sounds coming from Ren's room. He stared at his textbook, the symbols blurring. He could hear them kissing, the wet sounds amplified in the small room. He could smell Ren's cologne, something cheap and musky that he'd bought at the campus store. He could feel the vibration through the floor as Ren shifted his weight...

"God, you're huge," Tiffany whispered.

"All natural, babe."

Leo's stomach turned. his was only a start of the night of loud moans and whimpers had just began... How much stamina did Ren have now?

Fourth week

By the start of week four, the old Ren was dead.

Leo knew this with absolute certainty the moment he woke to find his textbooks dumped on the floor, replaced on his desk by a pair of massive, sweat-stained sneakers. Size sixteen. They reeked of the gym and locker rooms.

"Sorry, bro." Ren's voice rumbled from the living room, completely unapologetic, as Leo went to the kitchen to make breakfast. "Needed somewhere to put 'em. Your desk was empty."

Leo turned. Ren was sprawled on couch that now seemed comically small beneath his frame, wearing nothing but a jockstrap that struggled to contain its contents. His body was a masterpiece of excess… shoulders like boulders, pecs thick that were probably bigger than most women's boobs, abs carved so deep they looked like a washboard. His thighs spread wide, taking up space, legs wide as tree trunks. He was easily 6'5" now, maybe taller, and every inch of him oozed that salty musk…

"My textbooks were there," Leo said quietly.

"Were they?" Ren didn't look up from his phone. "Didn't notice. Hey, you gonna eat that?" He gestured at Leo's untouched breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal.

"I was planning to."

"I'm fucking starving, dude. Be a bro." It wasn't a question.

Leo watched Ren consume his breakfast in four massive bites, oatmeal dripping down his chin. When he finished, he tossed the bowl onto couch, leaving a smear of saliva and oats on the sheets.

"Clean that up, yeah? Thanks." He said without even looking at it, Leo cleaned it, not wanting to argue...

But definitely the worst part was the smell.

Ren's body now produced a constant, pungent musk that saturated everything. The dorm reeked of it. A thick, masculine odor of sweat and hormones and something else, something almost chemical. Leo would come back from class and gag on the air. His clothes absorbed the smell. His bedsheets. His hair. So they both lived in Ren's stench, a constant reminder of who owned the space.

Arguably the only thing worse than smell would be the noises. Ren's libido had become monstrous. When he couldn't find a girl, which was rare, but happened, he would handle himself with a complete lack of shame. The wet, rhythmic sounds filling the dorm at all hours. Leo would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep while listening to moans coming from Ren's room.

"Bro." Ren's voice cut through the darkness one night, rough and commanding. "Bro, come here"

Leo mumbled from his room. "What?"

"You heard me. Get over here."

"I'm trying to sleep."

A low, humorless laugh. "I don't care. I got a problem and my hand's not cutting it tonight. You're gonna help so I can get to bed too. I have practice tomorrow"

"Ren, I don't-"

The lights flicked on. Ren was standing beside Leo's bed, completely naked. And between his legs, jutting upward was something that made Leo's mind go blank with terror. The powder had changed everything. Ren’s dick was enormous, grotesquely, almost comically endowed, thick as Leo's forearm and pulsing with visible need.

"You see this?" Ren gestured at himself, a smirk playing on his lips. "How am I supposed to sleep with this thing asking to be fed? It's so hungry bro.."

Leo's heart stopped. "What?"

Ren casually wrapped a hand around himself, stroking slowly "And now you're gonna help me. Like good roommates do.. Get on your knees."

"Ren, this is insane. I'm not-"

"Did I ask?" The smirk vanished. Ren's face hardened into something cold and cruel. "I said get on your fucking knees bitch"

Leo's body moved before his brain could catch up. Fear was a powerful motivator. He slid off his bed and approached, trembling, his eyes fixed anywhere but the massive thing Ren was stroking.

"Good boy." Ren's voice was a low, approving rumble. "Knew you'd see it my way."

Leo knelt on the cold floor, his mind screaming at him to run, to fight, to do anything but what he was about to do. But his body wouldn't obey. Ren loomed over him like a skyscraper, blocking out the ceiling light, casting him in shadow as all Leo could see when he looked up was a shelf of pecs that blocked his view of Ren's face. Maybe for the best. The smell was overwhelming this close… musk and sweat and something primal that made Leo's head swim.

"Open up," Ren commanded, one massive hand gripping the back of Leo's head. "Don't make this weird. A mouth's a mouth. It's not gay if you don't think about it. And don't you dare use teeth. Else" he said squeezing Leo's back, just enough to send a message. “You already know what'll happen”

But you used to be gay, Leo thought. You had a boyfriend sophomore year. You cried when he transferred schools. But that part of Ren doesn't exist anymore. Ren's existence had been erased and replaced with this towering, aggressive, painfully stupid alpha who viewed Leo as nothing more than a convenient hole.

"Come on, bro. I don't got all night." Ren's grip tightened in Leo's hair, pulling his face forward. "I told you I had practice tomorrow morning, I need to be rested. So you better suck on it like your life depends on it and be honored you are even allowed to touch my cock"

Honored. The word was so absurd Leo almost laughed. Instead, he closed his eyes and let Ren pull him in as he choked on the massive thing, barely fitting it into his mouth while not to start crying.

Afterward, he spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, brushing his teeth until his gums bled, scrubbing his face, trying to erase the taste and the shame. When he emerged, Ren was already asleep, sprawled on his back, still naked, still half hard somehow with his dick still leaking small amounts of cum over his sheets.

Leo barely slept that night. He laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Ren's breathing. His jaw ached. His pride was in tatters. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered: You did this. This is your monster.

The next morning, Leo tried to assert some fragment of normalcy. "The competition is Saturday," he said, his voice hoarse. "I need to prepare. I need quiet."

Ren was doing push-ups on the floor, one-armed, his free hand scrolling through his phone. He didn't look up. "Cool, bro. Have fun with your nerd party."

"It's not a party. It's a mathematics competition. The Ashworth Scholarship is-"

"Yeah, yeah, free money. You said." Ren switched arms, his bicep bulging obscenely. "You know what else is free money? My scholarship. Coach talked to me again. They wanna give me a full ride. Football. Coach says I'm 'a natural talent.'"

Leo's stomach dropped as he repeated "Football scholarship?"

"Hell yeah. Gonna be the star player. Coach say I'm the biggest guy he's ever seen walk onto the field. And I'm still growing." Ren stood up, stretching, and Leo watched in horrified fascination as his lats flared out like wings. "They're gonna pay me to smash people. Best deal. Ever." He grabbed his gym bag and headed for the door, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the frame. Before he left, he paused, looking back at Leo.

"Hey, bro? Clean up a bit while I'm gone. This place smells like a nerd died in here."

The door slammed. Leo stood alone in the silence, surrounded by the wreckage of his plan.

Friday night. Twelve hours until a competition.

Leo was at his desk, reviewing his notes one final time. The equations were solid in his mind. If he could just get through tomorrow, just show up and perform, the Ashworth was his. Ren was no longer a threat. Ren couldn't solve a basic algebra problem anymore. The scholarship was Leo's by default.

"Bro."

Leo didn't turn around. "What?"

"Got a problem."

"You always have a problem. Handle it yourself."

A low chuckle. "Feisty tonight. I like that." The floorboards creaked as Ren approached. "But here's the thing. I already handled myself three times today and it's not enough.” Ren's hands landed on Leo's shoulders, massive and heavy, kneading the muscle with casual ownership. "Tiffany's out of town. Some cheerleading thing. So it's just us tonight, bro. Lucky you."

"I'm studying." Leo replied trying to get Ren off his back

"You're always studying." Ren spun Leo's chair around, forcing eye contact. "Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna do what you did the other night. Then you're gonna do it again. And again. And again. Because I said so."

"No." The word came out before Leo could stop it. "I have the competition tomorrow. I need to sleep. You can't just-"

"Can't just what?" Ren's voice dropped, the playfulness vanishing. "Can't just what, bro? Say it."

Leo's throat closed. He stared up at the monster he'd created, at the thick neck and the square jaw and the eyes that held no recognition, no friendship, no mercy. This wasn't Ren. This was something else wearing Ren's skin.

"You think you're better than me?" Ren leaned down, his face inches from Leo's. "You think your little math contest matters? It doesn't. You know what matters? This." He flexed his arm, the bicep rising like a mountain. "Power. Strength. The only things that actually count in this world. You're smart, bro, but you're weak. And weak people serve strong people. That's just nature."

"I'm not your servant."

"No." Ren grinned. "You're my roommate. Which is even better. You can't leave. You can't escape. You're stuck here with me, and I'm gonna keep getting bigger and stronger and hornier, and you're gonna keep helping me out. Forever. Sound good?"

Leo didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his eyes burning with tears he refused to shed.

"Good talk." Ren straightened up, his shadow swallowing Leo whole. "Now. Knees. We're gonna be here a while." He said... And truly, by the time they were done, Leo lost count how many times did Ren cum into his mouth, but before passing out, he could swear he saw a sunrise.

Day of the Competition

Leo's alarms didn't go off.

He woke at 10:47 AM, gasping, disoriented, the morning light slicing through the blinds. The competition had started at 9:00 AM sharp. Registration closed at 8:30. He had slept through all of it... slept through his alarm, through his backup alarm, through the third alarm he'd set on his phone.

He grabbed his phone. The alarms were all disabled. Every single one. And there, in the notification history, a message he hadn't sent:

"I can't make it. I'm withdrawing from the competition. Sorry for the late notice."

"No" he breathed. "No, no, no-"

"Morning, bro." Ren said casually with a smirk

Leo whipped around. Ren was sitting on the edge of his bed, already awake, already dressed in gym clothes, a protein shake in his massive hand. He looked... content. Satisfied.

"You," Leo whispered. "You turned off my alarms."

"Did I?" Ren took a long sip of his shake, unbothered. "Must've been an accident. Your phone was making noise while you were asleep. Figured you needed the rest."

"You sent that message."

"Which message?" Ren's grin was a knife. "The one where you quit? Yeah. I helped you out with that. You were really stressed and tired last night after I was done with you. Said you didn't even wanna go. So I made it easy for you."

Leo launched himself off the bed, fury overriding reason. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The Ashworth was my only chance! My entire future was riding on that competition! You've ruined everything!"

He was pounding on Ren's chest with both fists, his blows utterly useless against the wall of muscle. Ren didn't even flinch. He just looked down at Leo with something between amusement and pity.

"You done?" The giant smirked

"I hate you! I hate you so much!" Leo shouted

"Yeah, I know." Ren grabbed Leo's wrists with one hand, effortlessly restraining him. "But here's the thing, bro. You're not going anywhere. You missed your nerd party. You're stuck here. With me." He pulled Leo closer, his breath hot and sour against his face. "So you might as well make yourself useful again, I can't go into gym with a morning wood"

"Let me go." Leo tried resisting, but it was all for nothing.

"After you are done with your job. Oh and don't worry. Coach called. It's official, I got the sports scholarship. Full ride. They're announcing it Monday. I'm gonna be a star, bro. A legend. You should be happy at least one of us gets a scholarship." He released Leo's wrists, shoving him backward onto his own bed. "And if you don't want to end up on the street, I suggest you start taking very good care of me. Every day. Because that's what good roommates do."

Leo sat on the edge of his bed, defeated, hollowed out, as Ren stood and stretched, his massive body blocking out the sun.

"Life's pretty good, you know?" Ren said, almost to himself. "Got the scholarship. Got the girls. Got you to handle the rest. What else could a guy need?" He laughed, taking out his dick in front of Leo's face and smacking him with it. "Open wide roomie" he said showing that monster inside Leo's mouth.

But Leo didn't protest or cry... he was too broken to feel anything as he sucked Ren's dick to the best of his abilities, chocking and gagging on it as Ren pushed into Leo's throat, not caring if the other boy could breathe or not. Everything was going so well... He was so close to getting that scholarship and now... Now he was stuck as Ren's cum dump... Forced to do whatever his roommate wanted if he wished to even get a penny and pay his school year...

"I don't know man, it's just installed rightaway when I turn this on. Now watch,"

He clicks on the "misc." category and then appeared option for tattoos, piercing and also cage. He clicks on tattoo, pick a design and then cheekily put it right on his pelvic. Seconds later, a tattoo just suddenly appear in his pelvic just like the avatar on the screen

"Whoa! That's so cool. Look at you now, looking like a total stud! Let's do me then, Fiona wouldn't say no to me if I looked as hot as you!"

"Okay," he said with a grin

As I walk from the island to sit onto the couch next to him, I freeze.

"Not so quick, bro," he said as he is looking right at me, checking me up and down and then smiled devilishly

"Like those stupid Tiktok said, I ain't never seen two pretty best friends, and well, I kinda agree," he said coldly with a grin

I lost the ability to speak as he click on the mute button on my profile and then click on the brain feature. Unlike the tattoo feature, this one resemble a fill in the blank

"Let's make you......very clingy to me," he said, and then he typed,

"Ryan is my submissive, cock-hungry, boyfriend,"

My eyes went wide as now I have this clearly unreal memory of me being so dependent to him and he's always this hot stud on my mind. Oh my God what the fuck is happening here?!

"Well, let's make you think that this is all naturl and you forgot that we were nerdy roommates at once in our lifetime. Hell yeah....you're my bitch,"

But then, he's not over

"I, can even make you suck my dick if I want to," he said with that charming smile, showing off his now pearly white and very....orderly teeth, his hand clicking the button in that joystick, "and you won't be aware of the Chronivac on the screen. You can suck my dick as I make more changes to you, bitch,"

Oh what I did? I just got together with some guys online from all over the globe and we executed a spell that would change around some stereotypes on the collective unconscious, consequently changing reality itself. Now Asian guys have all the good stereotypes, like being huge and having donkey dicks, while Black guys like you got the bad ones like being skinny nerds with hamster cocks. We still made sure we kept our smarts though, we can’t have you reverting our improvements.