Jock TFs & More

A bit of a longer one! Hope you enjoy and thanks for the requests! Any feedback is welcomed!

“This isn’t a road you want to go down.”

Looking back, maybe Thomas should’ve listened. At the time, though, he couldn’t even begin to understand what William meant.

“He was my father, just as much as he was yours,” Thomas had shot back. “You’re not cutting me out.”

Their father had been obscenely wealthy... real estate, contracting, the kind of empire that didn’t leave room for doubt. And like many men in his position, he’d 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.

“Father should’ve never...”

“Well, he did,” Thomas cut in, already tired of the argument. “And he loved me. He wouldn’t’ve approved this. He would’ve wanted me to...”

“I warned you,” William interrupted coldly. “You’re not getting a thing from this estate.”

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

“Excellent report, Thomas.”

He smiled at his boss’s praise. “Thank you, sir.”

He hadn’t 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.

“Alright, let’s...”

A knock interrupted him and when he answered, he was greet by two men in suits.

“Are you Thomas Lancer?”

"Yeah, that's me.” he said slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re with the Department of Ontic Corrections. You’ve been identified as a potential infringement.”

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

They were called "docs". Agents of the DOC. Most people didn't want to run into these guys.

“We ensure predictability,” one agent explained as proceedings began. “And in predictability, we find stability.”

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.

“Fine,” he said bitterly. “I don’t need his money. You can have it.”

“Ah,” the judge replied, “but removing you from the inheritance does not resolve the underlying deviation.”

Thomas frowned. “What does that mean?”

William smirked. “It means you shouldn't have been raised as my brother.”

The room went silent.

Thomas felt his blood run cold.

“Wh… 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. It’s comprehensive, seamless. You won’t experience it as loss, Mr. Lancer… if that’s what you’re worried about."

“But... I built my job myself... my life is mine now.”

Davis gave a small, almost sympathetic smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “But the core deviation is still there. This outcome was never part of your probable trajectory. We’re not taking anything from you, Mr. Lancer, we’re aligning your life with the outcome you were always most likely to reach.”

“That’s not restoration,” Thomas argued, pulse pounding. “You can't do this. I won't just...”

“You don't have a choice.” 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, swimmer’s 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 wasn’t 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.

“Tommy,” a rough voice called, casual and familiar in a way that made Thomas’s chest tighten. “Grab me one while you’re up.”

The name landed wrong... Tommy- and yet, disturbingly, it didn’t 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 mom’s boyfriend, sat sprawled on the couch, broad, worn, solid in a way that radiated authority without effort.

“Atta boy,” Greg muttered, taking the beer.

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s 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. Greg’s presence, by contrast, was heavy, immediate, grounding.

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

The next shift came harder.

Thomas... no... Tommy... stood in front of a mirror, but the reflection wasn’t 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.

“Don’t just stand there gawkin’ at yourself,” Greg’s voice snapped from behind him, sharp with irritation. “Mirror ain’t gonna do the work for you.”

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s 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 wasn’t 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.

“Get up!” Greg’s voice cut through from the sidelines, louder than anyone else’s, full of rough-edged approval. “That’s it! Hit ‘em back!”

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s 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.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Greg muttered, though there was a crooked grin behind it. “You’ll get used to it.”

The burn dulled into something tolerable, then familiar. Again... and again.

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s 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 didn’t 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.

“Atta boy,” Greg said later, voice approving even as he handed Tommy something cold to press against his face. “Can’t let people walk all over you.”

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

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, Thomas’s 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 didn’t 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.

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

“School starts next week.”

“Yeah… don’t think I’m goin’ back.”

No conflict. Just relief. Greg glanced over from where he stood, sizing him up for half a second before giving a small nod.

“Figured,” he said. “You’re already makin’ yourself useful.”

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

"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 day’s 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 pod’s hum shifted again. Lower, denser, like it was pressing inward rather than surrounding him.

“Final correction phase initiated. Cognitive resistance collapse accelerated.”

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 didn’t 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 didn’t notice it. Didn’t 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 yesterday’s 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 wasn’t 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. Didn’t 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, can’t even get a smoke in first?”

A couple guys chuckled.

Tom Harris now... had been for years. “Tommy” didn’t 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 head…”

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

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. “Long as it pays better than this crap.”

“Lancer’s crew is hirin’. Bigger jobs. Better hours.”

He squinted slightly, rolling the name around in his head for all of a second before exhaling smoke. “Lancer, huh? Yeah… sure. I’ll give it a look.”

The name didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t feel like his. He turned instead to the rough denim and worn fabric set aside for him, already reaching for them without question.

“Everything checks out,” one of the DOC agents said, glancing up from the tablet. “Identification, employment, residency are all aligned. Tom Harris, you're good to go”

“Yeah?” Tom tugged on the jeans, rolling his shoulders as the fabric settled naturally against him, then pulled the shirt over his head. “Good. Didn’t feel like stickin’ around here anyway.”

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

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.

“Hey,” Tom said, nodding. “You’re Lancer’s kid, right? Seen you on-site.”

William’s smile came easy, thin and satisfied. “I was curious how things turned out,” he said, voice smooth. “Seems you’ve landed exactly where you belong.”

Tom scratched at his chest through the fabric, frowning faintly. “Yeah… guess so,” he muttered, glancing him over. “Kinda weird you bein’ here, though. Don’t you got people for this stuff?”

William’s expression didn’t shift. “I like to stay involved.”

Tom huffed lightly, already losing interest. Still, as he walked past, a faint thought tugged at him... why was he 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.

“Harris! You draggin’ ass today?” someone called.

He took a drag, exhaling slow. “Yeah, yeah, keep talkin’. I’ll outwork you anyway.”

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 didn’t 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.

“Quit starin’ into space and move,” someone barked.

Tom smirked faintly, shifting the load. “Yeah, yeah! I got it.”

"Jesus Christ, Chloe, you look like you've been crying for a week straight."

Liam kicked the door shut behind him, dropping his gym bag on the floor with a heavy thud. The apartment smelled like stale tears and cheap wine, a combination that made his nose wrinkle in disgust. He'd sprinted over here after getting her barely coherent text message about Chad, that walking, talking steroid injection she'd been dating.

"I have been," Chloe sniffled from her curled-up position on the couch, a pint of melted ice cream balanced precariously on her stomach. "He dumped me. Said I was getting 'too clingy' and that my pussy wasn't tight enough anymore."

Liam's jaw tightened. "What a fucking piece of shit. I swear to God, I'm gonna find that roided-out gorilla and rip his tiny dick off."

Chloe managed a weak smile. "His dick wasn't tiny, and you know it." She gestured vaguely toward the coffee table, where a pair of gray gym pants lay in a crumpled heap. "He left these. Probably forgot them in his haste to go fuck some other poor girl."

Liam plopped down beside her, the couch groaning under his weight. "Forget him. You're way too good for that meathead. The guy had the personality of a brick and probably thinks foreplay is telling you to 'take it, bitch'."

"Well, he wasn't wrong about that part," Chloe admitted with a watery laugh. "God, I'm so pathetic. I actually miss him. His stupid laugh, his constant need to flex in every mirror, even the way he'd leave his dirty socks everywhere."

Liam snorted. "You don't miss him. You miss the idea of him. The hot body, the confidence, the way he made you feel like the only girl in the room... right before he made five other girls feel the same way."

"And the nine-inch dick," Chloe added, her eyes glazing over slightly. "Don't forget the nine-inch dick that could hit my G-spot from three different angles."

Liam rolled his eyes. "Fine, the magical nine-inch dick. But you can get that elsewhere with about 90% less douchebaggery."

Chloe's eyes drifted to the shorts on the table. "You know what would be hilarious? If you tried those on. You're about his size, right? Maybe a little leaner, but close enough."

Liam recoiled. "Hell no. I'm not putting on that asshole's dirty gym shorts. God knows what bodily fluids are crusted in the fabric."

"Come on," Chloe wheedled, sitting up and poking his arm. "For me? I need a laugh right now. Something to take my mind off how pathetic I am for missing a guy who called me 'his favorite cum dumpster'."

Against his better judgment, Liam sighed dramatically. "Fine, but you owe me big time. Like, you're buying me dinner for a month big time."

He snatched the shorts and headed to the bathroom. The fabric was stiff and smelled faintly of sweat and cheap cologne. He stripped off his own shorts and pulled on Chad's, surprised at how tight they were around his thighs and ass.

When he came out, Chloe's eyes widened. "Holy shit," she breathed. "You actually look... hot. Like, really fucking hot. Your ass looks amazing in those."

Liam blushed, preening slightly. "Well, I do leg day twice a week."

"No, I mean it," Chloe insisted, her eyes roaming over him appreciatively. "You've got that jock vibe going on. The way you're standing..." She tilted her head. "You know, Chad used to stand just like that. All cocky and shit, like he owned the room."

Liam shifted uncomfortably. "I don't stand like that."

"You kind of do," Chloe giggled. "And your arms... they're getting bigger. Have you been lifting more? Your biceps look more defined."

Liam glanced down at his arms. They did seem more pumped than usual, the veins more prominent. "Maybe a little. Increased my protein intake."

"God, and your voice," Chloe continued, her eyes glazing over slightly. "It's deeper than I remember. Chad had this really deep voice that made me wet every time I heard it, especially when he was talking shit about some fag at the gym."

Liam cleared his throat. "I don't sound like him."

"No, but you could," Chloe mused. "If you tried. Just... lower it a little. More confident. More... masculine."

Liam tried, clearing his throat again. "What, like this?"

"Yessss," Chloe breathed, her hand drifting between her legs. "Exactly like that. Fuck, that's hot."

Liam felt a strange warmth spreading through his chest. His pecs seemed to be swelling, pushing against the fabric of the shorts. He ran a hand over them, surprised at their firmness.

"See?" Chloe whispered. " Chad used to do that all the time - feel himself up like he was God's gift to women, which honestly, he kind of was."

Liam's hand moved to his abs, which were suddenly more defined than he remembered. "I've been working on my core," he said, his voice dropping even lower.

"Fuck yeah, you have," Chloe moaned, her fingers working faster under her skirt. "Chad had these massive thighs from all his squats. He could crush a watermelon between them."

Liam looked down, surprised to see his thighs had indeed swollen with muscle, straining against the shorts. He flexed them, watching them bulge with new power.

"Yesss, just like that," Chloe encouraged. "Chad had these broad shoulders that made him look like a fucking football player, which he was, before he got kicked out for 'excessive hazing'."

Liam rolled his shoulders back, feeling them stretch and widen. His entire upper body seemed to be expanding, muscles swelling and reshaping themselves into a more masculine form. The seams of the shorts strained against his growing frame.

"his face," Chloe breathed, her eyes fixed on his. "Chad had this really strong jawline that could cut glass."

Liam ran a hand over his chin, feeling the rough stubble that had suddenly appeared. His jaw did feel more angular, more defined, more... aggressive.

"And his hair," Chloe continued. " Chad always kept his hair short and military-style, said long hair was for fags and hippies."

Liam reached up, surprised to find his hair had indeed cropped shorter, styling itself into a severe, masculine cut that felt rough to the touch.

Chloe whispered. "Chad had these piercing blue eyes that could see right through me, usually to calculate my cup size."

Liam blinked, feeling a strange tingling in his eyes. When he opened them again, Chloe gasped.

"Fuck, they're blue now," she breathed. "Just like his. So cold and calculating."

Liam felt a strange detachment from his body, as if he were watching someone else transform. His thoughts were becoming simpler, more focused on physical sensations - the weight of his new muscles, the tightness of the shorts, the growing heat in his groin. His mind felt... clearer, emptier, filled with space where complex thoughts used to be.

"his hands," Chloe continued, her voice growing more urgent. "Chad had these huge hands that could grip me so tight, leave bruises for days."

Liam looked down at his hands, which were indeed larger and more calloused than before. He flexed them, feeling a strange power in his grip, a desire to use that power to dominate, to control.

"And his feet," Chloe moaned. "Chad wore size 13 shoes, said he needed big feet to balance his big dick."

Liam wiggled his toes, feeling them stretch and expand. The shorts felt even tighter now, barely containing his swelling form. He felt taller, broader, more... imposing.

"God, and his dick," Chloe breathed, her eyes dropping to his crotch. " Chad had this massive nine-inch cock that filled me up so perfectly, made me scream his name until I was hoarse."

Liam looked down, surprised to see a prominent bulge forming in the shorts. He reached down to adjust himself, gasping at the size of his suddenly enlarged cock. It felt heavy, powerful, ready to claim, to conquer.

"Yesss, just like that," Chloe encouraged. "Chad was always so confident, so cocky. Like he knew he was the shit, because he was."

Liam straightened up, puffing out his chest. A smirk played on his lips as he looked down at Chloe. "Yeah, I guess I am pretty hot. Bet I could get any pussy I wanted."

"Fuck yeah, you are," Chloe moaned. "And you know it too. That's what Chad was like - always so fucking arrogant, always so sure of himself. Never doubted his right to take what he wanted."

Liam ran a hand over his new abs, feeling the power coursing through his veins. "Damn right I am. Why would I doubt myself when I'm this fucking perfect?"

"You're not thinking about guys anymore, are you? You're thinking about pussy. About how many girls you could fuck in a week, how many would be begging for your dick."

Liam blinked, his brow furrowing. Why the fuck would he be thinking about guys? That was... disgusting. Wrong. His mind wasn't filled with memories of art galleries and witty banter with other men anymore; it was a slideshow of tight asses in yoga pants, low-cut tops, and the desperate looks women gave him. All he could think about was sinking his new, massive cock into a tight, wet pussy and hearing some bitch scream his name.

Chloe breathed, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. "You don't remember being some gay twink who worked in a coffee shop and read poetry, do you? You remember being the star quarterback, fucking cheerleaders in the locker room after every big game."

Liam nodded slowly, his mind rewriting itself. The scent of espresso beans and the feel of a book in his hands faded, replaced by the smell of sweat and grass, the roar of a crowd, the feeling of a cheerleader's legs wrapped around his waist in a cramped locker room. He remembered slapping his teammates on the ass, calling them pussies when they missed a tackle, and laughing as some nerd tripped in the hallway. Who the fuck was Liam? That was some nobody, some cock-gobbler he probably shoved into a locker once or twice.

"Your personality," Chloe continued, her voice growing more urgent. "You're becoming more aggressive, more dominant. Chad never took no for an answer. He saw what he wanted and he took it."

Liam's smirk widened, showing teeth. He grabbed Chloe's arm, his grip like a vise. "Damn right I don't. Bitches don't know what they want anyway. That's why guys like me have to show them."

Chloe whispered, trying to pull away but failing. "Chad was a real man's man - believed in God, country, and pussy. Thought feminism was a cry for help from ugly women who couldn't get laid."

Liam nodded, his eyes hardening. "Fucking right. Fags and liberals can go to hell. This country was built by real men, not a bunch of soft-handed pussies whining about their feelings. Women should be in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, where they belong."

"His intelligence," Chloe breathed, a flicker of regret in her eyes. "Chad wasn't exactly a rocket scientist. He was all brawn and no brains, thought Nietzsche was some kind of German beer."

Liam shrugged, the motion making his pecs bounce. "Who needs brains when you've got this?" He flexed his bicep, watching it bulge. "Smart guys don't get pussy. They get wedgies and spend their Saturday nights playing video games. I get laid. Every. Single. Night."

"Your name," Chloe whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's not Liam anymore, is it? It's Chad."

"Damn right it is," Chad growled, his voice a deep, rumbling bass. "Now get on your knees, bitch. I'm gonna fuck your throat until you can't talk."

Chloe hesitated, a flicker of her old self in her eyes. "Chad, wait, I don't know if..."

"Did I fucking stutter?" Chad snarled, grabbing her by the hair and forcing her to her knees. "You wanted Chad? Well, you got him. Now open wide."

Chloe whimpered, tears welling in her eyes, but she complied, parting her lips. Chad smirked, grabbing his thickening cock through the shorts. "That's a good girl. You're gonna learn your place, just like all the others."

He fumbled with the waistband, his new, larger hands clumsy with the unfamiliar task. His cock sprang free, thick and imposing, the veins pulsing with barely contained lust. He grabbed Chloe's head, forcing her down onto his shaft.

"Take it all," he grunted, thrusting into her mouth. "That's it, choke on it. You love it, don't you? You love being used by a real man."

As he fucked her face, his mind continued its transformation. Memories of Liam's life - his first crush on a boy, his coming out, his gentle relationships - were being overwritten by Chad's brutal conquests. He remembered taking a girl's virginity in the back of his pickup, laughing when she cried. He remembered cheating on every girlfriend he'd ever had, sometimes with two or three other girls at once. He remembered using his size and strength to intimidate smaller, weaker men, calling them faggots and pussies until they cried.

"Look at me," he commanded, grabbing Chloe's chin and forcing her to look up at him. "You're nothing but a set of holes to me. A warm place to stick my dick. You understand?"

Chloe nodded, tears streaming down her face.

"Good," Chad grunted, pulling out of her mouth and flipping her onto the couch. "Now spread those legs. Time to see if this pussy's still tight enough for a real man."

He ripped off her skirt and panties, positioning himself at her entrance. "You're gonna take every inch of my nine-inch cock, you hear me? And you're gonna thank me for it."

He positioned himself over her, but then paused, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he actually looked at her. "Ugh, you know, up close... you're kinda plain, aren't you?" He grabbed a handful of her mousy brown hair. "This hair is so boring. Like, office-worker boring. And your tits? They're basically mosquito bites. I like my bitches with huge fucking knockers, the kind that give them back problems."

Chloe flinched, a fresh wave of tears welling in her eyes. "I... I'm sorry?"

"Don't apologize, just fix it," Chad snapped, his ego swelling with every cruel word. "And your skin? It's so pale. You look like you live in a fucking basement. I like my girls tan, like they just spent a week in Cancun getting railed by rich dudes."

As he spoke, he watched in fascination as her body began to change. Her mousy brown hair lightened, bleaching itself into a vibrant, platinum blonde that cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves. Her small breasts began to swell, stretching the fabric of her shirt until it was straining against two massive, perfectly round globes of flesh.

"Fuck yeah, that's more like it," Chad grunted, grabbing one of her newly enlarged tits and squeezing it hard. "Now those are some proper titties. The kind you can motorboat."

He watched as her skin darkened, taking on a deep, golden tan that looked like she'd spent hours under a tanning bed. Her waist seemed to shrink, her hips flaring out into an exaggerated hourglass figure.

"And your face," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "It's too... smart-looking. I don't fuck smart girls. They ask too many questions, think they have opinions. I like my bitches dumb and giggly, the kind whose only thought is how to please my cock."

Chloe's face softened, her features becoming more delicate, more vapid. Her eyes widened, taking on a vacant, glassy look. Her lips plumped up, forming a perfect pout that seemed to beg for a cock to be shoved between them.

"Much better," Chad nodded in approval. "Now you look like a proper bimbo. The kind I'd take to a frat party and pass around to my buddies."

He positioned himself at her entrance again, but paused once more. "You know what else? Your voice is too... normal. I like my girls to sound like they just stepped out of a valley girl movie from the 90s. All 'like, oh my god' and 'totally' and shit."

"Like, what do you mean?" Chloe asked, her voice suddenly higher, more breathless, tinged with a subtle California accent.

"Perfect," Chad smirked. "Now you sound like the brainless fucktoy you were meant to be."

He slammed into her, making her gasp. "That's it," he grunted, pounding into her relentlessly. "Take it, you fucking bimbo. You know you love it."

"Oh my god, like, yes!" Chloe moaned, her voice a high-pitched, breathy whine. "Your cock is, like, sooo big!"

"Fucking right it is," Chad grunted, his ego swelling with every vapid compliment. "It's the biggest cock you'll ever have, so you'd better appreciate it."

"Like, I totally appreciate it!" Chloe squealed, her massive tits bouncing with every thrust. "It's, like, the best cock ever! Way better than, like, all the other cocks I've had!"

Chad felt a surge of pride at her words. "Damn right it is. I'm the best fuck you'll ever have, and don't you forget it."

He felt himself getting close, his balls tightening. "Gonna fill you up," he grunted. "Gonna pump you so full of my cum you'll be tasting it for a week."

"Oh my god, like, yes! Fill me up with your hot, yummy cum!" Chloe squealed, her back arching as she orgasmed. "I wanna, like, have your babies and stuff!"

With a final, brutal thrust, he came, his hot seed flooding her womb. He collapsed on top of her, his heavy body pinning her to the couch.

"Damn," he muttered, rolling off her. "That was alright. Not bad for a reformed mousy bitch."

He stood up, stretching his new, muscular body. "Well, I'm out. Got a party to hit. Try not to get any smarter while I'm gone, huh?"

He grabbed his shorts from the floor, pulling them on over his still-hard cock. "Later, bimbo. Don't call me unless you're looking for a round two or you've got a hot friend who wants to join in."

He strutted out of the apartment, leaving Chloe panting on the couch, her hand already drifting between her legs. As he walked down the hallway, he caught his reflection in a mirror and smirked. "Damn, I look good," he muttered, flexing his biceps. "And I just made that bitch ten times hotter. I'm like a fucking fairy godmother of pussy."

His mind was already racing with possibilities. The blonde from his gym class, the redhead at the front desk of his apartment building, the pair of sorority girls he'd seen at the grocery store. He could make them all into his perfect bimbos, his personal harem of brainless, big-titted fucktoys.

He was Chad. The ultimate alpha male. A toxic, homophobic, sexist jerk. A womanizing cheating prick. And as he stepped out into the bright sunlight, he felt a surge of pure, unadulterated ego. He was the king, and all the pussies in the world were his kingdom.

"Time to go conquer some more bitches," he muttered to himself, already feeling his cock stir at the thought. "Life is fucking good when you're me."

It’s to serve a youth outreach for his campaign, I’m sure I can do the work without compromising my beliefs.

You keep telling yourself you’re doing the right thing.

You’re twenty-six, living in a cramped Dallas apartment with your sweet, anxious boyfriend Mateo, and the only political job that called you back was the youth-outreach internship for Congressman Bryce Halloway — a man who once said in an interview that “Ruth Bader Ginsburg was a demon sent to test America’s faith.”

Mateo begged you not to take it. You told him it was just résumé padding.

Now it’s your first morning, and you’re sitting at your wobbly Ikea desk, logging into the Halloway Campaign Onboarding Portal, which looks like it was designed by someone who thinks MS Paint is “cutting-edge.”

You take a deep breath.

It’s just paperwork. You can do paperwork without losing your soul.

The welcome screen flashes:

“WELCOME FUTURE PATRIOT OF TOMORROW™”

You snort. “Jesus, okay.”

You click Begin.

A loading icon spins. It looks suspiciously like a bald eagle doing a push-up.

QUESTION 1:

“Would you describe yourself as: A) Weak B) Strong C) STRONG AS HELL, BROTHER 🤟🇺🇸”

You blink.

“…What?”

You select A) because… obviously.

The screen glitches. The eagle does a pushup. Your laptop fans whine like they’re afraid.

Then the answer auto-corrects itself to:

C) STRONG AS HELL, BROTHER 🤟🇺🇸 SELECTED. GOOD CHOICE.

A weird heat crawls up your neck, like embarrassment mixed with… pressure? Your collar suddenly feels too tight.

You roll your shoulders.

QUESTION 2:

“How often do you lift?” A) I don’t. B) Sometimes. C) ALL DAY, EVERY DAY, LIKE A REAL AMERICAN.”

You sigh and click A again.

Your mouse refuses to select it. It slides down to C like your trackpad has been possessed.

C SELECTED. NICE GAINS, BRO.

A pulse hits your chest — deep, low, like a subwoofer. Your pecs twitch under your shirt. You look down.

You freeze.

Your chest is… pushing forward? Just a little. Like someone slipped coasters under your nipples.

“Okay, that’s— no, no, you’re imagining it,” you mutter.

Mateo is in the other room. You hear him making coffee. He has no idea any of this is happening.

You click onward.

QUESTION 3:

“What matters most to you as a future leader?” A) Equality B) Climate C) AMERICA AND BIG OL’ DICK”

The rest of the answer cuts off like someone deleted it halfway.

You hover your mouse over A.

Your finger refuses to move.

Your hand just… stalls there. Stuck. Like your muscles don’t want to cooperate with you.

A faint buzzing fills your skull — not loud, just dull, like the world’s stupidest refrigerator hum inside your brainstem.

You mutter, “What the hell…?”

Your finger twitches, then your whole hand jerks itself to C.

C SELECTED. YOU’RE REALLY GETTING IT, BRO.

Another pulse.

Your traps tighten, rising toward your ears. Your neck thickens just a little. Barely noticeable — but it’s there.

You rub it, confused.

Your HR portal dings.

“IDENTITY ALIGNMENT PHASE 1: INITIATED.”

“What does that even—”

Your vision blurs.

The room tilts.

For a second you feel weightless — then heavy again, like someone hung sandbags from your shoulders.

Your shirt clings tighter across your upper body. Not dramatically. Not cartoonishly.

Just enough that you notice your sleeves don’t fall as loose as before.

A warm, stupid, lazy confidence sloshes into your chest like warm beer.

You swallow hard.

A new screen loads.

Static flickers. Logos flash — the flag, the campaign crest, Jesus giving a thumbs up (is that allowed?), and something that looks like the Gadsden snake but wearing sunglasses.

The text appears:

“For this internship, we need to confirm your digital behavior. Please link your TikTok account.”

You don’t have TikTok. You’ve always said it rots people’s brains.

You click “I don’t use TikTok.”

The screen freezes. Then:

“ERROR: INPUT TOO BETA.” “DEFAULTING TO REQUIRED SETUP.”

A QR code pops up.

Your phone unlocks itself. The camera opens.

“What the— hey!”

Your hand moves on its own and scans the QR code.

TikTok automatically downloads. A new username appears:

@HallowayBro19

“Okay, that’s not me,” you whisper.

But your face already feels…

Looser. Dumber. Like your eyebrows sit lower. Like your mouth naturally wants to open a little.

You catch your reflection in the dark corner of your laptop screen.

Your expression looks… vacuous. Just a hair.

But enough to scare you.

Your brain tries to rev back up — tries to analyze, articulate, resist—

But the buzzing in your head thickens, drowning out thoughts the way a frat party drowns out conversation.

Another question loads.

“Who do you admire most?” A) Your loving boyfriend B) Progressive leaders C) Congressman Halloway 😎🇺🇸🔥💪

You immediately reach for A.

Your arm stops halfway.

Your bicep feels heavier — thicker — resisting the motion like a stubborn animal.

You grunt unconsciously.

Your finger taps C.

Before you can panic, another expanding warmth rolls over your chest, down your arms, into your shoulders.

Your posture shifts: Chest out. Shoulders wide. Neck thick. Like you’re posing for a gym selfie without meaning to.

Your breath comes out in a low, dumb chuckle.

You clap a hand over your mouth.

What the hell was that?

But your hand feels… different. Broader. Calloused. Like you’ve spent years lifting when you haven’t stepped foot in a gym since college.

The portal flashes:

“MENTAL REALIGNMENT LEVEL: 12%” “PHYSICAL REALIGNMENT LEVEL: 9%” “WELCOME TO TEAM HALLOWAY, BRO.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

You try to stand up — but the moment you straighten, your legs wobble. Your jeans suddenly grip tighter around your thighs, the seams kissing your skin.

Your center of gravity feels lower. Heavier. More… solid.

You stumble into the bathroom, nearly tripping over your own feet.

You flip on the light.

And stare.

Your reflection isn’t frat-boy huge — not yet — but the beginnings are undeniable. Shoulders broader. Chest rounder. Neck thicker. Face a little duller, a little cockier. Expression naturally slack in that vacant jock way

Your hair even looks slightly different — messier, like you absentmindedly styled it into wannabe-bro “chaotic cool.”

Your mouth hangs open a little, lips parted like you’re waiting for a protein shake that hasn’t arrived yet.

And worse—

You feel a creeping satisfaction slithering up your spine.

Not fear. Not panic.

Just…

A slow, dumb confidence.

A feeling like you’re better than everyone else.

A rising urge to smirk.

An instinctive disdain for “soft” people.

For “weak” people.

For—

You clamp your hands on the sink.

“No. No. I’m not— I’m not turning into—”

Your phone dings.

TikTok notification.

“Your first auto-generated post is live, bro!”

You open it with trembling hands.

It’s a video of you — except you never filmed it.

You’re wearing a backwards hat, tank top, and that vacant stupid grin, flexing in the campaign office next to a giant cardboard cutout of Congressman Halloway.

The caption reads:

“First day and I’m already feeling SWOLE for America 🇺🇸🔥 #HallowayYouth”

The video already has 800 likes.

Your stomach flips.

Your head buzzes.

Something inside you cracks open, letting in the first wave of something ugly, patriotic, and unbelievably stupid.

Your brain feels… softer. Smoother. Easier to push around.

And God help you—

A part of you is curious.

Hungry.

Like you want to see what comes next.

You stare at the glowing CONTINUE button, and there’s this moment—this tiny flicker—where the real you scrambles up from the pit and screams don’t click it, don’t do it, call Mateo, run, quit, throw the laptop out the window.

And then the buzzing in your skull dials up like someone sliding the volume knob on a leaf blower.

The thought evaporates.

Your hand drops onto the mouse like it’s being pulled by gravity, like the weight of your thickening arm decides things for you now. You click CONTINUE without even realizing it.

The room seems to throb.

The onboarding portal flashes a new header:

“BRO-FACTOR ENHANCEMENT PROTOCOL: ACTIVE”

Suddenly the page fills with a questionnaire that looks like a middle schooler designed it in study hall:

“WHAT FIRES YOU UP MOST?”

Being smart and thoughtful

Standing up for marginalized communities

TEXAS. FREEDOM. AND—BRO YOU KNOW WHAT I’M TALKIN ABOUT 😂💪🇺🇸🔥

You slam the last one before even reading it fully.

Your arm just jolts out, like your body is sick of waiting for your brain to catch up.

Heat blitzes through your shoulders. Your traps crawl higher, ballooning. Your delts tighten until your shirt feels like wet tissue paper.

Your breath comes out in a stupid half-laugh, half-grunt.

You scratch your chest, and even the way you do it feels different—lazy, confident, cocky, like you’re scratching a piece of property you’re proud of.

The next question loads.

“HOW DO YOU HANDLE PEOPLE WHO DISAGREE WITH YOU?”

Listen respectfully

Engage in civil discussion

CALL ‘EM SNOWFLAKES LOL

You barely even try to click the first one. Your hand doesn’t listen. It slams SNOWFLAKES LOL so hard your mouse skitters.

Something snaps in your posture.

Your spine straightens. Your chest rolls forward. Your feet plant wider apart like they’re bracing for… nothing but attitude.

Your reflection in the laptop darkens, warps—your expression is slipping into that vacant, eternally amused frat-boy smirk, like everything is both too dumb and too easy.

Another question.

“WHICH BEST DESCRIBES YOUR FUTURE?”

Graduate school, advocacy, building change

Partnership and love

BEING AN AMERICAN BADASS, BRO. GOING VIRAL. MAKIN WAVES. RAISING HELL.

You try to click the first one.

Your hand jerks away. Your finger slams the bottom answer like it’s punching a bruise.

You feel it immediately.

Your thighs thicken until your jeans scream. Your calves firm up like you’ve spent your whole life running stadium steps. Your shoulders spread wider, hunched with lazy arrogance.

You let out this low, satisfied noise—half-groan, half-chuckle.

You look stupid. And for the first time, it feels… right.

The HR portal flashes:

“MENTAL ALIGNMENT: 63%” “PHYSICAL ALIGNMENT: 57%” “PROCEED, BRO.”

Your breathing gets heavier. Not from panic—your brain doesn’t have enough horsepower left for that. More like your new body weight is inhaling for you, chest rising like it’s proud to fill a room.

Another page loads. Bright red, white, and blue.

“VALUES VERIFICATION: RECORD YOUR PLEDGE.”

You stare.

A giant red button pulses:

“START RECORDING.”

You try to back away. Your chair doesn’t roll.

Your legs lock. Your torso leans forward.

You hit Record.

Your webcam light clicks on.

And you hear yourself talking.

Except you don’t remember deciding to talk. Or thinking. Or forming words.

Your mouth just moves, spitting out garbage with total conviction:

“Yeah bro, uh—hell yeah, I’m like… all in for Congressman Halloway, dude. Real America, bro. God, guns, freedom, all that. I ain’t lettin any soft-ass losers tell me otherwise.”

Your voice sounds deeper. Rougher. Like you’ve been yelling over bar music for years.

You keep going, drooling pure stupidity:

“Can’t wait to like, y’know, serve the campaign an’ stuff. Go viral. Show people how a real man reps Texas. We don’t got time for all that crybaby woke crap.”

The recording ends by itself.

You stare at the screen in horror.

Or… you try to.

It’s getting harder to feel horror. Harder to form a thought more complicated than hell yeah or weak crap.

Your brain feels like someone poured Gatorade in it and shook.

The system uploads your pledge automatically.

A new message pops up:

“PLEDGE ACCEPTED.” “REWARDING COMMITMENT.”

Your whole body tenses at once.

Your chest swells forward. Your arms hang heavier. Your shirt digs into your widening frame until the seams give a little pop.

Your eyebrows thicken slightly, shifting into a resting scowl that reads as permanent irritation.

Your jaw edges sharper. Your eyes haze a little, the beginnings of that hollow frat stare—lazy and aggressive at the same time.

You blink slowly, like thinking is optional.

The portal loads a final segment:

“INFLUENCER IDENTITY PACKAGE” “FOR THE YOUTH OUTREACH INTERN.”

You groan involuntarily. A stupid, eager sound.

And then, in big neon letters:

“ACTIVATE YOUR BRAND (REQUIRED)”

Your finger hits ACTIVATE before you can even wonder what the hell that means.

Your phone buzzes.

TikTok opens.

A new video is uploading automatically.

It’s you again.

Except worse.

Tank top. Backwards hat. Arms bulging. Neck thick. Face slack and cocky. Your voice deep and stupid:

“Yooo what’s up boys it’s your guy Tanner—yeah that’s my new handle lol—day two of the Halloway hustle, bro! Texas pride all day baby! Anybody cryin about it can stay mad!”

Tanner.

You choke on that name. You never typed that. You never said that.

But the portal screen already displays:

“LEGAL NAME UPDATE REQUEST SUBMITTED.” “INTERN BADGE: TANNER HOLTZ.”

Your stomach flips.

Your brain tries to fight.

Then the buzzing in your head slams down like a lid.

You feel your last real thought pop like a soap bubble.

The portal dings softly.

“IDENTITY INTEGRATION: 94% COMPLETE.”

Your breathing gets slow. Heavy. Lazy. Confident. Empty.

You drag your eyes to the bathroom mirror.

And standing there is someone you’d never speak to at a bar. Someone you used to avoid in college. Someone who embodies every insecurity you ever had about “real men.” Someone loud, obnoxious, thick-necked, cocky, vapid, and politically rabid.

Your pecs rise like built-in shields. Your traps swell. Your posture screams bro. Your face drifts into a smirk too dumb to fix.

You scratch your jaw, staring at yourself like you’re checking out new gym equipment.

A dull, thick, arrogant satisfaction spreads through you.

You barely remember what you were worried about.

The portal flashes one last time:

“FINAL STEP: COMPLETE YOUR REBRAND.” “JUST ONE MORE CLICK, BRO.”

Your hand is already on the mouse.

You don’t even question it.

You click.

The screen explodes with red, white, and blue.

Your brain buzzes so loud you forget there was ever silence.

And the last pieces of you fall away like lint.

You are Tanner now— a pussy-hungry, conservative, frat-brained campaign bro— and every dumb second of it feels right.

You’ve worked weddings before, but nothing like this.

The tent was absurdly large—vaulted white canvas with golden tassels and strings of fairy lights that glittered in the soft dusk like some Disney fantasy brought to life. You’d been pouring drinks since three, and your white button-up was already clinging to your back with sweat, collar rubbing raw against your neck. The soft leather dress shoes pinched your toes with every damn step, but of course, you smiled through it. Tips were good here. Very good.

The crowd? Not your scene. At all.

Everyone was white, wealthy, and Christian, the kind of smug, tight-lipped Christians who looked like they’d tip well, then leave you a pamphlet about Jesus instead. They made polite small talk about stocks, baptisms, golf scores. And they kept looking at you—the help—with tight smiles. The men wore navy suits like armor. The women? Bare shoulders, pearls, fake smiles, and diamond wedding bands the size of your fucking ego.

You stayed silent. Hidden. You were good at that.

You’ve learned to keep the ‘gay’ to yourself at these gigs. Just a job, you told yourself. You’re 28, an aspiring actor, waiting tables and pouring drinks, just grinding, hoping for a break. In your head, you saw your name in lights. But tonight? You’re just Eric, anonymous bartender, serving lemon-thyme gimlets to people who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.

You were at the edge of the tent, watching them toast with your drinks, laughing that nasal, hollow laugh only old money can perfect, when she approached.

At first, you didn’t even notice her. She wasn’t loud like the rest of them. Just… there.

A soft click of heels on the wood floor.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, honeyed.

You looked up. Pretty. Blonde. Young. Hair in soft curls down her shoulders, pink silk dress hugging a slim, almost delicate figure. She held her vodka soda like it was an extension of her hand, poised, fingers perfectly manicured. Her smile was faint—not bubbly, not flirtatious—just… knowing.

“Uh, can I get you something?” you asked, standing a little straighter.

She shook her head, sipping. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“No. I just needed a break from the vultures.”

You offered a polite smile. “Tough crowd?”

She nodded slowly, glancing toward a table of older women in pastel dresses and tight blonde curls.

“They’re all over me,” she said. “My mom, my aunt, everyone. Asking when I’m gonna find a husband. Settling down.” She sipped again. “They think it’s urgent.”

You forced a little laugh. “Well… you’ve got time. No rush, right?”

Her gaze sharpened. Just for a second.

“Hmm.” She looked you over, head tilted. “Maybe. But you know, you’d make a great husband.”

That caught you off guard.

You laughed awkwardly. “Oh, uh… I don’t think so. I’m a gold star gay. Never even—well, let’s just say I’m not exactly in the market.”

You expected her to laugh. Maybe blush. Instead, she sipped her drink again, slow, deliberate.

“Gold star,” she repeated. “Right. That’s… cute.”

Something about the way she said it made your skin prickle. You looked away, clearing your throat.

“But hey,” you added, trying to lighten it, “I can still pour a mean martini.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly. “You just seem like someone who’s… got potential. You just need a little polish.”

“Polish?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite the sudden unease.

She nodded, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. Just some tweaks. Nothing big.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. Like your shirt had just gotten snug, right between your pecs. You tugged at the buttons absentmindedly, fingers fidgeting.

Her eyes flicked down—just briefly—then back up.

“Your posture, for one,” she said, voice feather-light. “You slouch. Like you’re hiding.”

“I—what?”

“Stand up straighter.”

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated. Then, out of instinct—or obedience?—you pulled your shoulders back slightly.

Something popped. Not painful, just… odd. Your spine crackled softly as it shifted. Your shoulders pulled back tighter, chest pushing forward, head lifting.

“There,” she whispered. “That’s better.”

You blinked, breath caught in your throat. Your back ached, just a little, but it felt… firm. Right, in a weird way. Like this is how you should stand.

You gave a weak chuckle, rubbing your neck. “I guess I needed that adjustment.”

Her eyes gleamed. “You have no idea.”

Then, casually, like she was commenting on the weather: “Your jaw could be sharper too. You’ve got… a soft look.”

Your hand flew up to your face, fingertips brushing your jawline. It felt normal. Maybe. But now that she’d said it, you felt this weird tingling—along your chin, up toward your cheekbones. A faint tightness, like something pulling beneath the skin.

“What are you—?”

Her smile widened. Still small, but smug.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice syrupy. “You’d look so much better with some angles. Masculine angles. You’re too… pretty.”

Your stomach twisted. Was she negging you? Was this some rich-girl flirting? You didn’t know. Your fingers kept running over your jaw, which suddenly felt… heavier. Square. The skin tight.

“Look, I should—”

“You’d be hot with a fade,” she interrupted, cutting you off.

You froze.

She stepped in closer. “Short on the sides. Clean. Tight. Get rid of this…” She gestured vaguely at your hair. “Floppy little theater-boy thing. You’d look like a man.”

You tried to speak. Tried to laugh. But your scalp was tingling now. Itching.

You scratched behind your ear, and—holy shit—was your hairline receding? No, no, not receding. Just… sharpening. Pulling back tight on the sides. You could feel it. Your fingers ran along the edge. The hair there was shorter. Clipped.

“I think I need to go,” you said, voice cracking. You stumbled backward, heat pulsing under your skin.

But she just smiled, one brow raised.

“You’ll come find me later,” she said. “You won’t want to leave.”

Your heart thumped—hard.

And then you were stumbling out of the tent into the sticky night air, shirt tight across your chest, scalp crawling, jaw aching—and nothing felt normal anymore.

The night air hit your face like a slap—hot, humid, thick with salt from the Atlantic nearby—but you barely noticed it. You stumbled away from the glowing tent, down the path that led toward the back garden, lungs gulping air like you’d just run a mile. Your hands were shaking.

You pressed your fingers to your jaw again—still sharp. Still wrong. You could feel the change now. Not imagined. Solid. Defined.

And your hair. You reached up again, pulling at it, but it was shorter now. On the sides, it felt stiff, buzzed, the kind of short cut you’d never get unless you were some jock with too much testosterone and no imagination. You tugged at the front, hoping to find the messy blond fringe you’d spent years perfecting—but even that felt thinner, coarser.

Your reflection in the garden mirror, hung obnoxiously on a tree for some rustic aesthetic, nearly made you gag.

Your face… was changing. The softness was gone. Your cheekbones popped sharp under your skin, and your jaw looked like it had been chiseled by a gym-obsessed barber. Your lips, once full and pouty, seemed thinner, pressed in a tight, neutral scowl. Your eyes—still blue, but darker now—held something else. A little deadness. A little cockiness. You didn’t like what was staring back.

“Just stand up straighter.”

Her voice echoed in your ears. That’s where it started. The little suggestion. Then the jaw. The haircut. You didn’t know what she was doing or how, but something was happening. And you had to get out.

You turned, almost running back toward the staff area, but your pants pinched, tight across your thighs. You stumbled, nearly falling over. You grunted—wait, that grunt, low and rough, wasn’t yours. It sounded… thicker, like it came from someone with a meatier neck.

You grabbed at your thighs. Holy shit. They were swollen, tight with pressure. The black slacks strained across them, seams groaning. You could feel the muscle—solid, hard, hot under the fabric. Your calves, too. The way they filled out your socks—they were like fucking tree trunks. Your ass—God, it felt huge, rounded, bouncing with every desperate step.

“No, no, fuck—what is happening?” you hissed, staggering behind the bar.

You found the employee bathroom again, locked the door, and stared into the mirror.

Your chest had swollen.

Your shirt barely closed now. Each breath pulled it tighter, buttons gaping around your pecs. Your nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric—hard, pointed. A thin dusting of chest hair peeked through the collar, darker than your natural blond, coarse and itchy. You clawed at it, pulling the shirt open.

You gasped.

Your abs—were real. Not the faint hint you used to have, but deep, solid slabs of muscle. Six, maybe eight. Your torso was soaked in sweat, and not the nervous kind—the rank, salty kind that stank of work, of iron, of testosterone. You reeked. Musky. Raw.

And fuck, it was turning you on.

Your cock—now thicker, hanging heavy in your tight briefs—twitched as you ran your hand down your stomach. The hair below your navel was growing too, thicker, darker, trailing downward. Your legs throbbed, constricted by the pants.

You fumbled to unbutton them—but your hands.

They were meaty, knuckles thicker, nails cut short. Your fingers looked like they belonged to a mechanic, not a twink. Veins snaked down your arms, bulging. You yanked at the pants. The button popped off, clattering to the tile. The zipper strained and split, revealing your stretched, sweat-soaked briefs underneath. Your cock strained the fabric—huge, meaty, thick as your fucking forearm.

You panted, sweat dripping down your nose.

And then—her voice again.

“You’re looking better already.”

Your head snapped toward the door.

She was outside.

You didn’t even ask how she got there. How she knew.

“I told you. Just a little polish,” she said, voice silky. “Now look at you. Thick. Strong. Smelling like a man.”

You backed away from the door, heart racing.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” you barked—but your voice…

It was deeper. Husky. That bro tone. Casual. Slight rasp, like you’d been yelling over music at the gym or screaming at a game.

“Just helping you,” she said sweetly. “You were… soft. Lost. Confused. But this—this is who you’re supposed to be.”

You shook your head, veins popping in your neck.

“No—I’m gay. I’m an actor. This isn’t me.”

Her laughter was soft. Dangerous.

“Oh honey. You were gay. You were an actor. But gay little actors don’t look like that,” she purred. “Not with those arms.”

You looked down. Your biceps pumped, heavy, swollen, corded with veins. You flexed—instinct—and the muscle bulged. Your cock twitched again.

“You wanna be seen, don’t you?” she whispered. “Not for your little monologues or drama class tears. But for your body. Your gains. For her eyes on you.”

You gripped the sink, breathing heavy.

“No—fuck—no…”

But even as you said it, you were flexing in the mirror.

Watching yourself.

Admiring.

And you didn’t know why, but you liked what you saw.

Your sweat. Your size. Your dominance.

And God help you… you wanted more.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the bathroom.

The mirror was steaming, fogged with your breath and body heat. Your shirt was long gone, pants torn at the seams, briefs soaked in sweat and stretched tight over a cock that refused to soften. You were panting, growling under your breath, unable to stop flexing, admiring yourself.

Your traps rose like fucking mountains into your thick neck. Your chest — fuck, your pecs — were massive, broad and firm, nipples jutting through coarse hair that now coated you from shoulders to abs. Your arms, roped with muscle, pulsed with each movement, and your biceps sat high and proud, begging for attention.

And you gave it to them.

“Fuckin’… alpha,” you muttered, not even thinking, just saying it, low and primal. You grunted, cock twitching, the stink of your own arousal filling the bathroom.

You tried — tried — to remember who you were before this. Your name. Your life. Something about acting? A city? Men?

But it all felt like a dream. Like some faggy, pathetic dream you used to have before you grew up.

Before she found you.

There was a knock at the door. Light. Controlled.

“Husband,” came her voice — calm, certain, like it had always belonged to you. “Come out.”

You blinked.

Husband?

You felt a sharp sting in your chest, like a rope pulling tight around your heart — and with it, something snapped inside.

You knew your name.

“Brad.”

You whispered it. Then again — louder.

“Fuckin’ Brad.”

You growled it, owned it, felt it swell in your chest like a new set of lungs filling for the first time.

Brad didn’t act. Brad didn’t pretend.

Brad lived.

Brad lifted.

Brad fucked.

You grabbed the bathroom handle, flung the door open — and there she was. Your woman.

She smiled when she saw you. Not sweet. Satisfied. Like someone admiring her work.

You stepped out, shirtless, stinking, body bronzed from head to toe. Your tight black boxer briefs clung to your monster cock, which throbbed visibly with each step. Her eyes lingered on it, and you grinned — cocky, hungry, ready.

She stepped close, running her fingers along your chest. “There you are.”

You huffed through your nose, nostrils flaring. “Damn right.”

Her touch made your cock leap. You wanted her. Needed to breed her. Your balls ached, heavy, full, ready to fill her up.

“God,” you groaned, grinding against her. “You fuckin’ did this, huh?”

Her nails dug lightly into your skin. “Mmm. You’re so much better now.”

You smirked, flexing your chest.

“Fuck yeah. Ain’t no fag actor now. Just Brad. God’s fuckin’ soldier.”

She laughed, soft and pleased. “And what do good Christian men do, Brad?”

You didn’t even pause.

“Breed.”

You lifted her — effortlessly — her dress riding up as you pressed her against the garden tree. Her legs wrapped around your waist, your cock grinding against her soaked panties.

“Gonna put a fuckin’ baby in you,” you growled, rutting against her. “For God. For us. For fuckin’ America.”

She gasped, breathless. “Yes. That’s my husband.”

The reception was still going strong—rich white guests swaying to some acoustic country bullshit, drunk on overpriced wine and family legacy. The Hamptons night was soft and warm, the tent glowing with golden light, laughter spilling across the manicured lawn.

You didn’t give a shit.

You had your girl pinned in the coat closet behind the tent, lights off, door locked, the air thick with musk and sex. The scent of expensive wool jackets mixed with the raw stink of your body—sweat, cologne, and the musky tang of your leaking cock.

You were still in that tight white button-up, but the sleeves were rolled high, sweat stains soaking the pits. The shirt strained against your chest, the fabric barely holding on over your swollen pecs. Top buttons ripped open—who cared? Your abs were carved, sweaty, flexing as you thrusted, hips pounding against her ass.

You’d shoved her up against the coats, one hand gripping her throat, the other clamped on her hip, holding her right where she belonged.

“Fuckin’ mine now,” you growled, voice low, gravelly, cock slamming deep, again and again, sweat dripping from your brow onto her back.

She moaned, breathless, body trembling.

“Brad—fuck—what if someone—”

You grinned, cocky as hell, rutting into her harder.

“Let ‘em fuckin’ hear, babe. Let ‘em know I’m claimin’ you, right here, where they can smell my cum on you all fuckin’ night.”

You reeked—like sweat, testosterone, and dominance. Your gold chain swung with every thrust, slapping against your hairy, muscled chest.

You looked down—your cock was huge, veined, soaked in her slick. Your balls swung heavy, swollen with your next load. You’d already bred her once earlier, in the garden, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Gonna fill you again,” you snarled, gripping her ass, slapping it hard. “Put a fuckin’ baby in you, right next to this goddamn coat rack. Ain’t gonna wait for marriage, ain’t gonna wait for nothin’. We own this place now.”

She whimpered, moaned, her legs shaking.

You pounded into her — and every thrust erased more of who you were. You couldn’t remember your old name. Couldn’t remember acting, couldn’t remember men, couldn’t remember why the fuck you’d ever cared about anything but this.

Her tits. Her tight pussy. Your cock. Your gains. Your God.

You flexed in the mirror behind her, watching your massive body dominate her petite frame. You looked perfect. Tanned. Jacked. Alpha as fuck. This wasn’t acting—this was real.

You weren’t a waiter. You weren’t an actor. You weren’t even gay.

You were Brad Turner, 29, fitness influencer, Christian conservative, and breeder.

You roared, balls tightening, cock exploding, spraying her full again, thick hot cum dripping down her thighs, your breath heavy, sweaty, triumphant.

You didn’t pull out. Fuck that.

You stayed buried in her, flexing, panting, smirking like the cocky bastard you were.

“Fuck, babe… that’s how a man claims his girl. Not with rings. Not with vows. With cum.”

You grabbed your phone from the coat pocket, snapped a pic of her dripping on your cock.

“For the bros,” you muttered.

Caption: “Bred her good. #GodsPlan #FitnessAndFaith #AlphaForLife”

Send.

You came hard — with a roar that shook the trees — flooding her, filling her. Claiming her.

When you pulled back, sweaty, panting, glowing with pride, she cupped your face.

“You’re perfect now,” she whispered.

You zipped up, no shame, buttoning your sweaty shirt half-assed, your chain glinting.

You walked out of the closet first, strutting, your girl limping behind, legs sticky, dress clinging to her soaked thighs.

People looked up. The air was thick with your stink.

You winked.

“Just makin’ memories,” you said, loud enough for the whole damn tent to hear.

And they all knew—Brad fucking Turner had bred his girl.

Right there.

You smiled, rubbing your sweaty, musky pits proudly.

“Fuck yeah. Brad’s the fuckin’ man.”

You looked down at your body — jacked, filthy, soaked in sweat and sex.

“Let’s go home, babe. I gotta hit the gym in the morning. Then church.”

And as you walked away, her hand in yours, you never once thought of your old life.

Brad didn’t look back.

Brad had everything he needed.

And he’d never be that weak little fag again.

You’re sitting at your desk, the glow of your shitty old monitor lighting your face, when you notice the search bar autocomplete filling with weird-ass shit. Not your stuff. Not your typing.

"gay to straight transformation device dark web legit?" "amicably breaking up with your straight boyfriend" "jock tf live reality" "liberal to conservative curse?"

Your stomach drops. It’s his computer too, but you know damn well those aren’t your searches. Your boyfriend — soft, conflict-avoidant, the kind of guy who would rather write a notes app apology than raise his voice — has been looking this shit up.

At first you tell yourself it’s some porn rabbit hole, some freaky kink click-through. But you remember what you saw last week in the history: "how to break up with your boyfriend without hurting his feelings." And that stung. You’d already been feeling the cracks, the long silences at dinner, the way he doesn’t touch you first anymore. Now this?

You’re just about to dig deeper when his voice comes from the doorway. “Babe… come here. I wanna show you something.”

You spin, nerves taut. He’s standing there, half-smile plastered on, but his hand’s clutching something behind his back. A cheap little black plastic gadget with a red button, like something from a dollar store sci-fi movie.

“What the fuck are you holding?” you ask, ready to blow this all open, confront him about the history, the lies, the weird-ass shit.

Instead he steps closer, tone casual but with an edge. “It’s… something I found. Don’t laugh. It’s from a site you can’t normally get to. They said… anything I say while holding this? Becomes real. No questions, no delay. Just… boom. Reality locked.”

You scoff, but your throat’s dry. “What, like a magic wand? You’ve been looking up ‘jock tf’ and now you wanna LARP Harry Potter? I want to talk about our relationship”

He ignores you, raises the thing like it’s a mic, and says with this strange firmness you’ve never heard from him before: “What relationship? You’re not my boyfriend. You’re just my straight-ass roommate. Nothing more.”

And it’s like a hammer slams into your skull. You stagger, clutching your temples. Heat flares in your face, in your gut. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but the words tangle in your throat. And as the migraine spikes, you see it — pictures on your wall melting, Polaroids of the two of you kissing warping into dumb group shots of keggers. Your phone contact list shuffles, his name dropping from “boyfriend ❤️” to “Roomie Kev 🍺.”

“Dude… what the fuck,” you croak, your voice already slipping down a register, less sharp, more lax, like some hungover college guy.

He laughs, giddy, holding the thing tighter. “Holy shit, it worked. You felt that, didn’t you?”

You try to protest, to say we were dating, you asshole, but the thought slides out of reach, replaced by this dull certainty that you’ve been living in this two-bedroom off-campus apartment with him for a couple years, nothing special, just roommates splitting rent. The memories are all jumbled — your first kiss is gone, replaced by the time you both got drunk and stole a traffic cone.

You stumble to the mirror in the hall. Your face looks the same — for now. But your hair feels greasier, your posture sagging just slightly. You smell your own breath and wince — stale beer, not toothpaste.

Behind you he grins wider, pressing the device to his chest like it’s a holy relic. “This is just the start, bro. Trust me… I’m gonna make us so much better.”

And your head won’t stop pounding.

You’re leaning against the wall, skull buzzing like someone’s splitting it open with a screwdriver. The air feels thick, sour, like the room hasn’t been aired out in weeks. Kev’s pacing now, that ugly little gadget clutched in his hand, and he’s got that manic look — the one he gets when he’s found some new “lifehack” online that he won’t shut up about.

“Dude… you seriously can’t,” you mutter, your words slurring into something less sharp, less you. “That shit—whatever you just did—it fucked with my head. I can’t… remember right.”

He stops, smirks, and presses the button with his thumb like it’s a toy. “Nah bro. You’re just my roommate. Always been my roommate. We’ve never dated. We’re just… two dumb straight dudes sharing a place, right?”

Your chest lurches. The weight of it sinks in. Photos of Pride parades, gone. The rainbow sticker you know was on your laptop, now replaced with a faded sticker of a football team you don’t even follow. Your closet shifts — bright shirts dull into rows of hoodies and cheap polos.

Your voice comes out weaker this time, defensive but already flattening: “The fuck, man, I… we… no, we weren’t always…” But then it just dies off, replaced by a memory of you two moving boxes into this place after freshman year, talking about how “college bitches were gonna love us.”

Your throat tastes like vomit. Your head’s fogged.

Kev’s grinning now, pacing like a preacher working up a sermon. He lifts the device, says casually, “And like, we’re not into guys, man. We’re both straight as fuck. Always drooling over chicks, right? Like, big tits, tight asses, that’s our shit.”

You grab the edge of the wall, groaning. The words echo inside your skull until they’re not just his voice anymore — they’re your own voice, saying it in unison. Suddenly every hookup memory you’ve got is gone, replaced by blurry, shitty images of parties where you “almost scored” with some drunk sorority girl. Your stomach knots with shame, but also with hunger. Hunger for girls.

You choke out: “N-no, dude, I’m not… I’m not into—” But the words dissolve. The idea of sucking a guy’s dick feels revolting now, like licking trash. The thought of tits in your face? Your cock twitches without permission.

Kev laughs, notices you shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah bro, we’re the worst. Straight-up pussydrunk. Fuckin’ born to smash, not this gay shit.”

Your reflection in the hallway mirror has slipped further. Shoulders hunched, neck looser, a little puffier around the jaw. Your skin’s slick with sweat you didn’t notice building. You smell awful — like gym socks, beer breath, a whiff of stale Axe.

Kev watches you like a scientist observing a rat in a maze. “Shit, look at you. Already looking like a roommate, not a boyfriend.” He grins, pushes it further: “And like… we’re both in college. Twenty years old, pledging the frat together. Dumb as shit, living for keggers.”

It hits like a sledgehammer. Your memories of work, of life outside campus, evaporate like spit on hot asphalt. You’re suddenly back in a cramped frat basement — keg stands, yelling dudes, someone puking in a trash can. Your desk with books and news articles? Gone, replaced with a cheap plastic folding table covered in Natty Light cans and crusty red Solo cups.

“Dude, my head,” you groan, rubbing your temples, “this is… fuckin’ wrong.”

But when you hear yourself, your voice is already dumber, lazier, vowels dragged down like some half-stoned bro.

Kev slaps your shoulder, laughing with mean delight. “Nah man, it’s right. This is us. Dumbass bros, livin’ the dream.”

You want to fight it, to scream about who you were — but all that comes to mind now is a vague memory of almost failing Intro Psych because you kept skipping class to lift weights.

And the worst part? Your body tingles like it likes it.

Kev’s eyes are wild now, drunk on the power of that little black box. You’re slumped on the couch, sweating through your shirt, head thick with fog. Every time he speaks, reality cracks harder. Your chest aches like your ribs are stretching, your brain buzzing like someone poured bleach into it.

Kev lifts the device again, grinning. “Bro, this roommate shit’s good… but let’s make it real perfect.”

He presses the button. “We’re not just roommates. We’re brothers. Frat bros. Twenty years old. Dumb as fuck, always shirtless, always schemin’ on pussy.”

Your spine arches with a jolt. You clutch your stomach as fat melts off, muscles knotting in its place. Not sculpted — sloppy frat gains, puffy pecs, arms thick but veiny. Your shirt tears at the seams as your shoulders widen. Sweat pours down your back, thick and sour.

“Dude—fuck—my head,” you groan, but your voice cracks into a lazy, dumb drawl. “Bro… my… my gains, man…”

Kev grunts too, doubling over, his soft frame bulking out beside you. His face roughens, jaw squaring, acne scars surfacing. His hair shortens into a greasy buzzcut. He rips his own shirt off, flexing dumbly, drooling at his own reflection.

The room shifts again. No more apartment. Dingy off-campus frat house. Walls stained with beer, posters of bikini models and American flags taped up crooked. Your desk is gone — now it’s a busted-up futon covered in stains.

Kev laughs, voice breaking into a crude rasp: “Fuck yeah, bro. We’re Theta Pi, man. Fuck books, fuck smarts, we’re just beer, pussy, and Jesus.”

The words burrow in. College courses you cared about—gone. Your memory of voting in the last election—gone. Instead: vague recollections of “yelling at libs on Twitter” between bong rips.

You try to protest, but all that comes out is: “Yooo… we gotta get some bitches over, bro.”

Your cock twitches in your sweats — small, embarrassingly so — but your brain treats it like a weapon. Your stomach clenches with raw, stupid horniness. Tits. Ass. Nothing else matters.

Kev wobbles toward you, still flexing, sweat dripping down his forehead. “And yo, we’re straight as fuck, man. Like, no homo. We hate that shit. Always been about pussy. Always will be.”

Your heart seizes. The last threads of memory—holding hands with him, kissing him, the warmth of a real boyfriend—rip apart like wet paper. What’s left is nothing but shared drunken nights, jerking off to Pornhub side by side, calling each other “no homo” when you did it.

You look at him—no, your bro—and it clicks. You’ve never been boyfriends. You’ve never been gay. You’re two dumb conservative frat dudes, horny, stinking, bored with everything except tits and beer.

The final blow comes when Kev raises the box, grins wide, and shouts: “Yo, we’re just average-ass boring bros. Nothin’ special. Just straight-up brahs, small dicks, big mouths, livin’ for the frat.”

Your body locks. Your brain caves. You grunt, rubbing your greasy buzzed head, and a dopey smirk spreads across your face. You like being nothing special. Just another forgettable frat retard, muscles sloppy, balls aching, mind empty.

Kev tosses the device aside — forgotten, irrelevant. He slaps your back so hard you nearly puke. “Fuck yeah, bro. We made it. No gay shit, no boring boyfriend crap. Just us. Bros.”

You laugh stupidly, voice deeper, dumber. “Hell yeah, bro. Bros forever.”

The stink of beer and sweat fills your nose. The thought of who you were before? Doesn’t even exist.

You and Kev—no, Brad and Kyle now—are just two obnoxious, horny, Christian frat boys. Small dicks, big egos, dumb as bricks, ready to party, pray, and pump.

This is a follow up to FML: Fraternize as selected by you for my 2,500 subscriber special. It took longer than expected and had a few rewrites, but I promised you all this would be the next story released. Hopefully it is worth the wait.

In all my years at this university I had never seen anything like it. Week after week students were seeming to disappear. You expect to see some flux in enrollment as students change schedules and drop classes. But these students weren’t removing themselves from classes. It was as though they were never enrolled at all. Initially within the department we all had our pet theories on the matter. But in a few weeks it was clear where they were going. It isn’t hard to notice a lot more students milling around the business campus, or the sudden discussion within administration of expanding the personal training and physiology tracts. We were all just left wondering why.

I finally hit my breaking point near the end of the semester when one of my more promising students disappeared from my roster. I asked the other pre-law professors and sure enough, they couldn’t find a trace of him ever taking a class in the department. However, I did find one lead. One of my students must have heard me discussing it with the TA’s and said that he was a member of a fraternity on campus. I groaned at the thought of having to trek out there, but I knew it was the quickest way to get some closure. Against my better judgment, I headed to the Eta Psi Rho house.

Every step there filled me with dread. I hate to confess it, but I had once attended this same university, and yes, even tried to join a fraternity. It had been such a long time ago, but I could still remember the cruel ways that my brothers had mocked, berated, and punished pledges. Fraternities we’re nothing but a blight on this campus that produced people like… well people like the man who greeted me out front.

Honestly. Back in our days at least we had the good sense to drag our brothers inside. It’s a shock campus police had not raided the place yet. I knelt down. He reeked of booze and sweat. His snore was almost deafening. Even if his brothers wouldn’t help him, I couldn’t leave him out here. I pestered the young man awake. Groggily, he rose to his feet, stumbling over his feet and his words. Immediately he clapped me on the back, thanking his ‘bro’ for the help. I tried to brush him aside, but his firm grip ushered me inside as he muttered about being late for class. I’m surprised he was still enrolled. Regardless, he helped me get inside and one of his ‘bruhs’ tried pointing me in the right direction where I could find my lost student. I began wandering the halls, looking for any sign of the young man, but they were eerily empty inside. What was I saying, the young men were all in their classes surely. Still, when from down the hall I suddenly heard, “I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood,” chanted in unison, I was a bit shocked. I walked up to the door and peered in, hoping to get better directions. I was met with a group of young men, glassy eyed, staring deep into a static filled television.

I walked in front of one young man, trying to get his attention. It was like I wasn't there as he stared right through me. It was no use, and the sound and light in the room was giving me a headache. I was about to leave when suddenly, from the TV, a clear command:

Brothers are lean and muscular.

Brothers are lean and muscular, the men all repeated. I nearly jumped out of my skin as the young man before me changed. His skin rippled for a moment, as though a chill went down his spine. Then, he began to swell. It came in bubbles, uneven and tumorous. But each patch began to combine and normalize with those around it until it suddenly stopped and a different man sat before me. At least, that's what I told myself as I bolted from the room.

Lost in the maze of corridors, I was just following the signs to the nearest emergency exit. Something was wrong here. Young men don't just- just GROW. The sign directed me rounded the corner into the laundry room and more pressingly, into a stranger. I started apologizing before I paused. I assumed there had to be a mistake.

The stranger had a familiar air to him. When he had been my student, the young man I knew was clean shaven, a bit shy and reserved in class, but smart as a whip and friendly. The man in front of me was confident. He shot me a smirk as he greeted me, ‘dabbing me up’ and calling me his bro. Up close he was overwhelming. I had known a brother to miss showers but it smelled like he hadn’t rinsed off in a week. The smell of cologne did nothing to hide the alcohol on his breath and the funk emanating from him. And while I could tell he used to be fit this was absurd. He looked chiseled from a magazine cover! The vacant expression was a far cry from the law student I knew. If it weren’t for his face and eyes, I doubt I would have even recognized him.

Regardless of his appearance, I started talking, pleading with him to tell me what was happening. What was happening in this house? Who was responsible for the poor boys in that room? Why did he throw away a bright future for this? But my words never seemed to get through. He pleasantly smiled and nodded, but gave canned answers about ‘brotherhood’. I really should have made for the exit in front of me but I was past the point of logic.

I finally shouted, “I just don’t understand why you would throw your life away for this!”

“This is my life,” he droned, “I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood.”

That same mantra as those young men. I took a breath before continuing. God this place was rank. “Listen son, I know about the brotherhood and this fraternity. But you have to see something wrong is going on here. What were those boys doing in that room?"

"Oh the pledgies? Yeah, initiation is next week, got to make sure they stay in line over the finish line, ya know what I'm saying?"

"Someone's got to stop this. I'm going to the Dean, he'll be able to do something. This fraternity can't operate like this!"

The toothy smile fell, “You’ve got to be loyal to your bros. After all, we are made to be loyal to the frat.” His tone was suddenly flat as he began inching closer. In one swift motion he removed his tank top, flashing all his muscles. In one more, his shorts were on the ground. As he got closer, the heat in the room intensified.

It was getting hard to think, I was feeling so woozy. This bizarre display had gotten far beyond my scope as an educator. I tried to excuse myself, “I think I’d better go, this was a waste of- ” but he was suddenly upon me. I hadn’t realized I had backed myself into a corner.

"Pledge, come here!" and my mind froze.

As much as I wanted to scream and run, I could feel an unnamed power he held over me as his command to stop burrowed into my brain.

"You sound like you were in there for a bit. Let's see how much you got trained. What's a good punishment... ah. Pledge, sniff."

I felt so aroused and so scared as I was forced to closer to the source of his musk. I tried to resist, but something primal drove my nose in and gave a hesitant huff of pure frat bro. I was loosing any… any restraint… left. I couldn’t… resist… my… my…

He smirked, "Bro, what was that? Come on, Pledge, sniff!"

“Yes bruh.” It slipped so easily out, almost as easily as the drool from my mouth. My face crinkled as I shoved my face in his nasty pit. I couldn’t think about it. I sniffed and while I knew it was gross, it all felt fuzzy and warm in my head.

“Oh, you must have been in with them a while. Dude, we can't have you sharing fraternity secrets. Don't worry though, we may be able to save you yet. Come with me.”

My brain only processed the command as I stumbled after him back through the halls. We turned into a familiar room. I stood, head spinning, as he fiddled with a TV for a second and sat himself down.

“I think that the guys won't mind a double dose. Sit next to me.”

“Yeaaah, surrre thing,” I slurred, stumbling into my seat. His firm arm felt nice around me. He held me firmly as he pressed play on the remote and a VHS tape whirred to life. There was a disorientating strobe of colors that left me a bit dazed before starting up into an intro. I was confused at first what the tape was talking about. I wasn’t here to join the fraternity and learn more about a life of brotherhood. The opposite almost. I tried to stand, but his arm held me firmly in place. I started to protest, but the voice sounded so insistent, and it was so confusing to watch. It reminded me of something, some tape I had seen long ago. It was like slipping back into an old pair of pants, something just fit. Maybe I hear him out? Then, the tone switched.

Welcome to the first day of your new life. You have been selected to become one of the few. One of the elite. You feel honored to have been selected.

“I feel honored to be one of the elite,” every voice in the room rang out in unison.

An old pride rose in my chest. I was selected. I was better. I would be in Eta Psi Rho.

This important decision has been made for you. You must accept our guidance. The frat knows best.

“The frat knows best,” we all repeated.

You will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood.

“I will be entirely dedicated to the brotherhood.” It felt good as it slipped out.

Good. Brothers, step out. We have it from here.

My former student brother released my shoulder, stood quickly and left the room. But I didn’t want to leave anymore. I was to watch the tape.

Let’s start with an attitude adjustment. It is important for bros to be bros. Bros are relaxed and carefree.

“Bros are relaxed and carefree.”

I hadn’t realized how much tension I had been holding in. But as I repeated the words, a wave of relaxation rolled down from my neck, through my shoulders, rippling through my arms and torso, all the way through my legs. I let out a satisfied sigh, leaning back into my seat.

Bros eat, sleep, workout, and hang together. Bros just want to spend time with their bros.

“Bros just want to spend time with their bro.”

All sense of time and obligation suddenly felt swirled in my head. I remembered that I was supposed to go, but it felt so distant. Instead, my mind filled with a schedule of work outs, parties, meals, and frat events. I couldn’t give my lecture tonight, I would miss chapter!

In a few short weeks you will be ready for brotherhood. But first, a reminder. You want to complete your pledge. You want to be a brother.

“I want to complete my pledge. I want to be a brother.”

That almost made sense. I wasn’t a pledge, I was too old. Or, I think I am? But quickly that logic was suppressed by something else. I wanted it. I wanted so badly to be a pledge.

The commands were starting to pick up speed.

A pledge does not think for himself. He follows his brothers’ orders and fits in.

“I follow my brothers’ orders and fit in. ”

Yeah, life is so much easier when I can just listen and follow. Let others make the decisions bro.

A pledge will do anything to become a brother.

“I will do anything to become a brother.”

God it felt so good to have it all sorted out.

Now, it is important to not just act like a brother. You need to look like a brother. Feel your body. Focus on it. Every frat bro's body is a temple. A temple prime for trashing. These next four years are the prime of your life. You will enjoy your college years.

That short phrase rushed through my body. An icy chill ran down my spine that froze me in place. My body felt tight as it slowly rewound itself. I felt young blood pulsing through my body as my muscles swelled, releasing the tension of muscle aches and cranky joints. Skin pulled tight against my muscles as years of work and stress smoothed over my body. Not a wrinkle, not a sag, not a follicle of body hair was left behind as I shed my 50’s for my 20’s. Then, all at once, a wave of testosterone washed over me. It was like puberty all over, as I broke out in a cold sweat that carried that young, masculine funk. My voice cracked and softened as I moaned, my cock was flush with hunger. The brain was in no state to resist as years of history were washed away under twenty-something hormones. Bruh, I could feel my brain unfurl and smooth out a bit too. For the first time in decades, I felt young, dumb, and so full of cum.

Brothers' muscles ache from years pushing it too hard in the gym. It feels good to push your body beyond its limits. Protein powder and energy drinks are the fuel that keep you lit. Bros are swole.

“Bros are swole.”

Any twink-ish hopes I had just developed were quickly dashed against pumping iron. I felt the ice melt as my body twisted under my skin and slowly began to sweat. My stomach began to fill as a familiar chalky taste crept up the back of my throat. Protein. A deep aching filled my body, yet it continued to pulse. The more it hurt, the more I wanted it. I watched as each muscle melted inside of me and reformed out of hardened steel.

Brothers know the power of their masculinity. They are not afraid to show off their bodies. It shows others who is in charge. Let weaker men worship you. Use them for your satisfaction. You will be dominant.

I will be dominant.

I rushed to take off my clothes. They suddenly felt so restricting. I thought back to my bro as he made me sniff his rank pits. The way I just complied to his commands. The gravity of his words. I wanted that. No, I deserved that. My brain filled with a rush of new desires. To walk into a room and see people turn. To be loud, to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. I wanted the thrill of the approach as I singled out the hottest body in the room and commanded them around like my bitch. I wanted to feel their desire flush as I roughly tossed them on my bed and pried my jeans off. I deserved their mouth, open and begging for my perfect cock. I earned their hole, clenched tight as they rode for dear life until I berried my seed deep in them. I claimed the cold wind on my skin, proud of a night of conquest as I stood nude at the window, hitting my vape. I could almost feel it. I could almost... smell it? I had lifted my arms above my head, and a smell rolled off my pits. Fuck, that was the smell he had. The smell of dominance. It was mine now. I took a victorious huff.

Finally, let's ensure you can always find what you need in Eta Psi Rho. Look around you at the bros in this room. You will stay together. You will serve each other. You love your bros.

I felt a swell of kinship in my chest. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of the brotherhood. To fucking dominate this school together. But suddenly there was a tension in the air. God, why were my bros so... hot? We had all been factory made to conquer but, something more held us together. There were a few seconds as we all waited for something to happen when, suddenly, the two bros next to me made the first move.

As the room devolved into chaos, the commands kept coming. We recited back diligently between sloppy kisses, deep moans, and grunts as we slid against each other's bodies. We listened but all waited for the command that would get us to cross the finish line.

You will keep it simple, keep it stupid.

“I will keep it simple, keep it stupid.”

My head felt like it was filled with fluff. No thoughts, just instinct.

You will listen to your pledge master, follow all he says.

“I will listen to my pledge master, follow all he says.”

It was so much easier to just trust my bros. Whatever they said went.

You will live for and serve your bros, live for and serve the frat.

“I will live for and serve my bros and the frat.”

I would do anything for my bros. Gotta keep ‘em happy.

What happens in the frat house stays in the frat house. No homo, bro.

I spit out the cock in my mouth as I kept railing the bro below me,

"No homo, bro!"

The frat is life.

“The frat is life.”

Perfect. We anticipate your full initiation. Cum.

Moans echoed through the halls as the tape ended.

A while passed before a door slamming shook me awake. An ache passed through me as I reached for the jug of water next to my bed. The buzz of pre-workout shook me awake. I was in my bedroom of the frat house. I was where I belonged. My big stood over my bed.

“Look at me,” my big said. My body turned to him and hit him with my cockiest smile. It felt good to obey my alpha bro.

The new man spoke, “Shit, that tape did a number on you. I don't know if we've ever inducted someone so old. How do you feel?”

“I feel relaxed and carefree, bruh,” I responded.

My bro slapped me upside the head, “Is that how you respond to your pledge master?”

Of course, how could I forget. I was so dumb sometimes, “Sorry. Good, Sir.”

His face lit up with glee, "Never get over that. Let’s see. Pledge, I brought home a twink for after the party tonight. Warm him up for me."

I felt my cock suddenly swell, rigid at attention. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

My pledge master whistled, “Dang, you know how to pick ‘em Skunk. He's no Long Leg, but he's up there. You picked out his pledge name yet?” I didn’t know his pledge name was skunk. But catching a whiff of myself as I scratched my head, guess it ran in the family.

“Well, if he’s going to keep acting like a smart ass, I’m thinking Prof.”

“Pfft, that’s hilarious,” my pledge master turned back to me, “One last question little bro. How do you feel about Eta Psi Rho?”

I watched as the next employee entered the chamber. He appeared a bit confused, probably having expected a conference room rather than the dark space with mirrored walls. By the look of it, he had no idea that any one of the panes were one-sided, hesitantly fidgeting with his tie as he announced his presence with a timid “Hello?”

I leaned into the microphone, “Good afternoon.” The nervous boy’s eyes dashed around the room, trying to identify the person speaking to him. His physical characteristics and mannerisms resembled a mouse, small and skittish.

“Am I supposed to be here?” he eventually replied, choosing the speaker above my viewpoint as his receptor.

“Yes, this is the meeting to discuss your annual review.” I replied. “You're in the right place, Mr. Donson. Would you like for me to refer to you by your given name?”

The boy shuffled anxiously, “Drayton is fine.”

Habitually, I continued. “I’m sure you're wondering why your annual review this year is different from those in the past. Don’t worry Drayton, you are still one of our top performers, and your review reflects your incredible performance.”

Feeling a delicate surge of confidence, Drayton let a smile sneak up onto his lips. Being clean shaven and still holding some baby fat, it frankly was quite endearing. Cute even.

“As you are already aware, our company has been having some financial issues recently. And as a high-ranking official in our accounting department, I am sure that you are more than knowledgeable on the details of this subject.”

Drayton’s youthful glee faltered for a moment.

“Unfortunately, we do not have the funds available to keep you on board and give you a raise,” I started. “The company would like to offer you a deal: in exchange for accepting a substandard review and a 19% decrease in pay, we will offer you external benefits.”

Shock emerged from Drayton’s face, “What benefits would be worth a fifth of my paycheck?”

“Unfortunately I am liable to disclose that information,” I robotically replied. “You can either accept or tender a resignation.” 

Drayton took a moment to decide, just like all the other employees typically did. But eventually, they all convinced themselves that losing employment at the company was the worse of the two options.

“I’ll accept.”

“Stand by.” I followed procedure, locking the exits and airways into the chamber. Once that was done, I began flipping the switches. Steam mechanisms, followed by audio machines, followed by visual projectors. I did not even pay attention to the squabbling accountant, panicking as his chamber was bombarded with smoke, abrasive phonics, and commands that flashed against the walls and reflected into every corner of the room. 

Thanks to the padding in my control room, I absorbed none of it. I simply ignored Drayton’s screams and opened my laptop, getting back to my own duties as the process did its work. With all the vapors, I typically could not witness any of the changes that happened anyway–which also meant I could never attest to possible allegations if our company did ever come under some sort of legal fire in the future. But sometimes I did spot little things, flashes of commands that were being ingrained into the employee. MASCULINE, TRADITIONAL, ATTENTIVE. The small letters would pulse by an instant, although they were meaningless to me within my enclosed accommodations.

Eventually, my timer went off, and I closed out of the procedure. I exited the program and flipped the switches back over, shutting off all stimulatory mechanisms. It took a moment for the smoke to clear, presenting me with a new version of the employee. More muscular, more masculine, and more virile.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Donovan?”

"It’s Donson, boss." The man stood tall, stoic. His voice now held much more depth and presence.

"It’s Donovan, Drake Donovan,” I affirmed. “That's what's in our system."

I watched the man process this, the command’s installation literally visible behind his now less-intelligent eyes. 

“I see you were able to find part of your new uniform already.” I was referring to the briefs and sweatshorts that were covering the lower half of Drake’s much larger body. The remnants of the former business casual outfit were scattered across his large feet. “The closet behind you will contain the rest of your attire. Company fitness uniforms and approved footwear that will better fit your size and new position.”

“New position?” Drake inquired, his question curious rather than interrogative.

“The company has decided to reassign you as a security liaison, seeing as that will be a better fit for your paygrade.” I typed away at my reviewal report, adding in details of Drake’s benefits package. Increase in height, dramatic increase in musculature, increase in hair, increase in virility…

To save money, the company liked to recycle its employees. We would bring in fresh graduates to run our corporate operations, and then once they hit their pay ceiling, recycled them into more manual, less intellectually-driven roles. Naturally, no one ever filed any complaints about this procedure as no one realized it existed. And even if they did, they would no longer have the brains capable to file such a complaint.

“Sounds good, boss,” Drake replied, even though I had already known what his answer was going to be. With his dominating size and brutish stature, Drake had been remodeled into the standard male form that we needed for our team. And with this mind simplified to only focusing on traditional objectives (upholding masculinity, working out, fulfilling his role), Drake was now bound to solely focus on the company’s objectives. Thanks to the recycling process, our company would keep the profits high and the employee turnover low. And now, Drake would remain entertained without the extra money by merely following orders and enjoying the simpler things in life, like flexing his muscles.

1500 Follower Special here! Thank you all yet again for following and reading :)

Probably for the best not to vacation at a ranch unless you want to learn what a real man is.

My word, this turned into my longest story yet! I hope you enjoy- Given the close finish do keep an eye out for the second place story coming soon! -Occam

The Old Red River Ranch had sent Louis coupons for an all inclusive vacation. Obviously he found the idea immediately shady and dubious, but checking reviews online it looks like the place is legit. He holds onto a healthy suspicion that the offer remains too good to be true but starts packing up to head out nevertheless. After what feels like no time at all he’s headed west to get some rest and relaxation at the Old Triple R.

Arriving at the ranch proper, Louis does not make it far at all before his expectations are dashed. None of the photos or information in his little pamphlet suggested that he would be working but as he rode a shuttle in he passed large advertisements boasting of the opportunity for visitors to labor for such a high caliber ranch as the Triple R. It’s not like he was expecting a spa, but dude ranches don’t typically have you herding cattle right?

Louis is crestfallen as he is dropped off on the dusty road with his luggage. The shuttle driver tips his hat and says, “Be back in a week aye?” and promptly speeds back the way he came. Louis stares off dumbfounded at the trail of dust in his wake, that can’t be right can it? He would’ve sworn it was only three or four days, really he should know eh. Louis is interrupted before he is really able to interrogate his memory by a large hand patting his back.

“Hey there partner, you must be Louie.” Louis catches himself before he falls over and struggles to hide the fear in his eyes by plastering a tight-lipped smile on. Looking to see his assailant he finds a shockingly large man, at least a foot and a half taller than himself and a chest wide and hairy enough that Louis can’t help but think of the livestock the man must help rear. He opens his mouth to say something though his mind bombards him with too many options to spit out. The cowboy throws out a hand to shake which, nothing if not a gentleman, Louis cannot help but meet with his own.

Clearly not from the South, Louis is not at all expecting his hand to be trapped in an iron grip. His eyes widen as he sees the tendons in the man’s arm tense to enact this pain unto him, his eyes glistening above a perpetual grin, “Names Rusty, happy to have ya here Louie.” In response Louis struggles to put any power into his own grip before sheepishly replying, “It’s uh Louis actually.” Rusty lets loose a hearty laugh and slams his meaty palm into Louis’ back once more, “Hah sorry ‘bout that bud. Trust I’ll get it right next time. How ‘bout we get you inside there?”

Without waiting for a response Rusty hoists up Louis’ luggage and breaks for the ranch house at the end of a long dirt path. Louis watches him run off, unable to overlook how powerful his ass and thighs are in his tight jeans. He sighs before bouncing on his backpack and slowly following after, reconsidering if this experience is even worth suffering through for free. First things first though, he’ll need to get his stuff back from the oaf that just made off with it. 

Aidan was just starting his second year at university. The summer home with family had been exhausting and he was pumped to be back on campus with everyone and to get back to his routine. Ever since going off to college he’d been trying to work on himself, including going to the gym for the first time in his life. He’d gotten into a good routine his freshman year but hadn’t managed to gain much muscle yet, to his dismay. He was hoping to change that this year. The first day of classes had been a snoozefest, just reading syllabi and some uncomfortable ice breakers, so he was ready to get out of the classroom and into the gym again.

He walked into the campus gym and glanced around to see what was open. He noticed what looked like the wrestling team in the back, hogging all the squat racks and making their presence known with obnoxious grunting. Making a mental note to avoid that area today, Aidan went over to the treadmill to warm up. He’d always been on the nerdier side growing up, and while he did have a year of exercise under his belt now, he still didn’t fit in with that kind of crowd. Aidan put in his earbuds and got to it, the next hour flying by as he did a mild total body workout to ease himself back in.

Satisfied with himself for the day, he grabbed his water bottle and headed to the locker room. Normally he hated changing here and would just walk home first, but he had a club meeting that evening and he didn’t have time to go all the way back. He walked in and was immediately assaulted by the stench, the room absolutely stunk of BO and sweat. Yeah it was a locker room but this was a bit much, he thought as he breathed through his mouth. The wrestling guys had evidently finished their workouts too, as the room was noisy from all their chatter and yelling. They’d left their gear scattered all over the benches and floor, leaving hardly any room for anyone else. Aidan rolled his eyes and squeezed his way through the chaos to an empty corner. Despite working out for an hour he hadn’t sweat much, he never did, so he skipped the shower. Midway through changing he realized the room had gone silent. He turned around to check if the wrestlers had all left but instead was greeted with a sight that made him freeze.

The entire team had gathered behind him and now stared at him. The biggest guy, who Aidan recognized as their captain, Beau, broke the silence.

“Hey pipsqueak,” he said with a shockingly deep voice for a college student, “We found out today we’re down a man this season. We gotta solve that ASAP, y’know?”

Aidan was confused and intimidated. “Uh… Sorry to hear that man,” he said with a crack in his voice. He took a step back only to hit the wall of lockers behind him.

“Yea it’s a real shame ain’t it,” the wrestler took a step towards Aidan. “It’s a good thing I’m a great recruiter,” he laughed to himself. There was an almost sinister grin plastered on his face. 

Aidan felt cornered, realizing that he was standing there in just his boxers. “What do you want with me dude?” He asked frantically as the wrestlers slowly closed in on him. The putrid stench in the room was only getting worse as the jocks came nearer. 

“Like I said, we need a replacement wrestler,” Beau replied, pulling a yellowed jockstrap out of his bag that was on the bench. “I think you’ll enjoy getting to know the team.”

Aidan’s heart was pounding through his chest, he didn’t know what they wanted with him but he knew he needed to get out NOW. His fight or flight (mostly flight) instincts were kicking in. He looked past the wall of jocks to the door of the locker room, about 20 feet away. Before he had a chance to act, two of the wrestlers pounced. They grabbed Aidan’s arms and held him in place as Beau walked up to him.

“What the fuck, let me go!” Aidan cried in distress, struggling against his captors. They were bigger and evidently much stronger than him, not letting him budge at all.

“Hush now, I think you have some real potential here, I’m just going to let that all out,” Beau told Aidan before grabbing his boxers and ripping them off. Aidan’s flaccid cock was on full display, as were the paltry few hairs he called his bush. 

“Well, I’ve seen worse,” Beau chuckled to himself. He took the dirty jockstrap in his hand and pulled it up Aidan’s legs letting it snap into place around his small member. 

“Let me go!” Aidan yelled, continuing to try and break free from the jock’s hold. 

“Just give it a moment,” Beau said, kneeling down to look closer at Aidan’s groin. Aidan’s struggling lessened as he noticed a strange sensation coming from his crotch that was seemingly getting more intense every second. It felt… good almost. No, it did feel good, it was almost like he was jerking off without even touching himself. He felt his dick start to harden as the sensation of pleasure grew.

Beau laughed, “There you go man! I knew you’d come around.” Those words barely registered in Aidan’s ears as he stared at his dick, watching it grow erect and push against the jockstrap as his body was flooded with pleasure hormones. It felt incredible, like his dick was growing harder than ever before. It in fact was, growing steadily past his previous five inches, reaching seven, eight, as it really started to tent the jockstrap. A tingling feeling arose within Aidan’s crotch at the same time as Beau leaned in to take a closer look.

“Aww yea, look at those pubes start to come in. Fuck that’s hot.” He watched as dark hairs sprouted out of Aidan’s mostly bare crotch, like thick weeds shooting out of his skin. Aidan groaned as the sensation of hair growing added to his already euphoric state. Hairs continued popping up across his groin, filling in denser and denser as they spread out. “Looks like our man’s goin’ through puberty right in front of us,” Beau said as he rubbed his hand through the sprouting bush. Aidan’s body shivered in pleasure, Beau’s touch seemingly encouraging more hairs to push out of him. The pubic hairs grew longer and curled together, climbing up the shaft of his now massive cock. Beau grinned as he noticed Aidan’s balls swelling, growing to the size of eggs, then tangerines as they stretched his sack and hung lower. That was just the beginning, as the same thick dark pubes wormed their way out giving him a thick coating. At this point the jockstrap was barely covering anything. Aidan’s now nine inch cock stood completely erect, tenting the fabric and letting his new bush explode outward. Those thick pubes were starting to produce their own musk, not too dissimilar from the general stench of the locker room. The hairs spread out even farther, beginning to climb up above his waistband and onto his stomach, as well as spreading to his inner thighs with a thick rug. Aidan hung in the jocks’ arms nearly limp, his cock dribbling precum like a faucet.

“Well I think this has served its purpose,” Beau said to himself as he pulled the jockstrap off Aidan, letting his thick cock snap up against his stomach. The flow of precum soaked the area around his navel, and where the precum had wetted his skin, more thick hairs began to crop up. Beau went back to his bag and exchanged the dripping jockstrap for a wrestling singlet. It was damp from sweat and being stuffed in Beau’s dank gym bag, and stank to high heaven. With the help of the other wrestlers, Beau got the tight singlet onto Aidan’s lanky body. It didn’t really fit, but there was an enormous bulge from Aidan’s recent developments. He pulled the shoulder straps and let them snap down onto Aidan’s bony clavicle. That immediately pulled Aidan out of his subdued hormone-fueled slumber. 

“Oh, god, oh, oh what the fuck,” he said, processing the past few minutes. Part of his brain was still in adrenaline mode, telling him he needed to BOLT, while another part was content with this situation, elated even. The longer he breathed in the musky air of the locker room the louder that voice became, and the more he wanted Beau’s hands back on him. He looked up away from his own body and made eye contact with Beau, a grin crossing his stubbled face.

“You already look good in that singlet man, it won’t take much now,” Beau told him. Aidan’s mind was running at light speed but his mouth was not on the same wavelength. 

“What are you-, why are-, how the-,” Aidan was trying to get his thoughts out when the pulsing, pleasurable sensation began to return. His words trailed off as he looked down at his own flat chest, watching with wide eyes as two muscular pecs began to push out. He felt his whole body begin to tighten as muscle started popping out all over. Pronounced bone disappeared under layers of thick muscle that began to fill out his form, and the singlet. What had previously been impressively slack for a spandex suit was now taught against his body, expanding as he did. His pecs grew sore as they continued to grow, blocking Aidan’s view of his lower half as they packed on size. On the new horizon of his chest he noticed something, tiny hairs were poking out of his mountainous pecs. They started small and slow but quickly began shooting up all across the vast expanse of his chest. The hairs itched as they grew in, Aidan wasn’t bothered, he was in awe at the forest that was engulfing his new muscles. He ran his hands through the growing hairs, pulling gently on the hairs as they continued their advance across his chest, working up towards his neck and down across his stomach. As the hairs matured they grew darker and curlier, tangling into a thick rug across his pecs. Beau watched Aidan become enraptured by his own jockification. He noticed a growing wet spot in his groin where the precum continued to leak out constantly.

Beau stepped back up to Aidan and planted his hand on his chest, feeling the growing fields of hair. That alone was enough to get a soft moan out of Aidan, putting a devilish grin on Beau’s face. He pinned Aidan’s growing frame against the locker before raising one of his arms up. What he found was underwhelming; a handful of light wispy hairs scattered across the armpit. That would have to change. He stuck his hand into his own sweaty, hairy pit and rubbed it around, coating his fingers in thick jock sweat and musk. He sniffed them just to make sure it was potent enough, and his body was never slacking in the sweat department. Taking his moistened hand he went back to Aidan’s nearly hairless pit and massaged the sweat in. Within moments he felt little prickles of stubble against his fingers. Beau saw dark pinpricks appearing across Aidan’s pit, spots that quickly erupted into thick, wiry hairs. The original wispy hairs grew dark and curly as the sweat did its work, and soon Aidan had a respectable amount of hair under his arm. But that wasn’t enough for Beau, he dug out some more musky sweat from his own pits to finish the job. Soon enough Aidan’s pit hairs completely coated the area, even reaching out to connect with the pelt on his chest. Beau’s fingers were combing through the thick hairs, gently tugging on them and pulling out more growth. Aidan moaned again; the feeling of Beau’s hands stroking his growing pit hairs was euphoric. He was slipping more and more from his old self as his body grew to love this new reality, the jock voice in his own head growing louder.

Beau was satisfied with the pit situation after he was able to smell Aidan’s newly produced stench from a distance. He stepped back and watched as Aidan’s body continued to adjust to the singlet. In the same way his pecs had ballooned, his arms began exploding with size. His delts, triceps, biceps, and forearms grew intensely sore as they put on years worth of bulk in moments. Aidan was finally starting to look like a wrestler who could hold his own on the mat. The definition on his new muscles was quickly hidden as hair began to sprout across his boulder shoulders and down his arms. What started as a few hairs popping up across his shoulders grew into a flood of dark hair that surged down his arms, and the singlet left it all visible for the crowd. The hairs continued growing denser, curling around each other as the hair began to resemble fur on his bulky arms; he would look like a total beast of a man in action. Aidan’s hands got the same treatment, his palms grew bulkier as his hands stretched out in size. He could hear the popping sounds of his growth but was too flush with hormones to care, barely registering the thick hairs growing on the backs of his hands. Beau could already tell Aidan was going to become one of their best wrestlers, with his immense size and build. All he needed was to let the inner jock blooming inside of him take control.

After the growth in Aidan’s arms slowed down, his legs picked up the slack. His quads beefed up, thighs nearly shredding the singlet with their girth. Beau watched as Aidan’s bulge twitched and leaked as his legs grew longer and thicker than they’d ever been. His feet began to stretch and grow, expanding to a size 15 before becoming covered by hairs. Those hairs raced up his calves and onto his thighs, leaving him with a thick fur coating for his tree trunks. Aidan had grown to the point where he could take most of the jocks on the team, almost rivaling Beau’s height and mass. Beau knew he’d made a good call with Aidan, he’d been so similar before he joined the team. He couldn’t help but rub his hands over Aidan’s furry legs, feeling the coarse hairs run through his fingers. He could feel Aidan’s heart rate increase. He almost felt envious of him, experiencing immense growth like this was a once in a lifetime event, and he knew Aidan was almost complete.

Aidan groaned as his body fully filled out the singlet, stretching it to its limit with his massive muscles. The fur that had coated his body felt incredible rubbing against the fabric, keeping his cock at full mast, pressed against the singlet so everyone knew. Beau looked him up and down; Aidan had the body of a tank, a heavyweight champion, but a severe case of babyface. Beau had an idea, he went back to his grab and grabbed his mouthguard. It was grimy and had a couple hairs stuck to it, but it’d do the trick. He grabbed Aidan’s pudgy face and opened his mouth, shoving the guard in. Aidan sputtered as he gagged on old spit and wiry hairs.

“Aw, the hell bro what was that,” he complained weakly. Beau smiled, he was already speaking more like a jock, and that voice was getting deeper. He watched as an Adam's apple pushed out of Aidan’s neck, cementing his new rugged voice. Aidan’s face started to darken a shade as the shadow of thick stubble spread across his jaw. It quickly pushed out, brown hairs coating his face. They grew longer and thicker, with more popping up between old ones, giving him an incredibly dense short beard. Aidan moaned as the hairs spread across his jaw and up his sideburns to his hair, which gained some lighter highlights and shortened into a more athletic style. His upper lip erupted with the same thick hairs, giving him a full short beard. His jaw squared up and his eyebrows grew bushier, before his ears grew and stuck out from his head more. He finally looked fully like a champion wrestler. Aidan stroked his hands through the dense growth, finally pushing him over the edge. His breaths quickened and grew louder as he climaxed, grunting as cum erupted out of his thick cock. It pushed through the fabric of the singlet, pouring down the front of it. The euphoric trance he’d been in began to fade, but the old Aidan was gone. He was Aidan the wrestler, a jock ready to conquer his path on the mat. Instinctually he flexed, showing off his beefy arms and hairy pits. The scent emanating from his pits matched the rest of the locker room now, and he took a big whiff of it out of habit, that manly odor really turned him on. Beau laughed and grabbed Aidan’s hand, pulling him upright. His cum was still dripping down his singlet onto the floor, adding to the pungent scent of the locker room.

“Welcome to the team bro,” Beau said, looking forward to their best season yet.

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They say when you are in an accident everything moves in slow motion. That wasn't at all how it felt for me. I was driving down a slight slope toward an intersection out in bumfuckyall, where a truck was waiting at a red light. Why they would put a traffic light out here with nothing but crop fields around is beyond me. Getting some extra revenue from people running the lights perhaps. Not busy enough to warrant the installation though. Maybe to stop traffic when harvesters or whatever pass by, but they would move slowly and be pretty darn visible in this terrain.

The belt tensioner yanked me into the seat at the same time as I heard the crash and I had just time to turn my head back from the fields to see the now milky front window, shattered into thousands of small glass cubes suspended by the plastic film on the back of it, give way to the mass that had been thrown off the flatbed and flung into my windshield. Through the widening gap at the top of the windshield liquid was dumped into the car, all over me, and everything turned into black silence with a strong smell of chemicals.

It all went faster than I could register, and I just sat there still with burning eyes, trying to comprehend what had just happened. I somehow had run into the truck. I heard hurried steps outside and someone first trying to open the door then rapping the side window and shouting "Are you hurt, buddy?"

Was I? My shoulder hurt from the seat belt, and I couldn't see anything, but otherwise I wouldn't feel anything damaged. I fumbled a bit to find how to open the door and once successful responded "I'm OK I think. I can't see though."

"Thank Lord. It's wood stain. Had some buckets in the back. Some paint too. It'll make you dizzy and sick, but I wouldn't worry about going blind. Let me help you out and lay you down. I have plenty of water to rinse you."

Despite squeezing my eyes as shut as I could, reasoning that opening them would probably let more paint in than out, I had no problems finding and removing the seat belt, and stepping out of the car. As soon as I was out of the car he grabbed my arm and led me to a spot in front of both vehicles. My mouth tasted of chemicals and I spat on the ground several times.

"Just lie down here, buddy. Are you sure you aren't hurt?" "A bit sore, but nothing really hurts." "That's a relief. The car is probably a write-off with all the damage outside and in. This is all my fault." Without opening my eyes I let myself be guided to the ground while he talked. I could hear the steps of another person getting closer from beyond my car. "It is?" "Casy, get the big jug!" he told the other person, who answered a curt "Yep" in a young man's voice. "I must have put in reverse while waiting for the light and then... reverse into you," he said, talking to me again. "It's a rental. I'm sure they are used to handling things like this." "Just stay still there buddy, and I'll start pouring."

He began pouring water on my face, occasionally wiping with a rag of some sort. "Open your mouth and take some water. Then swig it around and spit it out." We did that a few times. A few more rinses and I dared to open my eyes. He looked like he sounded like. Trucker cap, beard, grey and blue flannel shirt, blue jeans, and boots. Hovering behind him was a boy in his late teens or early twenties, dressed very similarly in camo cap, blue JROTC hoodie, jeans, and boots. For my part I was wood-stain brown and garden-fence white.

"I'm Cliff, this is Casy," Cliff said and gave me his hand to help me up. As I stood up and looked past his pick up I could see my car. It looked worse than I would have expected. While the collision didn't feel that bad, the crumple zones certainly felt it. A few buckets of paint had landed next to it, but clearly the inside was ruined by the ones that had passed through the glass. I had no hope that my travel bag with what little extra clothes I had brought with me had survived either, as I think I had tossed it on the passenger seat. 

"I'm Bradly" "Casy, give Bradly your pop. He can't taste nothing but paint." Casy did a nod and another dull "yep", but jumped into the truck with ease and was quickly out again with a can of Monster. Ignoring that it was opened and with a third gone, I took an eager sip, swirled it in my mouth, and swallowed. When I had emptied the can the taste of oil and paint was almost gone.

"I reckon we need to hose you down before we can do anything else. Casy can stay here while we bring you to the house to clean you up. Then we can figure out how to take care of the car. How's that sound, buddy?"

"Sounds reasonable to me." "I'm sorry, but do you mind getting on the flatbed." He motioned all over my paint-drenched body. "No. Is it far?" "It's a quick drive."

When you are lying on your back on a tarp next to reclaimed wood, slowly drying into the color of an antique table, seeing nothing but the afternoon sky, nothing is a quick drive. I didn't dare move, not so much because I was lying unprotected in the back of a truck that was driving far too fast for my comfort, but because I was soaked in oil and paint and water, and didn't want to mess anything else up. The wind running over my body was chilling, despite the balmy weather. My shoulder and chest hurt from where the belt tightener pulled me back into the seat. Despite the wind there was a strong smell of paint. I felt lightheaded. My mind began to wander. I should probably call the motel that I would be late, or not arriving at all. I was thinking about how I decided to not have a coffee at the diner to get back on the road quicker. I should have bought one. The apple pie slices looked delicious. Eventually however I would see treetops creeping into view and soon after we came to a stop on gravel.

"Where is he?" a woman asked nearby. "Back there," Cliff answered and opened the tailgate. He extended a hand to help me down. "Hey buddy, this is Sarah!" "Hi," Sarah said smiling. "Bradly"

Instead of walking towards the house she motioned toward one of the barns. "Hose is over there. Then you can take a proper shower after." On Sarah's urging I took off everything but my briefs. She suggested I take them off as well, but didn't press the issue. The water was pretty high-pressure and ice cold. Cold water worked better than hot water Sarah claimed, not that hot water was an option outside the house.

Once I was hosed enough that the water didn't run brown anymore, and I felt I was near risking hypothermia, I wrapped myself in an old discolored beach blanket Sarah handed me and we walked back to the house. I shivered and my lightheadedness had turned into a dull, thumping headache. Cliff and the truck were gone. Sarah grabbed one of the white plastic chairs, placed it near the front door, and told me to sit down. "The white paint doesn't stick too bad to the skin, but we're never going to be able to clean this out," she said and touched my hair. I hadn't felt a feeling like that since I used way too much hair gel for Halloween many years ago. It was like my hair and the paint had formed a helmet. She quickly returned from the house with a trimmer on an extension cord. "Sides are not too bad. I can make a flat top," she said and buzzed away, clearly used to taking care of Cliff and Casy. I cringed when I heard it, and was about to stop her, but changed my mind. Better to let her keep as much hair as possible and decide on the real emergency haircut later.

She then led me through the house and what must have been Casy's room, with a home gym and a gaming setup, to his bathroom. Everything was big and roomy, but I guess it is inexpensive to build large when you have lots of land, time, and resources. "Take as much time as you need and use any of the soaps you want. I'll put some clothes on the bed for you. Just throw your briefs in the bathroom bin," Sarah said and left.

I looked in the bathroom mirror, the first time I saw myself after the accident. I looked terrible. The haircut was ugly, of course, but the uneven stain stains all over my body made me look tan and dirty. Like I had spent all day riding a dirt bike in mud, not the last ten minutes being blasted by ice water. I looked as beaten and spent as I felt.

By "any of the soaps" she meant the Axe Total Fresh 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, and body wash that there were four opened bottles of in various places in the bathroom. Somehow Casy managed to both have a messy bathroom without having much in it. The water felt like a blessing on my cold, bruised body. I just stood there for a while, letting the warm water rinse me. Then I lathered myself completely and rinsed off three times in a row. Neither the foam nor the water looked discolored, and when I dried myself with the one towel in the room it didn't become stained. The image in the mirror however looked disappointingly identical to before. The same stained me, but now with a more acute headache. Everything smelled like Axe Total Fresh, and it did my head no favors.

I peeked into Casy's room. No one was there and the door to the rest of the house was shut, so I entered and looked at the clothes laid out for me on the bed. Only one of each, so no options. First black compression boxers with a wide Nike band. Then a pair of green-brown socks that looked like what the army issues. Some lightly distressed blue jeans with a black leather belt. A military green Under Armour T-shirt in a glossy material with "patriotic" print with stars and almost-US flags on it. A hunting camo baseball cap. Finally a pair of well-worn leather boots. I put it all on, including the hat to cover the ugly hair and the boots because I wasn't sure what the indoor etiquette here was. Everything fit surprisingly well, though I guess she could have looked at the size of my ruined clothes.

I opened the door and stepped out of the room, trying to find Sarah, or anyone really. How long had I been in the shower? Probably an hour, if not longer. "Hello?" "We're over here," I heard Sarah shout from across the house. I walked in the direction of her voice and was soon joined by Cliff who emerged from another room. "How are you feeling, buddy?" he asked in a concerned fatherly manner. "I think I'm about to have an episode of migraine." "That something you've had before." "Never."

"Take your seats. You over here Brad," Sarah said as we turned the corner into a large kitchen with a table laid for four. "Bud... eh, Bradly." I tried to correct her, but she had turned to the big cast iron pot on the stove. Casy already sat by the table with a phone in his hand, but his eyes were firmly on me. His face didn't reveal any expressions.

Sarah placed the heavy pot on the table and with a big ladle filled my plate with a dark stew. "Here you go, Bud," she said. As the smell of beef stock, fresh herbs, carrots, onions, and slow cooked, rich meat reached my nose I immediately recognized the telltales. Weakening of the jaw. The increase in saliva. I almost threw myself out of the chair, rushed over to the sink, and managed just in time to throw up into the sink. I realized I was sweating. Then another heave of vomit. "Oh, poor buddy," Sarah said and patted my back.  "Here, drink this," she said and filled a glass of water from a pitcher. My body heaved a third time, but nothing came out. "Thanks," I replied and took the glass with some apprehension, waiting to see if my body would do something else. Once it appeared safe I took the glass and started to empty it.

"Casy, make one of them shakes for him. He needs to get something in his belly." Almost reluctantly, like I had ruined his meal, Casy got up and moved towards a cupboard. "I just need to rest I think," I said, my head now mercilessly pounding in pain. "Out of the question. You need something to fortify you."

Casy quickly scooped powder from a large plastic container into a workout shaker bottle thing, poured in some water, gave it a quick shake, and handed it to me. I had barely put it to my mouth when Cliff said "He can barely stand. Take him to your room for a nap." "Come then," Casy said and led the way out of the kitchen, with me following sipping the chalky mixture. "You know the way though," he said once out of earshot from the kitchen. Back inside his room he motioned at the bed and said "This is a bed," deadpan to me. I wanted to say it wasn't my fault his day was ruined. In fact, mine had gone way worse than his, but my head hurt too much for me to care. "Thanks." I put my back on the bed and was out in seconds.

The hard plastic of the ear protectors was what made me wake up properly, and it took a moment to realize what it was and get them off. Almost ripped the cap off with them. These were the radio/bluetooth kind that allowed you to listen to music while you worked. Bright, orange colored cups with the rest of it black. I got up from the bed and left them on the sheets. Apparently I was already fully dressed, so I headed to the kitchen. Sarah was there preparing things.

"Mornin' Ma'am." "Good morning, Buddy." I took my seat. Sarah filled a bowl with porridge, drizzled honey over it, set it on the table in front of me together with a spoon. "Better hurry. Cliff is waiting for you." "Yes, Ma'am."

It wasn't until I began eating I realized how hungry I was, so it wasn't a problem to be quick. Not having seconds though felt rough. Just outside the house was Cliff, doing something with a quad to which he had hooked a trailer full of wooden poles. "Mornin', Sir" "Morning Buddy! Get up in the trailer and make sure nothing shakes out while we drive down the fields. "Yes, Sir."

Once we came to a stop after a bumpy ride, Cliff showed me how to operate the earth drill to make holes, then how to insert a pole, and with the sledge hammer drive it down so it fit securely. He then let me do that while he was working on putting up wires for the electric fence. After we had been at it for quite a while Sarah called on the walkie-talkie and said sheriff Miller wanted to talk to us. We unhooked the trailer and drove up to the farm on the quad, me sitting behind Cliff, straddling him.

Outside the main house Sarah and the sheriff waited for us. It was mostly a boring conversation between Cliff and the sheriff that I tuned out of, but then the sheriff turned to me and asked "And who is this?" "It's Buddy, farmhand for the summer," Cliff answered and took a slight step to the side to give room for the sheriff. The sheriff looked me over for a second. "You were here yesterday?" "Yes, Sir." "Did you see anyone come by yesterday afternoon or evening?" "No, Sir." "Anything else out of the ordinary happened yesterday?" "Yes, Sir. I threw up, Sir. Hasn't happened in years, Sir." "Hahaha." He turned to Cliff again. "If anything comes up let me know. It's not the first traveler that's gotten lost around here, but they usually turn up sooner or later." "They have a habit of doing that, causing extra work for the local sheriff while they are wandering about," Cliff answered, smiling back. The sheriff shook his head and opened his car door. "You ain't wrong."

Once the car was well on its way up the dirt road Sarah motioned at cooler that was on the ground. "I was about to come down with lunch to you boys, but perhaps you want to eat it up here." "Yeah, let's take a breather. This was a close call." Cliff opened a small tool bag that was hanging on the quad and pulled out another pair of orange ear protectors, if not the same as earlier. He turned the knob on them and put them on my head. Noise was sloshing around in my ears like waves breaking on a beach. Voices were whispering all around me. It was impossible to focus on a single voice and hear its message. Just a school of slippery tadpoles swimming around and around. Impossible to grab. Somewhere far in the distance I could hear Cliff talking.

To be perfectly clear, Joe was surprised when his son Tyler began religiously working out, gaining muscle at an amazing pace, and then informed him that he'd joined the football team as a recruit. But...

He was certainly glad that it happened. When Tyler came with him to Dallas after the divorce, he had a hard time living alone with the artsy teenager. Joe, a conservative-leaning man wanting to uphold masculine virtues, had a hard time getting along with Tyler, who was very much not interested in masculinity, so to speak.

He didn't expect that to change when his son enrolled in university. Joe's only success was convicting Tyler to stay with him and choose local, and so his son began studying anthropology at Texas Christian University. He seemed to feel comfortable there, having quickly found a small group of nerd--- other kids with similar interests that he now hang around with.

It seemed that Joe's relation with his son wouldn't change substantially despite Tyler beginning a new part of his life. And then one day, somewhere around early October, Tyler came back home reeking of sweat, like he had just ran 10 miles through a desert. He still didn't really speak with Joe, but it was clear that something was going on. A few days later his son came back from college, but instead of his usual backpack, he had a duffel bag on his shoulder. When asked about it he simply required "Dunno dad, it's conformable, I guess."

Joe quickly figured out that Tyler was working out while not at home. But he wasn't really sharing annoying with him, which disappointed Joe a lot. His son wasn't even going to talk to him about the gym, a topic Joe was certainly familiar with, the real man he was.

Then two things happened. Tyler came to him, saying he was joining the football team, and Joe received an e-mail from George Bridges, the head coach of the TCU Horned Frogs football team, requesting a one-on-one conversation.

He agreed, hoping for this to explain the situation. So Joe came to the building of the Athletics Complex at TCU and walked up to Coach Bridges' office. The other man welcomed him and quickly began talking, and as the conversation progressed the grin on Joe's face grew larger and larger.

As Coach explained, there was a dip in the recruiting numbers, so he had to turn to more unorthodox tactics. And that meant infusing Tyler with some real jock musk during a safety seminar taught by Coach Bridges, then taking him and getting his mind accustomed to the idea of becoming a jock.

That of course required getting him high on bro musk and using a few "influencing" techniques Coach learned during his time in the military. After a few of those sessions, carried out in a locker room just after a practice where the smell of jock was still very potent, Tyler joined the other rookies at the gym.

The rookies made sure he quickly caught up with them, which is why Tyler had been coming home drenched in sweat. He was doing an extensive workout routine and, as part of a welcoming ritual, the other football jocks prevented him from taking showers. After a few weeks of almost-daily weights training, Coach made the next big step. He invited Tyler for a talk, during which he made him wear a set of TCU-branded gym gear, and then, using his conversation skills he got in the Army as an instructor at West Point, he eloquently got Tyler to think he was a football jock at heart, which quickly led to Coach accepting Tyler's request to join the team as the freshest recruit - the newest Horned Frog bro.

Joe was surprised by what he heard, for sure. But he was also content, because he knew that his son was now in good hands, and on the right tracks. He expressed his feelings to Coach, saying that he wasn't expecting a coach in the modern days to go to such an extent to fight for his team, but that he was glad there were still men like Coach Bridges in America, working to preserve the traditions of college football.

Things changed for the better in Joe's household. Tyler--- Ty was now eager to spend time with him, talking about practice and shit-talking Baylor and SMU. His room had quickly transformed - textbooks and vinyl records got thrown out or sold, a PS4 and a collection of footballs took their place. The floor was now covered with gym gear - compression shirts, shorts and a few pairs of cleats. It smelled like a locker room, Ty's jock musk always filling every space he entered. There were three gym duffels hanging form the door, always ready for a session with the bros. The walls were now covered with posters showing TCU (and to Joe's delight - Cowboys) players at their best.

Ty also adopted the vocabulary mannerisms of his teammates, which meant Joe was no longer "dad", but "bro" or "dude". He didn't have a problem with at though, at all. In fact, he very much encouraged this "bro talk", seeing it as another step on Ty's journey towards masculinity. Same with spreading legs and openly scratching his crotch. For Joe it was clear that his son was becoming a real man.

Joe was also astounded by the speed at which Ty gained muscle mass, quickly becoming so massive it was impossible to see any difference between him and the other jocks on the team. He quickly got used to Ty flexing at random times - he knew that with guns like these, Ty had every right to show some pride in his gains.

Before the season ended, Ty finished his transformation and officially joined the roster as a defensive end. He was now a prime specimen of an all-american jock and Joe couldn't be prouder, watching his son do tackling drills during open practice. Ty quickly adjusted to the jock lifestyle, changing his majors form anthropology to health & fitness, as it was clear that his cognitive abilities decreased significantly, his mind now focused on football, not that nerd sh--- academic work. He'd much rather join his best bros - Street, Mike and Case - in the gym or in their favorite sports bar that gave out discounts for beer to TCU athletes.

Ty also frequently invited them home, which meant Joe was now used to his living room turning into a space for partying and beer-drinking testosterone-filled football bros. He's now used to the sounds of Madden and the boys grunting as they play against each other filling his house.

Boardroom to trash bins

You glance at the golden watch on your left wrist and decide to walk a little faster.

You are not late - yet - but the board meeting is too important to be late to. Of course, on the other hand, you can't walk so fast that you would break a sweat. The thought alone of arriving at meeting room with beads of sweat on your forehead or, God forbid, a damp spot on your dress shirt is even worse than coming a minute or two late. That, at least, you can blame on the traffic, which is not even wrong. Your expensive German car has been stuck behind a garbage truck for a good ten minutes. Inacceptable, of course. You would expect the city to schedule such annoying but probably necessary services at night, when there is no traffic that could be slowed down by it.

After all, you have a reputation to uphold! You are Jameson Pierce, son of the millionaire and successful investor James Pierce. You are also the owner and CEO of one of the most prominent investment companies, Pierce&Co.

You have the best business education money can buy and your decisions influence the fate of thousands of employees of yours. You don't arrive late to board meetings like that!

Still, there is no reason to get agitated yet. If the lift is free, you will arrive perfectly on time.

As you quickly make your way over the office parking lot that is being overshadowed by the 50 story skyscraper you own, you almost collide with an old man in a blue uniform, who is blocking the way into the building by picking up refuse from the ground. Apparently, the wind has knocked over the garbage can next to the entrance, and all the contents have scattered on the pavement. The old man is just bending down to pick up the cans and garbage bags and put them back in the bin.

"Out of the way!" you blurt. Usually, you are nicer to your employees by just curtly ignoring them, but this old man is blocking your way and moves slow as a snail.

"Of course, sir, right away!" he says with a toothless smile, and you almost gag. The old man is disgusting! He looks as if he has been sleeping on the street, and the smell of booze emanating from him makes that assumption very likely. You briefly wonder if he even works for you and decide that if so, he needs to be disciplined for his appearance.

However, you are interrupted by his next sentence.

"I just need to pick up all that garbage here. You could help, sir, that would make it quicker."

What? This filthy old drunkard dares to ask you for help? The audacity!

"Out of my way!" you repeat and push the old man aside. You are now standing directly in front of the revolving door, ready to enter your company's building. Behind you, you can hear the old man mumbling something and then start cackling, like a maniac.

You shrug it off. The man is lucky you don't have time for that right now, as you carefully navigate through the scattered items on the ground. You need to be extra careful not to ruin your thousand dollar shoes or dress pants by stepping into something sticky and foul-smelling.

Even if you weren't in a hurry, there's no way Jameson Pierce would bend down to pick up garbage. You are reasonably proud to have never touched anything that has been in a bin - that's what employees are for, not managers like you.

The board meeting continues as bad as the day had started. It is way too warm in the meeting room and you can't prevent a single drop of sweat forming on your forehead. Of course, you wipe it away with your silk handkerchief and hope nobody has noticed, but that's not the only thing going wrong. Twice in your report, you find yourself at a loss of words. Instead of using the correct technical term, you have to verbally set back half a sentence and explain what you mean in simpler words. How very, very embarrassing.

It comes as no surprise that, when the meeting is finally over, you are in a particularly bad mood. Sadly, the old man from before has left, otherwise you would have fired him on the spot as a therapeutic action.

On the way to your car, you call your secretary to cancel all further appointments today, but as you try to ring the number, you just get the message that no connection could be made.

Just great. So, your office phone system has broken down as well. Angrily, you get in your car to drive over to your office yourself.

You don't get very far. Halfway on the way to your office, there is a grinding noise from the engine and then, your car just stops. Right in the middle of the street. You almost can't believe your bad luck. Angrily, you hit the steering wheel, sounding the horn in the process, but it's no use. Trying to ignore the honking from outside and the rude gestures of drivers finding their way around you, you reach into your pocket to call the car dealership. Luckily, you're well covered for such situations.

You stare blankly at the device in your hand. This isn't your cell phone. Instead of the brand new current flagship model with the big Pineapple on the back, you are looking at the cheap plastic of a no-name device with a cracked screen that is probably ten years old.

"What the...?"

You frantically search all of your pockets, but they are all empty.

You can't help but feel as if you have gone insane. No, there has to be a rational explanation. You have probably just pocketed the wrong phone when you were at the board meeting. Of course, there are immediately nagging voices in your mind that remind you that you had tried to call your office just before getting in the car, or that surely nobody at the board meeting would have such a phone, but you decide to tune them out.

Your office is now only two blocks away. There, you have your tablet with all of your contacts. You can call the car dealership to care for the car and then just end this horrible day.

You get out of the car and ignore the shouting from the other drivers. A line of cars has formed behind your expensive Mercedes, but you ignore that as well and begin to walk. Two blocks don’t sound too bad, but it is a hot day, and you feel uncomfortable quickly. You have to loosen your tie because it feels constricting around your neck. That's not the only piece of clothing feeling wrong. Your step feels heavier, and you have to scratch yourself multiple times, trying to readjust the expensive Italian dress shirt, which is suddenly not sitting right.

Finally, you arrive at your office building. You don't even want to look down on yourself. You can feel your shirt clinging to your body and you feel disgusted by your appearance. Good thing this will all be over soon.

As you approach the elevator, you notice that you don't have your wallet at the ready - you must have forgotten it at the car. Ignoring the fact that you just now have realized the lack of its weight and the fact that you never leave your wallet in your car, you go to the reception for an elevator.

The receptionist, a perfectly styled young woman, watches as you approach and smiles.

"Hello Sir, what can I do for you today?"

"An elevator to my office." you say, adding a "Please." although you don't really feel like it.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but what exactly is your office?"

You look at the receptionist dumbfounded.

"My office." You repeat slower now.

"I don't know you sir, you need to be more specific." The young woman smiles.

That's it.

"What do you mean you don't know me?!" You shout. "I own this fucking place. It is me, Jameson Pierce! Now call me an elevator and then pack your things, you are fired!"

The receptionist looks at you as if she was dealing with a madman.

"Sir, you are not in the company register and I'm sorry, but if you don't leave the premises immediately, I'll call security."

"What are you talking about? I have an office on the 50th floor, which is where I need to go!"

"You can't have an office there, sir, that is the executive offices. Now, please leave."

"Listen, girl." you lean closer, invading her space. "Call. Me. An. Elevator. Or else."

The young woman doesn't even flinch. She presses the intercom and speaks with a steady voice: "Security, there is a madman in the lobby. Please come and remove him."

"You little...", you start, but the young woman is done talking to you. Instead, she turns away and starts to file her nails, waiting for security, which arrives some seconds later.

"Good!" You address the bulky Black man in the dark security uniform. "Could you please tell the girl that I have an office on the top floor."

"I don't think so." the man replies, "But I can show you the exit. Follow me, Sir."

"No. I am the CEO. I own the company! My father James Pierce gave it to me!"

The security guard shrugs his shoulders and takes hold of your arm.

"As far as I know, Mr. Pierce has no children. Leave the premises, Sir."

"But... you can't treat me like that! Do you know who I am?"

The Black man doesn't reply, instead, he begins dragging you towards the door. Unsurprisingly, he is much stronger than you, and your expensive shoes drag over the marble tiles.

"You can't do this!" You yell. "I will sue the company! You will all lose your jobs, just watch!"

"Whatever you say, Sir." The man pushes you outside the building. You stumble a little and then turn around, but the door is already closing.

"Fuck you!" You shout after the guard.

You take a deep breath. Whatever is going on here, it's not good. What to do.

After some consideration, you decide to grab your wallet from your car and take a cab home. There, you will deal with all of this.

As you arrive at your car again, you come just in time to see it being towed away. All running behind it and shouting does not help. You almost cry as you see the towing truck disappear around a corner, along with your car, your wallet and everything else you left in there. As you turn around to leave the scene and walk home, the next disaster is already waiting for you. There is a muddy sinkhole in the sidewalk, left over from some construction work and you don't notice it until it's too late. The next moment, you find your right leg standing in stinking mud all up to your knee. You try to free your leg, of course, and it works, sort of. With a smacking noise, the mud swallows your right shoe whole and leaves you with one dirty sock.

This day can't possibly get any worse, you think, but you are wrong.

Half an hour later, you have to admit that you got lost entirely. You are in a part of the city you have not been in before. Usually, you navigate the city with your cars GPS, but that is not available. You try to use the cheap phone to find out where you are (stoically ignoring the fact that it unlocks just fine with your fingerprint) but the only thing you find is that whoever owns the device has not paid for mobile data. You are offline. You could, of course, ask someone, but it takes some courage to ask a stranger where you are, especially in your current state.

Finally, you realize that you have to ask someone if you want to get home anytime soon. Right now, you find yourself in front of a landfill, which is both a blessing and a curse. It smells absolutely disgusting, but at least the people working here should have a good idea on how you can get home.

You enter the building with the grimy walls and look around.

"Hello?", you ask into the empty room. You are just about to leave again, when a burly man comes from the back. He is at least a head taller than you and twice as broad. His clothing is dirty, and you can see tufts of body hair coming out the top of his shirt and his armpits. Absolutely revolting.

The man looks at you for a second before shrugging his shoulder.

"Whatever." he says. "What's your name, kid?"

Needless to say, you are confused. "I am Jameson Pierce. Could you please..."

However, the big man interrupts you again. "Fancy name. I'll call you Jerry, okay? Come with me, I'll show you around."

"Wh-what do you mean?", you stutter but follow the man automatically.

"You're the new hire, aren't you? Gotta say, you're pretty scrawny, Jerry. But the job has no requirements, so if you don't mind getting your hands dirty, you're gonna fit in fine. Here are the lockers. The name's Hank, by the way."

You look around. You are in a room with a dozen dirty lockers. There is a foul stench everywhere and you have to suppress the urge to gag.

"No, I'm not new here. And I don't want to work here, or get my hands dirty!" you protest, but Hank ignores your lamenting.

"It's not gonna be easy finding an overall in your size, but we have a few small ones here as well. By the way, the overalls are shared with the other boys, hope you don't mind. Ah here. Try this one."

Hank throws you an overall. It is, in theory, blue, but both your nose as well as your eyes tell you one thing: It is entirely unwashed. For days, possibly for weeks. The clothing reeks of sweat, dirt, piss and probably even more things that you don't even want to know about.

"What's wrong with you? I am not gonna wear that."

"Well, what did you think when you came here?" Hank is clearly amused. "You can't work in these clothes of yours, even if they are dirty enough. Come on, strip, while I look for boots."

"I won't do that." you say. However, Hank is already gone. You don't think about it too much and begin to take off your expensive clothes. It is almost painful, but for some reason you... have to? It's a difficult to describe feeling. The dirty blue overall is sitting next to you on the locker room bench and is almost inviting you. You can't help it. You just have to strip. Soon, you stand in the dirty locker room clad in only your silk boxer shorts. You didn't notice that every piece of clothing you have taken off somehow changed. Your expensive dress shirt became a cheap t-shirt with stains on it. Your pants turned into a pair of ripped jeans and your golden wrist watch just... vanished.

"If I were you, I would be going commando." Hank, who had returned with a pair of work boots you can smell from over there, comments. "You're going to move around a lot. Besides, all the boys are doing it.

You look at the overall again, almost gagging now. Some other guys have worn it, rubbing their bare asses and dicks into the fabric. And Hank expects you to do the same. Suddenly, you remember the smell. Sweat, piss and other smells. You shudder. You shudder in... anticipation? As you automatically lower your boxer shorts (who turn into plain cotton briefs as you do), you can feel yourself growing hard at the thought of stepping into this dirty overall. At the same time, you are disgusted beyond measure.

Still, it's almost like your arms are on auto-pilot as you step into the overall and pull it up around your naked body, until the disgusting smell envelops you.

"Glad you like it." Hank grins and playfully grabs your very obvious erection through the dirty fabric. "You might want to meet up with some of the boys here in the locker room after shift, I hear some of them need to release some steam after a good shift. Now, come on. Pull the boots and get moving, we don't have time to waste."

You stare blankly at the big man as you realize what he just said.

"Wait." you stutter. "You think... You think I'm..."

"You're gay." Hank interrupts. "No worries. A lot of the boys are."

You can't believe what he's saying. Gay? You?

"But I am not!"

Hank doesn't even seem surprised.

"You might want to tell that to your hard cock. Anyway. Boots."

He tosses the dirty boots in front of you, and you find yourself bending down to pull them up. They are a little bit too large and feel like they are made of rubber, not leather. As soon as you have both of them on, Hank nods approvingly and then grabs you by the arm, pulling you out of the locker room and towards the garbage truck.

The next few hours pass quickly. The other men (it seems the job has exclusively male company) are friendly but don't go easy on the "newcomer". Everybody calls you Jerry and you have to do the most disgusting work you have ever done: Hauling full bins to the truck, sorting through garbage, cleaning up spilled garbage from the streets. Still, nobody is complaining and so you don't, either. After all, there are more pressing concerns: You feel dirty, your whole body is covered in a thick layer of sweat and dust. Your hands are filthy, and so is your face. And the worst part of it all is: A part of you is enjoying it, a lot. At first, the part is strictly physical. You have a boner pretty much the whole time, and whenever you need to do something especially disgusting, it visibly and violently throbs against your work pants - a fact that doesn't escape the rest of the boys.

After a while, though, more changes set in. The full bins appear to become lighter and easier to move. Of course, that isn't the case: Your muscles grow in front of your eyes, and the overall, that was a bit too big, fits better and better. Hair starts to grow on your chest, your legs and arms, and stubble forms in your face. Your carefully maintained hairstyle dissolves into an unkempt mess on your head.

But the changes don't stop there. Overall, you feel like you are getting more and more youthful. You weren't terribly old to begin with, in your mid-thirties, but a strange energy makes you feel more like end-twenties, mid-twenties and finally, like a man who just turned 21.

At the same time, however, your personality changes as well. You start to talk less and less, and when you do, the words aren't quite as sharp as before. Your education slips away with every word you say, and your vocabulary is replaced by slang, often with a bit of swearing. It becomes more and more difficult to think, too. The boys quickly pick up on this and joke around you not being the sharpest. It's not that they're wrong. You're dumb, if you're being honest. School wasn't for you, so you dropped out at some point. Bit by bit, you really become Jerry, the dumb, sweaty, smelly garbageman. And Jerry, unlike Jameson, enjoys the dirt around him. You can hardly remember being a clean and smart businessman, and that's alright with you. Even though your thoughts are slower, however, the memories of your former self are not gone entirely. Every once in a while, you remember who you used to be. But at the latest when the shift ends and you and the rest of the horny boys are going to the locker room, you decide that this is, indeed, a simpler and a better life.

Jake didn’t really understand why his girlfriend was obsessed with their university’s haunted fall fair. But he loved her, and so when she wanted to go, he begged his boss at the firm to give him the day off. Given his success at the company, his boss obliged, and that’s how Jake found himself back on campus. And while work was stressful, being back and walking around with his girlfriend was nice. They spent the day walking by their old dorm room, reflecting on where they met. They walked past all the new construction sites where the campus was expanding, joking that the only constant on this campus was construction. And when they got to the haunted fair, Jake couldn’t help but smile at his girlfriend’s excitement. Just like every year, there were plenty of attractions. But what caught their eye was a large wooden haunted house.

“Scariest experience you’ll ever have.” Jake read the small plaque next to the entrance. He smirked at his girlfriend and said, “You wanna give it a try?”

Sarah shook her head, “No way, let’s just go paint some pumpkins or something.”

Jake chuckled, “C’mon, it’s a haunted fair. Can’t come all the way here and not get a little spooked.”

“You’re more than welcome to show off what a big brave man you are.” Sarah teased, “I’m happy waiting.”

“Yeah, well if you insist.” The brunette replied, taking note of the rowdy construction workers making their way through the fair, “But I’d rather be in there than listen to them.”

Sarah frowned, “They’re just having fun. Now hurry up... or are you just stalling? Afraid, maybe?”

Jake grinned- he wasn’t about to let himself be teased like that. He gave her a nod and without another word, he made his way up the ramp and into the haunted house. Once inside, Jake scrunched his nose at the smell. It smelled like his great grandmother’s house. But so far, nothing scary. He walked through the dark corridors slowly, the wood beneath him creaking with each step. And just as he was feeling reassured that this was lame, Jake jumped when the candles on the walls ignited and he came face to face with a full-body mirror.

“Nothing scary about that.” Jake reassured himself, grinning at his own reflection.

He made a turn and found himself in a new room. A room filled with full-body mirrors. Still nothing too scary. As he made his way through the maze of mirrors, he couldn’t help but notice something off about his reflections. As he passed a mirror, he noticed that it had him wearing a flannel top, workpants, and work boots- items of clothing he never possessed. He chuckled, writing it off as some type of fun mirrors. But as he kept going, he couldn’t help but notice his reflection changing—becoming a bit chubbier, a bit hairier—almost looking like the men on the construction site. Jake chuckled. He had to admit that that was a scary thought. He liked his office job and the idea of moving from construction site to construction site and never settling down was something he couldn’t imagine. As he continued though, the images in the mirror were becoming even stranger. In one image, his altered form received a failing grade on a test- then another, and another. Then he dropped out of college entirely, finding a job at the local construction site. And as he walked down the hall of mirrors, each seemed to reflect a story of a life Jake would dread. But it got even stranger. As Jake looked into another mirror, he saw his altered form on his knees, vigorously sucking off another man.

“What the fuck?” Jake said, raising an eyebrow. Sure, he had to admit that the visual effects were impressive, but this image was too much. As Jake went to turn though, he noticed that the figure in the mirror, seemed to turn towards him, smirking. And to Jake’s confusion, he could taste something salty in the back of his throat- and for a split second it became difficult to breath.

Jake shuddered and turned away from the mirror. He ran through the hall of mirrors, feeling his way through the increasingly more complex maze. And suddenly, Jake found himself trapped in an opening- surrounded by mirrors on all sides. He pounded on them, trying to get out- to find a way out of the maze. But there was none. He stood in the center of the mirrors, feeling defeated. And suddenly, he saw it. In the mirror was the man, staring at him with a smirk on his bearded face. The man was naked, his body on full display. Jake could appreciate the muscles the man had, albeit less toned and mixed with fat. And before Jake could do anything, the man flew from the mirror and towards the unsuspecting Jake.

Jake tried to yell, but was unable to as the man slammed into him. The ghostly form smirked and moaned as he sunk into Jake’s body. And Jake couldn’t help but moan too, falling to the ground and shaking as the ghostly form vanished into him. The young man ripped away his shirt, and his toned body began to shift and change. Jake’s body began to grow and expand, his muscles growing while also filling with fat. His toned pecs jiggled slightly, and his abs were now gone, with a slight pudge layered over them. His pits grew damp and thick with hair, causing him to scrunch his nose at the stench. He moaned more as hair sprouted from his abdomen and chest, which were growing more pale in comparison to his arms and head, as his skin took on a classic farmer’s tan.

“Gosh darn it!” Jake shouted in a heavy southern drawl as he felt an intense burning in his left forearm. He watched as an intricate ink pattern formed and a tattoo proudly carved itself into his skin.

It was at this point that Jake looked up at the mirror, watching in terror as his head and face changed. The hair on his face thickened into a nice beard, while his eyebrows grew thicker. His nose began to change, and suddenly the stench from his pits bothered him less—in fact, he thought it smelled pretty good. Jake shook his head, trying to rid himself of these thoughts, barely noticing that his brunette locks fell from his head. Soon enough, he was sporting a buzz cut, which was quickly was covered by a gray cap. In fact, his black sweatpants also shifted and changed into a pair of jeans. Jake forced himself to stand up, looking around wildly in the mirrors and down at his changed body.

“Whut happened tuh may?” He whispered in shock.

He stumbled forward, finding that the mirrors that surrounded him had opened up. An exit sign was shining brightly and Jake desperately moved towards it. He needed to find Sarah and find out what to do. But even now he was scared she wouldn’t even recognize him. He for sure barely even recognized himself. But as he got closer to the exit, he noticed a strange sign.

“Scariest experience you'll evur hav; now overcome it.” Jake read aloud, before walking forward and through the exit.

But as he walked through the exit, he froze. The images from the mirror- failing his exams, dropping out of college, going from construction site to site- all of these images flashed through his mind. And as they continued to flash, the images became memories. Jake remembered never being successful in school, giving college a try but failing even the most basic of subjects. But it was okay- he quickly became friends with the men on the construction site here, who were more than happy to offer him a job when he dropped out. Even his memories of Sarah seemed to alter- instead he remembered a man named Trevor, who seemed to take a liking to him on the site. And Jake took a liking to him as well- the memories of late night BJs and fuck sessions becoming very real in Jake’s mind. And when word spread around the construction site about Jake’s talented ass and mouth... well Jake rarely spent a night without either filled. And that was all Jake remembered now- this was his life. Jake tumbled out the exit and fell to the ground, shaking his head.

“What the hell Jackson?”

“Jackson?” Jake whispered, even his name becoming altered in his mind. He looked up to see a group of his friends from the construction site.

“Damn son, what’re you doing out here? You get a good scare in?”

Jackson smiled, not a thought behind his vacant eyes, “Ah guess it wasn't too scary. Ah had uh lottuh fun.” Jackson said, standing up. Suddenly he heard a notification on his phone- the all too familiar sound of a Grindr notification, “Mah bayud!” Jackson said quickly as the rest of the guys started to laugh.

“We aren’t judgin’, but make sure you don’t tire yourself out too much.” One of the men said with a wink.

And Jackson certainly didn’t it tire out. Later that night, as he expertly worked the dick in his mouth, he could hear a voice in the back of his head congratulating him on overcoming his fear. But Jackson didn’t have the darndest clue what the even meant.

"No, no, no, this can't be real, what is happening here?"

"Hey son, calm down. What's the matter? The other guy is fine, look, he's standing up, no need to worry,"

"No, no, you don't understand. I'm a nerd, I never wrestle. This is all just a game right, a virtual reality? How can you be so real? Why on Earth I can feel this as if it's my body?"

The referee is slightly confused. Is this kid's brain okay? The kid is seemingly gasping for air, touching his eyes as if trying to take something off from his head. This is not the first time this thing happened. For the past 4 months, some wrestlers experienced this weird hallucination or some sort, claiming that they are someone else and supposedly not in a real arena with a real opponent in front of them. But when the on-site doctor check them after their match-up, nothing's off and even the boys somehow already slipped back to their normal self. Some other incident in other sports like college football, gymnastic, tennis, basketball, even swimming also happened. One kid even stated that he was in his room playing basketball game when suddenly everything blurred and seemingly 'melted' as his surrounding changed and he popped in a stadium packed with crowd and his VR vanished into thin air. But of course not long after that, he retracted the statement and claimed that the adrenaline got to him or something while weirdly emphasizing that he is the real athlete or something. Well, no one told the kid that he's a fake right?

The wrestler jogged to talk to the referee again after some little talk with his Coach

"Sorry for my antic. My name is Casey Golden and judging from your face, I got you, huh? That's just a prank I like to pull off, you know? Been wrestling since ages ago, no way in hell I could end that dude if I never wrestle, right? Sorry if its weird, thanks ref,"

In a small, conservative town, Alex's life was about to take an unexpected turn. He was an outsider, a creative soul who had always felt like he didn't quite belong. His colorful and artsy presentation was a stark contrast to the traditional masculinity that dominated his school, especially in the language class he shared with a group of stereotypical boys.

One of these boys was Max, a tall, athletic, and incredibly attractive member of the local hockey team. Max was the embodiment of the masculine ideal, with his chiseled jawline, strong physique, and a confident charm that made him popular among the girls and respected by the boys. Little did Alex know, but he had developed a crush on Max from the moment he saw him.

Their shared language class had been a source of both excitement and anxiety for Alex. Excitement because it allowed him to explore a new subject, but anxiety because it meant spending more time around the boys he secretly admired. Max, in particular, had caught his attention.

One day, their language teacher assigned a group project, and fate intervened to bring Alex and Max together. They found themselves in a small group along with a few other students, working on a project that required them to sit closely together in a small group room.

As they settled in to work on the project, Alex couldn't help but feel nervous sitting next to Max. His heart raced, and his palms grew sweaty. Max, perhaps sensing Alex's unease, turned to him with a friendly smile. "Hey, Alex, don't be nervous. We got this," Max said, his voice smooth as honey.

Little did Alex know, Max had a plan of his own. He subtly flexed his arm, causing a bead of sweat to glisten on his bicep. Then, as if by accident, he raised his arm to reach for a pen, allowing his armpit to come tantalizingly close to Alex's face.

Alex's heart skipped a beat as he inhaled Max's intoxicating scent. He was oblivious to the fact that Max was intentionally using this opportunity to get closer to him, to make his presence known, and to send Alex's heart racing.

But the other boys in the group knew exactly what Max was doing. They exchanged knowing glances and stifled their laughter as they watched Alex struggle to maintain his composure.

As the project continued, Alex found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Max's proximity, his scent, and the subtle but deliberate physical contact left Alex feeling dizzy with desire. Little did he know that this was just the beginning.

At the end of the lesson, Alex was dizzy and could not focus on anything but the smell. Originally, he was supposed to have an art lesson after the language lesson, but because of his foggy brain, he didn't think twice when he got the offer from the other boys. Max and the boys asked Alex if he wanted to tag along for their scheduled hockey practice. The team had made up with the school so that the members of the hockey team could practice during school hours.

Alex said yes, of course, and walked with them to the hockey arena, still dizzy but not as much. Alex's attire was a funny clash with the other boys' clean sporty look. Since Alex wore artsy and flamboyant clothes, he looked like a disco ball next to the conforming boys.

As the group and Alex finally arrived at the hockey arena, Alex started to question the situation a little bit more. Firstly, he knew nothing about sports or hockey, and he didn't even have any gear. Secondly, he was a skinny twig, not like Max, a Greek god. But he didn’t question it since he wouldn't be playing anyways

Max continued to be friendly with Alex and made Alex follow him and the boys to the locker room. In the locker room, the boys exchanged knowingly smug looks and waited for the action to begin.

They were tired of having to share their class with a walking pride flag and couldn't wait for Alex to become the extra resource they were missing on the team and in their bro-group. Max and the boys started undressing at their stations while Alex just stood there and started smelling the tasty air. Of course, a sweaty locker room filled with gear from matches played by hormone-filled 18+ boys would smell.

The boys had changed into their hockey attire and counted on Alex to poke around their "leftover" stuff. Just as they knew that when they left for practice and left Alex intoxicated by the air, Alex would start sniffing the leftover stuff and start his transformation.

Alex went from locker to locker and bench to bench, burying his face in socks and jocks, to jerseys and gloves. He got so hard he finally caved in and started to undress. All the leftover stuff he would put on to be one of the boys, the boys he envied and crushed on.

Firstly, Alex put on the used jock and felt so hot. He followed that up by covering his dainty feet in the big socks. He continued to dress up with the pants and put on the "gigantic" skates that were yellow from all the wear and tear. These definitely belonged to a player that used his full potential.

After he had laced up the skates, he put on the shin pads and the large shoulder pads. He continued to gear up with his elbow pads and his slash guards. Finally, he could put on the team-repping jersey that currently displayed a random number and name. He put on the helmet, hiding his blush-red face, and sealed off his hands with the large gloves.

Alex went over to the locker room mirror to see a pathetic boy in baggy gear. Just as Alex had the sad thought that this was stupid and that he needed to hurry before the others found him, he felt a tingle.

It first started in his feet where the once baggy socks and big skates soon filled out with rough, manly feet that had the skate methods in them. This was followed by his small legs growing larger, his calves exploded from the practices they had been through, and the changes just kept going up. His thighs became big and well-trained.

Alex's torso cramped before its fat disappeared, leaving rock-hard abs and a mesmerizingly good physique. Alex's once nonexistent pecs quickly hardened, and he started to fill in the gear well. The once large jersey, pants, and guards now fitted him perfectly, protecting him at all costs. Next up were his twig arms contrasting his currently good build. Alex's arms exploded with muscles, and you could see that he was clearly right-handed since he had used that hand for the hockey stick. The changes tracked to Alex's hands that juiced out, hands became hard and full of energy.

The changes took Alex's back and made a landscape of muscles, made his nether region grow and fill out the now small jock cup, and made his flat ass round up from all the practices in the sport.

Last but not least was Alex's average face. His rounded jaw became as sharp as a knife, emitting the peak of masculinity. Alex's nose bridge became broken and healed in an instant, caused by all the sport injuries. Alex's eyes narrowed and became focused and quick. Alex's once playful hair straightened into a simple middle part just like the rest of the boys. Lastly, in the transformation, the musk from all the "forgotten" clothes was absorbed by Alex, and this made him finally conform now that his brain was changed.

He wasn't Alex the artsy freak; he was a hockey bro, a confident chick magnet with a killer body. He was Alex the economic dude who always reeked from his pits.

The real world conformed to these changes, and gone was the old Alex. With this, the jersey he wore changed into Alex Benson and his number.

The team came back from practice, not knowing the old Alex, just the new. The only one who knew was Max.

 "Alex, bro, let's change after practice; you stink, dude. 

Hehe, bro, I went all out on the ice, you know me."

No more were Alex's old clothes. Instead, before him in his "new" locker, laid gray sweatpants, a fresh hockey hoodie, a black cap, a chain, and his shoes and socks—the attire of a real man.