Give & Take: A Path of Feeling

The date ended with a handshake. Not a kiss, not even a hug. Just a polite, firm handshake at her door.

"You're a great guy, Sebastian," she said, her smile pitying. "You're... safe."

Safe. The word felt like a castration.

Back in his bathroom, Sebastian stared at himself in the mirror. He was thirty-two, a newly appointed assistant Professor, and perfectly healthy. But the reflection showed a man who was functionally invisible. His chest was flat. His arms were thin wires. He had zero presence. He wasn't ugly; he was just... blank.

He didn't need to be a muscle monster. He just needed to stop being "safe."

———————————————————————————————

The gym was called Metrics. It was located in the basement of a modern office building.

Sebastian walked in, feeling out of place in his brand-new, loose-fitting workout clothes.

"Help you?"

The voice was deep, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning.

Sebastian turned. A man was wiping down a bench press.

Marcus. He looked to be in his forties, but he was in peak condition. He wasn't one of those bloated steroid users on magazine covers. He was thick. His neck was wide, his shoulders broad and heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms tightly, showing off dense, mature muscle. He had a short beard, black with specks of gray, and he smelled of clean sweat and expensive cedar soap.

"I'm looking for a trainer," Sebastian said, straightening his back, trying to look taller. "I assume that's you."

Marcus walked over slowly. He didn't smile. He just looked at Sebastian with dark, calm eyes. It felt like being scanned.

"I'm Marcus."

"Sebastian," he replied. "Look, I'll be blunt. I'm an academic. I don't have time to waste. I want to build muscle. I want to look... better." He gestured vaguely at his own thin frame, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice to mask his insecurity. "But I don't want to turn into one of those mindless meatheads. I just need the aesthetics."

He expected Marcus to be offended. Instead, Marcus just stared at him, his gaze dropping to Sebastian's narrow shoulders, then back to his eyes. There was a flicker of amusement in that look. Like a wolf looking at a very noisy rabbit.

"Aesthetics," Marcus repeated. His voice was flat, unreadable. "We can do that."

He stepped closer, invading Sebastian's personal space. The smell of him—musk and authority—was sudden and overwhelming.

"You want the look without the lifestyle. But the iron doesn't care about your PhD. It only cares if you can handle the weight." Marcus paused, looking at Sebastian's soft hands. "It’s going to hurt. A lot. Still want to proceed?"

Sebastian didn't understand the depth of the warning. He just wanted to fix the reflection in the mirror.

"Just tell me what to lift."

Marcus smirked.

"Fine. Let's see what you're made of." ————————————————————————————————

The first session was brutal.

Sebastian had read about "progressive overload," but reading about it and feeling gravity try to crush your chest were two very different things.

He was on the bench press. Marcus hadn't loaded it with anything crazy—just a 25lb plate on each side—but for Sebastian's untrained arms, it felt like a building.

"Elbows in," Marcus said from above.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, lowering the bar. His arms started to shake on the way up. He stalled halfway. The bar hovered, refusing to move. Panic started to creep in. He was going to drop it. He was going to die under 95 pounds in front of a stranger.

Then, Marcus leaned over to spot him. He didn't grab the bar immediately. He just hovered, his chest inches from Sebastian's face.

"Push," Marcus said.

The proximity was sudden. Sebastian was hit by a wave of heat radiating from the older man. It wasn't a bad smell—just intense. It smelled of hard work, sweat, and a distinct, deep musk that was unmistakably male.

It didn't make him gag. It flooded his senses. For a second, Sebastian's brain stopped worrying about the angle of his wrists. The fear, the heat, and that overwhelming scent mixed into a sudden spike of adrenaline.

He didn't know where the strength came from, but he shoved the bar up. It clanged into the rack.

Sebastian lay there, chest heaving, staring up at Marcus.

Marcus looked down, unblinking. "See? You had it. You just needed to stop thinking."

He pulled out his phone. "Download this. Gymini. It’s an app we use here."

Sebastian sat up, wiping his forehead, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief. "Is it a tracker?"

"Sort of," Marcus said, putting the phone away. "It uses an algorithm to adjust your routine based on how you feel. It takes the guesswork out. Just do what it says."

Sebastian nodded, still lightheaded, and scanned the code.

By the time Sebastian got home, he was wrecked. His arms felt like jelly. He collapsed onto his sofa, too tired to even turn on the TV.

He opened the app. The interface was simple, dark mode by default.

USER: SEBASTIAN

GOAL: AESTHETICS / TONED

He typed a question: What should I eat for dinner?

The reply popped up instantly: Grilled chicken breast, one cup of rice, large glass of water.

Simple. Sensible. He liked that.

He ate, showered, and lay in bed, but his mind was still racing. The soreness was already starting. He picked up his phone again.

Is there any way to speed up the results?

The three dots danced for a moment. Then a notification appeared.

TIP OF THE DAY:

PHEROMONE RECOVERY HACK.

DO NOT WASH YOUR GYM CLOTHES TONIGHT.

SLEEPING NEAR THE SCENT OF EXERTION CAN TRICK YOUR BODY INTO MAINTAINING TESTOSTERONE LEVELS DURING REM CYCLES.

Sebastian stared at the screen. It sounded like bro-science. Ridiculous.

He looked over at the laundry basket in the corner. His gym shirt was sitting right on top.

"Pseudoscientific nonsense," he muttered.

But he was tired. And honestly, after today... he felt different.

He got up, walked to the basket, and picked up the shirt. It was damp. He brought it closer to his face. It smelled of his own sweat, the metallic tang of the gym, and... yes, a faint, lingering trace of Marcus. That same warm, musky scent from the bench press.

It wasn't gross. It was just... real.

Sebastian hesitated, then tossed the shirt onto the empty pillow next to him.

"Just to test the algorithm," he whispered to himself.

He turned off the lamp. In the dark, the scent was stronger. He breathed it in, deeply. Surprisingly, it didn't keep him awake. It made him feel heavy. Safe.

He was asleep in minutes.

————————————————————————————————

Three weeks later, the apartment felt different.

The stacks of literary journals on the coffee table were still there, but they were now used as coasters for protein shakers. The air, once smelling of old paper and espresso, now carried the faint, sweet chemical scent of vanilla whey.

Sebastian stood in his bedroom, staring at his phone. Gymini was open.

It had become a reflex. He didn't agonize over choices anymore. He just checked the feed.

Outfit for Tuesday. Graduate Seminar.

The app loaded instantly.

NAVY POLO. SIZE M. TIGHTER FIT IMPROVES MUSCLE MIND-CONNECTION. LET THE BODY BREATHE.

Sebastian frowned. The Medium polo? He hadn't worn that size since he was an undergrad. It would be snug.

"Muscle mind-connection," he muttered. It sounded like bro-science, but he didn't hate the logic.

He put it on.

The fabric didn't just sit on him; it clung. The sleeves gripped his biceps—which were currently pumped from yesterday’s arm session. The buttons across his chest pulled slightly. It felt... aggressive.

But when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see a stressed academic worrying about tenure. He saw a man who had shape.

"Fine," he said, grabbing his bag. "Medium it is."

The lecture hall was warm. Sebastian was thirty minutes into a graduate seminar on Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author.

"Barthes argues that the text is a multidimensional space," Sebastian said, turning to write on the blackboard.

As he reached up, he felt the polo shirt ride up his back. The seam dug into his armpit. The friction against his nipples was constant, distracting, and... grounding.

He caught the eye of a student in the front row—a girl who usually took diligent notes. She wasn't writing. She was staring at his arms.

Sebastian paused. The old Sebastian—the one desperate to be taken seriously as a scholar—would have been mortified.

The new Sebastian felt a sudden, hot spike of gratification. She sees it.

"Professor?" another student asked. "You said the author is a 'scriptor'?"

Sebastian blinked. The academic definition floated just out of reach. His brain felt foggy, like it was wrapped in cotton. But his body felt incredibly sharp.

"Right," Sebastian said, checking his watch. "The scriptor. Look, the theory is dense. Just... don't overthink it. The text exists. That's what matters."

Don't overthink it.

He realized, with a jolt, that he was quoting Marcus.

He dismissed the class ten minutes early. He needed to hit the gym.

The transition was seamless.

Sebastian stripped down in the locker room and pulled on the new gear Gymini had suggested: a compression top.

It was black, synthetic, and merciless. It squeezed his torso, forcing him to stand straighter. He looked at himself. He looked like a tool. He looked great.

When he walked onto the gym floor, Marcus was waiting by the cable machine.

The older man didn't say hello. He just nodded at Sebastian's chest, his eyes tracing the lines of the compression shirt.

"Good," Marcus grunted. "Finally showing it off."

Sebastian adjusted his glasses, feeling a flush of pride. "Gymini suggested it."

"Smart app," Marcus said. He pointed to the machine. "Back day. We need width."

Sebastian sat at the machine. He reached up, gripping the bar.

"Pull."

Sebastian pulled. The weight was heavier than last week, but he didn't question it.

"No," Marcus corrected, his voice right behind Sebastian's ear. "You're pulling with your arms. Use the lats."

Marcus moved in. He placed his large hands on the sides of Sebastian's back, his thumbs digging into the muscle just under the armpits.

"Here," Marcus whispered. "Squeeze my hands."

The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of Marcus's body radiating behind him, the smell of old spice and musk enveloping him.

Sebastian’s brain—the one that held a PhD and was fighting for tenure—went quiet.

There was no theory. There was only the weight, the sweat, and the man controlling him.

He pulled. He felt his back muscles engage, hard and distinct against Marcus’s fingers.

"Good boy," Marcus murmured.

The praise hit Sebastian harder than any faculty approval ever could. His dick twitched in his compression shorts. He didn't even feel ashamed.

He just wanted to do another rep.

Later, in the locker room, Sebastian peeled off the soaked compression shirt. His skin was red from the friction, his muscles swollen. He felt stupid, tired, and happy.

Sebastian sat on the wooden bench, a towel draped over his lap. He was exhausted. His lats felt wide, swollen with blood, pulsing with a dull, pleasurable ache. But his mind was in chaos.

He replayed the moment at the cable machine. Marcus’s chest pressed against his back. The heat. The thumbs digging into his muscle. And those two words.

"Good boy."

It had triggered a reaction so visceral, so immediate, that Sebastian was still trying to rationalize it. His erection had pushed against the compression shorts with humiliating force. It was still semi-hard now, throbbing against the damp towel.

"Adrenaline," he whispered, staring at the floor tiles. "Just a cortisol-dopamine spike. Misattribution of arousal."

He picked up his phone. Gymini was already open.

He typed rapidly, his thumbs hitting the glass with defensive urgency.

Experienced sexual arousal during training. Is this a side effect of the pre-workout?

The screen flashed once. No processing animation. Just raw text.

ANALYSIS: NEGATIVE.

CAUSE: ATTRACTION TO SUPERIOR GENETICS.

STATUS: SEXUAL IMPRINTING DETECTED.

Sebastian frowned. Sexual imprinting?

He typed again: I am doing this to attract women. This reaction is counter-productive.

The text on the screen didn't scroll; it just changed. The previous words vanished and were instantly replaced by new, blocky capitals. It felt aggressive.

ERROR: OBJECTIVE INVALID.

BIOLOGICAL DATA CONTRADICTS USER INPUT.

WOMEN ARE IRRELEVANT.

"Irrelevant?" Sebastian scoffed, his voice rising slightly in the empty room. "That's the whole point."

He tried to type Correction: My goal is... but the keyboard didn't appear. The input field was gone. The app had locked him out of writing. It was only broadcasting now.

NEW DIRECTIVE: FIXATION.

TARGET: MARCUS.

RANK: APEX.

Sebastian stared. The screen flashed red, then settled back to black.

INSTRUCTION:

TO ACQUIRE THE PHYSIQUE, YOU MUST INTERNALIZE THE SOURCE.

YOU DO NOT JUST WANT HIS MUSCLE.

YOU WANT HIM.

"I respect him," Sebastian muttered, his thumb hovering over the close button. "That's all."

FALSE.

HEART RATE ELEVATED.

BLOOD FLOW DIRECTED TO GENITALS.

YOU ARE AROUSED BY HIS AUTHORITY.

Sebastian’s breath hitched. The app was reading his biometrics against his denial. It was using his own body as evidence against him.

LOGIC REWRITE IN PROGRESS...

ADMIRATION IS A WEAK WORD FOR HUNGER.

YOU WANT TO BE LIKE HIM.

YOU WANT TO BE WITH HIM.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

"No," Sebastian whispered. "I'm straight. I have a history of..."

DATA CORRUPTED.

HISTORY DELETED.

ONLY THE CURRENT STATE MATTERS.

CURRENT STATE: ERECT.

CURRENT STATE: OBEDIENT.

Sebastian froze. The logic was cold, circular, and terrifyingly accurate. He was erect. He had been obedient.

He looked down at his crotch. The towel shifted.

"This is... brainwashing," he said. But he didn't close the app. He couldn't. It was like watching a car crash.

ACCEPTANCE REQUIRED.

VISUALIZE THE TARGET.

SMELL THE TARGET.

DO NOT RESIST THE IMPULSE.

The screen went black, leaving only his reflection staring back—flushed, sweaty, and wide-eyed.

Sebastian sat there for a long time. The smell of the locker room—sweat, steam, and men—suddenly felt overwhelming. It filled his lungs.

He slowly dressed, his movements automatic. He tried to think about the blonde girl. He tried to picture her face.

Glitch.

Her face wouldn't hold. Every time he focused, the image distorted. Her soft skin hardened into rough stubble. Her perfume turned into the thick, musky scent of Old Spice and iron. Her eyes turned dark, heavy, and demanding.

Marcus.

Sebastian shook his head violently. "Stop it."

He walked home in a daze. When he crawled into bed, he felt feverish.

He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. But Gymini wasn't done. The text he had seen burned behind his eyelids.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

In the dark, his hand drifted down. He didn't want to touch himself, but his body had its own instructions now. He thought about the weight of the lat pulldown bar. He thought about the heavy hands on his back.

"Marcus," he breathed out, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

He jerked his hand away, shocked. "No."

He turned over, burying his face in the pillow. But the pillow smelled like the shirt he had slept with weeks ago. It smelled like him.

As Sebastian finally drifted into a restless sleep, his conscious mind shut down, but the new code kept running in the background.

Status: Rewriting mind set...

————————————————————————————————

Sebastian blinked.

The world rushed back in a blur of noise and gray concrete. The clank of iron. The heavy thud of dumbbells hitting the rubber floor.

He was sitting on the edge of a bench. His hands were gripping the vinyl padding so hard his knuckles were white. He was sweating—profusely. His chest heaved, gasping for air.

Where... when is this?

He remembered waking up. He remembered coffee. But the commute? The changing room? It was gone. A blank space in his memory. One moment he was tying his shoes, and now, he was here. Mid-set.

"You're drifting, Sebastian."

The voice came from above. Deep. Resonant.

Sebastian looked up. Marcus was standing over him.

The trainer looked colossal from this angle. He was wearing a gray tank top that was soaked through dark with sweat, clinging to his pectorals like a second skin. His arms were crossed, veins snaking down his forearms like roadmap lines.

"I..." Sebastian stammered. He tried to summon his academic voice, the one that commanded lecture halls. It wasn't there. "I don't remember getting here."

Marcus didn't look surprised. He stepped closer. He stepped between Sebastian's spread knees.

"The body knows where it belongs," Marcus said softly. "The mind is just luggage. Sometimes it gets left behind."

He was close now. Too close. Sebastian’s knees were touching Marcus’s thighs. The heat radiating from the older man was intense, a physical weight pressing against Sebastian’s face.

"Are you okay?" Marcus asked. It was a question, but his tone wasn't concerned. It was testing.

Sebastian looked at Marcus’s face. The salt-and-pepper beard. The dark, unyielding eyes.

Three weeks ago, Sebastian would have felt threatened. He would have stood up and backed away.

But now?

His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear, but with a sick, heavy excitement. The Gymini programming initiated the night before was running hot in his blood.

Target: Marcus. Obsession: Verified.

"I feel..." Sebastian swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I feel lightheaded."

"Good," Marcus murmured. He reached out and placed a heavy hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck. His fingers were rough, calloused. They squeezed the sensitive skin at the base of the skull. "That means you've finally stopped overthinking. That means the resistance is gone."

Marcus applied pressure, forcing Sebastian to look up at him.

"You've been doing well, Sebastian. The app shows me your metrics. You're growing." Marcus’s thumb stroked the line of Sebastian’s jaw. "You're becoming obedient. Does that feel good?"

Sebastian wanted to say No. He wanted to say I am a scholar, I am an intellectual.

"Yes," Sebastian whispered. The truth slipped out before he could catch it.

Marcus smiled. It was a predatory, satisfied smile.

"I knew it. You were never meant to think, were you? You were meant to lift. To sweat. To follow."

Marcus moved his hand from Sebastian’s neck to his chest, then lower, resting flat on Sebastian’s heaving stomach. Then, he took a half-step forward.

His crotch was now inches from Sebastian’s face.

The smell hit Sebastian like a physical blow.

It wasn't leather or cologne. It was the heavy, biological scent of a dominant male in his prime. It was thick, pungent, and intoxicating. It smelled of testosterone, aggressive sweat, and the sharp, salty tang of skin that had been working hard.

It was the smell Sebastian had slept with last night. It was the smell of authority.

Sebastian’s brain short-circuited. The "Professor" part of his mind screamed This is inappropriate! This is sexual harassment!

But the instinctive part—the part Gymini had cultivated—inhaled greedily.

Smell the target. Internalize the source.

"Breathe it in," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Don't hold your breath. This is what a real man smells like. This is what you want to be. Isn't it?"

Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned forward, drawn in by a magnetic force he couldn't fight. His nose brushed against the damp gray fabric of Marcus’s shorts.

"I..." Sebastian moaned, a shameful, needy sound. "I want..."

"What do you want?" Marcus asked. He didn't pull away. He pressed his hips forward, just slightly, rubbing the bulge of his crotch against Sebastian’s cheek. "Tell me. Use your words."

"I want... to be yours," Sebastian gasped. "I want to be a good boy."

"You are a good boy," Marcus growled. "But good boys need to be fed."

The sound of a zipper was the loudest thing in the gym.

Marcus reached down and pulled the waistband of his shorts down. He wasn't wearing underwear.

The release of the scent was overwhelming. It was raw. It was undeniable. It obliterated the last shred of Sebastian’s logic.

There was no hesitation. There was no "Am I gay?" There was no "What about my tenure?"

There was only the Man in front of him. And the need to serve.

Sebastian’s hands came up, trembling, to grip Marcus’s massive thighs. He looked up, eyes wide with a mix of terror and adoration.

"Open," Marcus ordered.

Sebastian opened his mouth.

Marcus guided himself in. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't violent. It was necessary.

As Sebastian took him in, tasting the salt and the skin, a final notification seemed to ping in his mind, clear as day.

PHASE COMPLETE.

COGNITIVE RESISTANCE: NULL.

CONTROL TRANSFER: TRAINER MARCUS.

————————————————————————————————

Three months blurred into a haze of iron, protein shakes, and Marcus.

Sebastian was still technically a professor, but the man walking into the lecture hall looked like he had eaten the previous one.

He was wearing a graphic t-shirt that was two sizes too small. The sleeves were rolled up, cutting into his biceps, turning his arms into veiny, swollen slabs of meat. His shorts were inappropriate for a gym, let alone a university—gray sweat material, tight enough to outline every muscle in his thighs and the heavy bulge between them.

He didn't carry a briefcase anymore. He carried a gallon jug of water mixed with Marcus’s "special blend."

Sebastian stood at the podium. He stared at the text on the projector: Derrida’s Structure, Sign, and Play.

The words looked like alien hieroglyphs. Signifier. Signified. Discourse.

"Ugh," Sebastian grunted, the sound amplifying over the microphone.

He tried to read the first sentence. "The... center is not the center..."

His brain stalled. It felt like trying to run through mud. The complex neural pathways that used to process philosophy were gone, paved over by Gymini’s new code: Lift. Eat. Sleep. Obey.

"Professor?"

It was the blonde student again. She looked at him, not with admiration, but with confusion. Maybe even pity. "You’ve been staring at that slide for five minutes. Are we going to discuss the reading?"

Sebastian looked at her. He felt a flash of irritation. Why was she talking so much? Why were there so many words?

"It's boring," Sebastian said flatly. His voice was deeper now, a permanent rasp.

"Excuse me?"

"The book," Sebastian gestured vaguely with a massive arm. "It's just words. Who cares? It doesn't... do anything."

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room.

Sebastian didn't hear it. His mind had already drifted. He was thinking about Marcus. He was thinking about the text he got ten minutes ago: Leg day tonight. Wear the jockstrap.

The thought hit him like a drug. He visualized Marcus waiting for him. The smell of the gym. The heavy weight on his back.

Under the podium, his dick surged. It grew hard and heavy, straining against the tight gray fabric of his shorts. He didn't try to hide it. He almost wanted them to see.

Real men don't read, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded like Gymini, but it felt like his own thought. Real men grow.

"Class dismissed," Sebastian muttered.

"But we still have forty minutes!"

"I said go," Sebastian growled, grabbing his water jug. "I have somewhere to be."

He walked out of the hall, leaving his tenure, his reputation, and his career behind. He didn't look back. He was already unzipping his phone to check the route to Home.

————————————————————————————————

One month later.

The apartment was warm. It smelled of cedarwood, musk, and sex.

Sebastian—no, the man formerly known as Sebastian—lay sprawled on the leather sofa. His head was resting on Marcus’s thick thighs.

He had been fired two weeks ago. "Gross incompetence," the letter said. "Behavior unbecoming of faculty."

He hadn't even finished reading it before Marcus threw it in the trash. Paper is for wiping, Marcus had said. You don't need it.

And Marcus was right.

The man looked up at his owner. Marcus was scrolling through a tablet, his other hand idly stroking the man’s hair, scratching behind the ears like he was petting a prize-winning retriever.

"The numbers are good," Marcus said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "Your preview video already has five hundred subscribers. They like the size. They like how... empty you look."

The man on the sofa smiled. It was a wide, vacuous grin. His eyes were clear, free of the anxiety that used to plague the Professor.

"Empty is good," he murmured. "Thinking hurts."

"Exactly," Marcus said. He put the tablet down and looked at the man. "We need to rebrand, though. 'Sebastian' is too long. Too syllables. It sounds like a librarian."

Marcus squeezed the back of the man’s neck.

"You look like a Stan."

The man blinked. He rolled the name around in his head. Stan. One syllable. Hard. Simple. It sounded like a command. It sounded like a tool.

"Stan," he repeated.

It felt right. Sebastian was the guy who worried about tenure and syntax. Stan was the guy who lived on this sofa, lifted heavy weights, and did whatever Daddy said.

"I like Stan," he said.

"Good," Marcus smirked. "Because Stan has work to do."

Marcus shifted his legs, spreading them slightly. The implication was obvious.

"We need to record the welcome video for the VIP tier," Marcus said. "Show them what a good boy you are."

Stan didn't need to ask what the script was. Gymini had deleted the need for scripts.

He sat up, his massive shoulders eclipsing the window light. He crawled between Marcus’s legs, his movements fluid and practiced.

"Lights on?" Stan asked, his voice thick with anticipation.

"Lights on," Marcus confirmed. "Action."

Stan grinned, a look of pure, mindless bliss on his face. He leaned down, burying his face in the source of his new reality, ready to serve.

His sneaker snagged on something. Not a root, not a loose board. He looked down. Half-buried in the sand beside the path was a weathered square of what looked like dark, petrified wood, about the size of a manhole cover. Intriguing, celtic-style knots were carved into its surface, worn smooth by countless feet and years of salt-laced wind. Most people would have just stepped over it. Nathan, however, saw an artifact, an anomaly. He placed his foot carefully in the center of the carving.

A jolt, not of electricity, but of profound, bone-deep *wrongness* shot up his leg. It was hot. Deep, primal hot. He yelped, stumbling back, but the sensation was already spreading, a rising tide of internal heat that started in his toes and flooded upwards. His skin began to prickle, every nerve ending lighting up.

"Wha...?" he managed, the word catching in a throat that suddenly felt tight.

The heat coalesced in his feet. He looked down in horror as his sneakers seemed to shrink, the canvas groaning, the laces straining. His toes, usually long and pale, were darkening, thickening, pressing against the front with an insistent pressure. With a series of sharp, wet *rips*, the shoes tore apart. His feet burst free, massive and broad, the skin tanned a deep leather-brown. A shock of coarse, dark blonde hair sprouted across the tops, and his toenails, once neatly clipped, thickened and yellowed, digging into the timber boards. A wave of something musky, rich and overwhelmingly *male*, wafted up from them.

"Oh god," he choked out, but the protest was weak, already dissolving. The heat was a drug, and it was flooding his system with bliss.

It surged into his calves, and the lean muscle there ballooned. He felt the fibers stretch, tear, and reform into dense, powerful slabs. Golden hairs, finer than those on his feet but just as numerous, prickled to life on his skin. His jeans, already tight, were now torture devices. The denim screamed as his thighs expanded, the quads and hamstrings bunching into incredible, chiseled mass. The fabric ripped at the seams, the sound echoing the wet tearing of his shoes. More hair dusted the new, powerful limbs, a carpet of gold that trapped the sweat now pouring from his pores.

The change hit his groin with the force of a physical blow. A dull ache exploded into a throbbing, pulsating heat. His balls dropped, feeling heavy, swollen, and impossibly full. His cock, usually a modest participant, stirred, then hardened, then grew, thickening and lengthening with alarming speed until it pressed insistently against the tattered ruin of his jeans. The musky scent intensified, growing richer, heavier, a humid cloud that made his head spin. He felt a drop of something viscous and slick leak from the tip, and a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure so intense it made his knees buckle washed over him.

"Uhhhn..." The sound wasn't a word. It was pure, animal grunt.

The firestorm of transformation continued upwards. His spine lengthened with an audible series of cracks, pulling him taller. As Nathan fell to his knees and began to jack his throbbing cock with reckless abandon, his hips narrowed, ass tightening into two perfect, hairy globes of muscle. His stomach, once soft and pale, clenched. The fat seemed to melt away, burning as fuel for the change. His abs popped, one by one, then again, forming a deeply-cut, six-pack grid of muscle. More hair, a trail that started thick and wild below his navel and fanned out across the newly carved landscape of his torso.

His chest heaved as the transformation took hold there. His pecs, once flat, swelled outwards, pushing against the remnants of his shirt. They grew into two thick, heavy slabs of muscle, perfectly rounded and powerful. His shoulders broadened, tearing the shirt's collar, and then the rest of the garment gave way, the fabric shredding like wet paper. His delts and traps swelled, rising towards his ears, forming the perfect shield for a body built for power.

His arms were next. The heat was a constant, roaring forge now. His biceps and triceps inflated, swelling to an impossible size, veins snaking like rivers across the new terrain. His forearms thickened, and his hands, once nimble for typing, became large, calloused paddles, the fingers thick and stubby.

His neck was consumed, the muscles thickening until his head sat on a trunk of pure power. Then the fire reached his face.

His jaw ached, then cracked, resetting into a stronger, squarer line. His cheekbones rose, becoming more prominent. His nose seemed to shrink, becoming a little upturned, cute in its brutish way. His lips swelled, becoming fuller, softer, perpetually parted. His skin, from the neck up, began to darken, tanning instantly to match the rest of him. The prickle of new stubble on his jaw and chin was replaced by a permanent, dark blonde shadow. His ears, which had stuck out slightly, seemed to settle against his head.

But the most profound change was happening behind his eyes.

The complex calculus of astrophysics, the intricate plot points of Dostoevsky, the very memory of his own name and address—they were like sandcastles against a rising tide of pure, golden sensation. The thoughts became blurred, then dissolved, replaced by simpler, more vibrant concepts. *Sun. Good. Water. Fun. Muscle. Feel good.* The intricate web of his consciousness was being washed away, replaced by a single, powerful, sun-drenched drive. He tried to grasp a fading memory, of a library, of a computer screen, of a girl he once liked, but it was like trying to cup water in his hands. It slipped through, leaving only the feeling of warmth.

“Uhhhn…” he grunted again, the sound deeper now, resonating from a chest the size of a barrel. As his brain boiled, he desperately tried to hang on to something, anything. He tried to recall his name, a simple anchor in the storm. *Na... Nah...* The letters felt foreign, heavy on a tongue that was suddenly slow and clumsy. *N... Nahhhh...* A wave of pleasure, originating from the immense, throbbing heat in his groin and the sheer sensation of being so *big*, so *powerful*, crashed over him, wiping the slate clean. *Nah... good... feels...* The thought of himself, the old him, seemed distant, silly. Why would he want to think about that when he could think about the sun, or the water, or the amazing feeling of his own muscles?

“Fuck…” he moaned and grinned as his eyes lost their intelligent focus and gained a hazy, lustful glaze.

His hair, the last bastion of his old self, was the final thing to change. The short, mousy brown strands seemed to writhe on his scalp. They lightened, bleaching to a shocking, platinum blonde, then began to grow, spilling over his forehead, past his ears, down to his shoulders in a tangled, salty, sun-bleached mane.

The internal heat subsided, leaving behind a constant, radiating warmth and a sheen of sweat that coated every inch of his new, massive body. The musk was a tangible aura now, a cloud of raw, masculine heat that hung in the air around him. He stood there, breathing heavily, each breath a deep, rumbling sound in a broad, hairy chest. He blinked slowly, long blonde eyelashes brushing against his high cheekbones.

He looked down at his tattered clothes, at the two giant, hairy feet planted firmly on the timber. He flexed his hands, watching the muscles in his arm bunch up. A slow, dopey grin spread across his handsome, vacant face.

Whoa. Heavy.

He ran a thick-fingered hand through his long, blonde hair, then down his hairy, sweat-slick chest. It felt awesome. Everything felt awesome.

A flash of movement caught his eye. A surfboard, waxed and gleaming, leaning against a nearby rail. He didn't know the word for it, couldn't have articulated its purpose, but he knew, with every fiber of his new, simple being, what he was supposed to do.

He took a step, then another, his massive, hairy feet thudding heavily on the boards. He picked up the board, the weight feeling perfect in his grip. He turned towards the ocean, the endless blue expanse calling to him with a simplicity that was all he could now comprehend.

Sun. Water. Him. Perfect. A single, happy thought bloomed in the beautiful, empty space of his mind, as clear and bright as the Australian sun.

Time to, like... go in the water.

You're quite fortunate I'm not a genie, my friend. It could have been so easy to take your words to the most logical of extremes... Twist them into something that clearly wasn't what you intended, despite following your petition to the letter.

But there's no need to cruel after you made such an earnest wish. After all, who wouldn't love to be a huge man who's respected and adored?

Especially when it's so easy to give it to you...

---

You just had gotten home. Tired, yet happy you would get some time to rest... Alongside your boyfriend.

He was a great man. In all aspects. A wonderful personality and sense humor. Great talent for anything related to sex. And he clearly adored you. Still, he was huge: towering, muscular and hung. Some may say he was the perfect man. You the first among them. In regular circumstances, you wouldn't change a thing about him.

Conversely, you were rather average or even tiny next to him. Not that tall, rather slim. And your cock wasn't that much to boast about. Not that your boyfriend had ever made you feel any lesser because of it. No, he pampered you, and loved to submit to your will at every chance he got. It was almost funny, all things considered. He was such a big intimidating man, but loved to adore you, down on his knees, obeying your every m word.

Was this fate playing a bad joke? Clearly you made a great couple, but in a way you had ended with the wrong bodies. Your boyfriend would have been happier on your smaller physique, while you didn't want anything more than be bigger than him. If only there had been a way to rectify that...

That's why it was impossible to help your excitement when you saw it: a package in front of your door. A package made especially for you. It was a pink box, with white letters saying: HEXCHANGE.

You knew exactly what they were. Being a regular on the world of transformations, you had heard of Mr. Hexum, as well as his company Hexum Industries. You had asked for his help, and this was his answer.

Getting inside, you still had some time alone. Your boyfriend got home exactly half an hour after you did.

You opened the box, and saw two pills inside: a pink one, and a white one. They were small, like half the size of an aspirin. It was almost hard to believe these could do anything.

Next to the pills you found the instructions. They were rather simple: whoever took the pink pill would be the receiver, and whoever took the white pill would be the donor. Once both individuals had consumed the pills, the receiver just needed to wish for whatever trait the donor had.

The instructions gave a simple example: John had a girlfriend, Jane, who was taller than him. So, after taking the pills, he simply wished to take some inches of height for himself. Afterwards, he had reversed the height difference. It even came with small cartoon comic, something reminiscent of the 1950s advertisements, to illustrate the change and how it all worked.

The other side of the instructions came with the warnings: It was important to consume the pills with water, to ensure the body was able to absorb the magic properly. Also, the pills effect would only work for about three hours, after which no exchanges could be made. Finally, all swaps were reversible during the three hours the pill were in effect. Afterwards, another order of Hexchange pills would be necessary to reverse anything.

A final warning had to do with someone consuming both pills, but you ignored it. You already had a target, so why risk it? This wasn't an opportunity that you could afford to waste.

After all, this was an experimental product. With high demand and low stock. So it may be difficult to get a second package after already getting the first. It may easily be impossible, especially if the product proves unpopular.

As things stood, you couldn't waste this chance.

You explained everything to your boyfriend once he got home. Clearly, he didn't believe a thing. Probably assumed you were proposing to role-play, and you had already began doing so before him agreeing joining.

It didn't matter, however. As long as he did what he had to do, and swallow the correct pill, then it didn't matter if he didn't believe you. His belief, or lack thereof, wouldn't change the effects of the Hexchange pills had for the both of you.

"Very well, Leo," he said, that lovely fool, with a knowing smile. "I'll let you take anything you want from me, by taking this white pill. And suuurely it'll work. I want you to make sure to take everything you want!"

You didn't try to defend yourself. Why would you do so? Proving your boyfriend wrong was going to be quite easy. Once the pill was on his system, he would be helpless against your ambition.

This sole thought was enough to make you hard. To have such a tremendous control over him... More control than I've ever had before...

You barely contained your enthusiasm as you saw your boyfriend swallow the pill. Playful, he even opened his mouth so you could corroborate he had actively consumed the white pill. Soon after that, you swallowed the pink one.

Seconds later, you felt it. Both of you did, in fact. Once the pills finally reached each stomach: it was like a warmth extended outwards from your belly, reaching even the farthest corners of your body. Comforting, invigorating. A warmth so wonderful it was made any hesitation you heart may still have disappear as if it had never existed.

Your boyfriend felt in a similar way. A sleepy smile as he looked at you. Wouldn't it be nice to go for a nap? It was all so cozy...

But no. The three hour time frame was already too short. You couldn't afford to lose any amount of time without the certainty of having enough time. It was now or never. A chance like this didn't present itself everyday.

There was nothing more foolish that squandering it. And you were no fool.

"I wish that I grow, taking one inch from you until you were... 5'3". Yes, 5'3"..." you said, looking at your boyfriend with renewed interest. Feeling almost impatient for the changes to finally occur.

The effect was immediate.

Your boyfriend, that had always been well over 6 feet tall, was quickly growing shorter in front of your eyes. Not only because he was losing height, but because you were gaining from his loss.

Soon, you looked eye to eye (a first). Seconds later he had your former height. Then he had lost a whole foot compared to his original size. Eventually, he was merely 5'3", and not a fraction of an inch above it. He looked so dense and swole! His already impressive muscles had not diminished at all. They were only compressed, giving your boyfriend such a stocky and stout figure, he barely looked real.

As for you? All the height he had lost had been transferred to you. Your boyfriend was now shorter than you had originally been, making you even more of a giant that he ever was.

Or could have ever been.

Unfortunately, you also looked almost gaunt. Stretched out. Your body had changed its structure to adapt to this new height, but you hadn't really gained any weight or muscle yet. What a slender figure you had now! Enough you wouldn't be surprise if the wind could take you away, were you not careful enough while standing outside.

Still, your hands and feet were huge. Enough that you had to take off your shoes as soon as the transfer began. Otherwise... Well, it was better to not think what would have happened. Comparing your bare feet to your shoe was enough to make yourself and idea... Ouch.

"Wait... How did... How is this... Leo! They were real? The pills were real?" your boyfriend asked, yelling, panicked. "How can this be? I..."

And could you blame him?

He had gone from a man who rarely needed to look up at anyone, to one who was undeniably short. The room alone should feel so much bigger. His clothes looked like bedsheets on him.

"Of course they are real, babe. Why would I have lied? Don't worry, though... I'll take care of you, little guy. Nothing will ever happen to you."

"Little... Guy?" your boyfriend asked, his eyes wide as he was forced to crane his neck to look at your face. "I'm not a..."

"Shhh..." you said, with a smirk. Your hand looked massive, despite how slim it was, as you used your finger to shut him up. "There's nothing for you to worry about."

He gulped. You were so close now. Making him truly aware of how bigger than him you had become. How cute he looked...

"I wish I had all your muscle tone..." you said, gazing into your boyfriend's eyes. "Until you become as skinny as I currently am."

"You what?" your boyfriend asked, shocked. "But... It's years of..."

Looking down at himself, the exaggerated muscles he now owned began to deflate. Panicked, he tried to grab his pecs. But soon the mass had dwindle enough no trace of them could be found. His chest was completely flat.

But not only that. His clothes, that had been kept somewhat in place thanks to his bulging muscles, were now simply too big for his physique. He was no longer the massive jock he had been but a few minutes ago.

If anything, he was a twink. Or perhaps an otter. For he still had his body hair and that lovely beard of his.

You almost felt bad about stealing years of work from him. He didn't seem to enjoy this kind of theft that much... At the beginning. Yet the way he was looking at you presently... Maybe it was starting to grow on him, as ironic as it was.

"Undress," you ordered. Not loudly. There was no need to speak loud.

Obeying came so naturally to him, he didn't even realize he was taking his clothes off until a moment after. Perhaps because he was too distracted looking at you. Eyes wide, mouth slack with awe and horny curiosity.

After all, not only were your clothes completely shredded. Both transfers simply had done a number so catastrophic, nothing could be saved from your current outfit. Not that you minded. Garments seem too little of a sacrifice to become this herculean of a man. With a body like this there's little point in wearing clothes at all.

Thusly, you also took your clothes off. There was no point for modesty while alone with your boyfriend. Even more so when your clothes were so utterly ruined.

At last, both of you were naked.

"You are huge... Leo... It's just... Wow"

"I'm sure you love it, don't you?" you said, flexing your arm for him. "I'm rectifying what nature got wrong. I'm finally making myself the man you deserve to submit to. The man you'd beg to worship."

Your boyfriend was nodding, probably unaware he was doing so. How easy was to agree with you now that you looked like this! Any hesitation he may have had was superseded by lust, and the wonder that came from your transformation.

Holding his face, you relished on how huge your hands were now. Not only were they long. They were thick. Meaty. One of them alone was almost as big as your boyfriend's whole face. How exhilarating! You've never felt so powerful. You've never felt manlier.

"Since you seemed excited now..." you said, caressing his cheeks with your thumbs. "Tell me, baby, what else do you want me to take from you? I'll let you choose one single thing. Something that's completely your decision... Something you want me to steal from you..."

Kissing him, he was unable to respond immediately. His mind clearly obfuscated by the transformations that had already taken place. And by the sensation of being so small and you so massive.

After all, it hadn't even been half an hour since you began using the pills. How could be expected of your boyfriend to keep with this experience?

"My cock..." he said, out of breath, smiling at the prospect. Eyes on you, so loving and trusting. So devoted. "Steal my size... Please..."

"Are you sure?" you asked, raising his chin with your index, ensuring he looked at your eyes.

"Positive... I want you to... I want you to be my superior in every way... Please take my cock. You'll use it better than I ever could..."

You loved him too much to not oblige.

There was no need to say the wish out loud. Merely thinking it was enough. And you soon discovered this to be true.

Grabbing his cock, you marveled at it, caressing it just below the head. It truly was a thing of beauty. Long, fat and uncut. The kind of dick most men would kill to have. The kind of cock that felt only made sense on a porn film. And your boyfriend, willingly, without you forcing him in any way, was giving it to you.

How could you ever not love him?

Despite having a large hand, his erection was still bigger... It was even bigger than your extended hand, from palm to the tip of your fingers. At least at first. Eventually your hand was able to completely cover it.

Soon you just needed your palm.

Seconds later even that was too much.

It got to a point you couldn't even grab his cock. Only your index and thumb were able to hold it, barely. Even a smaller hand, such as your boyfriend's, would struggle holding such a small cock. It had compressed so much, you were almost confident it had gone beyond simply being small.

Yet, as arousing as his shrunken cock could be, what awaited between your legs surpassed it greatly.

It was huge. Easily ten inches, maybe more. It almost looked fake. But it suited you. Suited your new giant self. With such a big body, anything less would have been underwhelming. A godlike body like yours deserved a godlike cock like this one...

"Boy that's big!" your boyfriend exclaimed, so shocked he didn't find any restrain. "You're even bigger than I ever was... In every sense..."

Falling to his knees, he looked as if trapped on a trance. One so delightful it would be cruel to wake him up from it. As if he vad entered the sweetest of dreams, and was being offered the most delectable delicacy in the land.

He was almost too short, on his knees, to adore your new endowment. You've never imagined him being this small. Yet it felt so correct. As if his soul was finally showing on his flesh.

Isn't he the cutest thing? These pills are a godsend...

"You know what to do, babe. You already know what to do..."

He nodded at your words, eyes shining so beautifully. Your hand was already on his hair, guiding him to the stolen treasure he so ardently desired. As he did so, you decided to take something else from him.

And what did you wish for? His body hair... His beard, the hair from his chest, arms, legs, pits... From almost everywhere...

He didn't notice. As he forced his mouth as open as possible, the perfect beard on his face began to recede. Shrinking inwards, until his face was as smooth as a baby's. As if no hair had even grown there.

And perhaps it would never grow again.

Similarly, the hair on the rest of his body seemed to also be going away. Not even his pubes were safe. Leaving his tiny hard rod completely exposed. The lack of hair made it look slightly bigger, but it also made it look so infantile it balanced things out. His slender form was such a contrast from his original manly body, it should have been shocking. It shouldn't feel this... Right.

His tongue, such a devoted worshiper, was already on your cock. Distracting your mind from whatever you were thinking, as he played with the tip of your dick. As he enjoyed the taste of your leaking pre cum.

Soon, he was half way. The amount of cock, both inside and outside his mouth, could be compared to an average dick. It was incredible to see. Your cock was so huge it looked like two average dicks stacked on top of each other.

Thank God I got these pills! Best decision od my life!

Could your boyfriend even get it all? Perhaps you were too big for him... After all, his whole body is so much smaller... He may simply not have enough space inside of him.

"You can do it, baby. I know you can," you said, quietly. Warmly. Your voice however, displeased you some.

It could be deeper... Invested with authority. Made impossible to question...

So you wished for it. For some of the depth is his voice. Just until you had a proper baritone. Just enough so you sounded like a man you can't afford not to listen to.

And you could listen to the difference. The way your boyfriend's needy whimpers and moans were of a higher register now. Long gone was the masculine man he had once been. Small, slim, hairless, with a tiny dick and a high voice. He was the quintessential twink.

Almost.

Only one thing was left to make your wish a reality. Only one thing to take from him, and become the man you always wanted to be.

Just as your boyfriend had finally gotten the entirety of your cock inside his mouth, you wished for it. To take his age, until he was merely twenty years old. It was the only way: how else could you become the daddy you wanted... No, needed to be?

And so you aged. Some years older. Enough for it to be observable. A few wrinkles, more pronounced entries, the stray white hair here and there. However, the years were kind to you. Not because you looked young, but because you seemed charmingly mature instead of old.

The sexiest daddy the world have ever seen. That's who you were becoming. That's who you always wanted to be.

Your boyfriend, on the flipside, was younger. His skin softer, his hair fuller. The slender frame he had acquired so recently thinned even more. Giving him that lean look so unique to youth. Something graceful and delicate.

He was so tiny, so small. On every sense of the word.

And he was yours alone.

That was enough for you to reach your peak. You came inside his mouth with what felt a unstoppable force. Ropes of hot cum going down his slender throat, as you held his beautiful face. Firmly, yet with such gentleness...

"That was incredible!" your boyfriend's voice truly was higher now. Even more so due to his renewed youth. Your cock had slid out of his mouth with a pop, glimmering with his saliva. A trail of cum sliding down the side of his mouth. "I never knew being transformed could make sex so much hotter!"

You smiled.

"We're not done yet, boy. Let's go to bed. I'll show ya what daddy is capable of," you had helped him up as you said it, holding his tiny waist as you two walked to the bedroom.

You could never forget the sex you had that night...

---

The next morning, you woke up with him in your arms. He was the little spoon. Always had been. Now it was even easier. He was as light as a feather, and so small...

Sun beams were already covering you and your boyfriend, illuminating your shared bedroom. He looked so placid in your arms. Even more youthful and innocent than last night... It was such an incredible thing to withness...

Wait. That means... Oh.

You hadn't reversed the changes. Not that you ever wanted to. But wouldn't this cause issues? Would anyone recognize you at work? Or your boyfriend? At most both of you looked like relatives of your previous selves. Neither looked anything alike your previous original selves.

Trying to not wake him up, you stood up and went for your wallet. Only to learn reality seemed to have shifted too. Your driver's license said it all. Year of birth was different. Your height was different. Everything you had changed had also been modified on all your documents.

The same was true on your boyfriend's license. And the photos of you two on the walls and your phone? All changed. Your previous self had been completely erased, and now you truly were this sexy towering daddy.

You returned to bed, embracing your boyfriend back. His eyes opened, and he smiled, looking up at you. He squeezed himself against your body, seeking your warmth and the safety your huge body so naturally provided.

Said embrace didn't last, however. For your boyfriend went underneath the sheets, his mouth craving for your massive cock again.

Truly, you had created the perfect life for the two of you.

And there was no going back.

Marcus had been my rival on the chess team for years. It seemed like anytime there was a regional competition, it always came down to a match between the two of us. He was like an evil twin. Nobody outside of the chess world even knew we existed of course, being two ugly nerds, but every time I played him, it felt like an epic battle between hero and nemesis.

Finally, one day, we had both had enough.

One match, he said, to settle it once and for all. How could I refuse?

I met him after school at his place. He was already setting up a board on the floor, squatting in a pair of too tight shorts on his heavy body, suspenders straining. Whereas I weighed about ten pounds soaking wet, Marcus clearly had never met a Twinkie he didn’t like.

“Zachary,” he sneered, in his whiny voice.

“Marcus,” I nodded, gritting my teeth.

Soon the board was set.

“But first,” he said. “You agree that this is it? At the end of the game, it’ll be clear just who deserves to be on the team, and who doesn’t? Loser never plays chess competitively again.”

I couldn’t wait until I’d never have to see his pudgy face glaring at me on the other side of a table again.

“Deal,” I said.

Marcus grinned.

The game began. I made a couple big moves at the beginning, a bit risky, more aggressive than I usually played. It was intense. I didn’t even look up from the board. I realized that I’d been clenching my teeth. Even my shirt felt tight. I unbuttoned the top button. Just when I thought I had Marcus a little off-kilter, he took a knight I wasn’t expecting.

I felt a sudden pain in my legs. A leg cramp from sitting on the floor? I looked down at my legs and my jaw dropped. Gone were the scrawny, hairless chicken legs I was used to. Instead, quads! Calves! Hair! I looked like I had the legs of a soccer player. I winced as I felt a sharp, sudden pain in my head.

“What the-?” I said.

I looked at Marcus, the first time all game, I realized. But, he looked… different. His suspenders were gone, and instead, he was wearing a t-shirt. And the way it hugged his chest- had he lost weight? And where were his glasses?

“Oh, you realized,” Marcus said. “When I said we were playing to settle this once and for all, I meant it.”

“What do you mean?” I growled.

“Every piece you lose turns you more into a dumb jock,” he said, smiling. “When I beat you, you’ll be nothing more than a drooling gym rat.”

My head spun. That asshole! And yet, it clearly had to be true- he was looking more and more fit by the second, and my legs! Well, that was it then, I had to win. I dragged a bishop over and plunked it down.

“Just as I thought,” Marcus cackled. “Sure, I let you pick off some of smaller pieces, so you’d get cocky. But now it’s time to take you down a peg or two!”

And with a quick move of his arm, he took my castle. Fuck!

I doubled over in pain as my stomach clenched. And suddenly, abs, popping out in a four-pack… six-pack! I grabbed my head as another sharp pain hit. I felt… foggy. Like I’d chugged a bottle of cold medicine. Fuck. And my shorts… when had they gotten all shiny? Was I… was I wearing gym shorts?

“Fuck you!” I snarled.

Marcus laughed.

“And now it’s just gonna get easier and easier, the dumber you get!”

The game continued, and I tried to stick to the basics. I started playing simpler, more conservative. But it felt like I kept making stupid mistakes. My shoes morphed on my now larger feet into a pair of gym shoes. My shirt evaporated, leaving my new chest on display. Still, I had taken down some of Marcus’ pieces too, and he was looking more and more jock-like as well, with a matching pair of sneakers, and shorts. He actually looked… hot? My dick grew a little harder in my shorts. Fuck. Even my dick had changed.

“Just a couple moves and you’ll be too dumb to play!” Marcus chuckled, his voice deeper than I remembered.

My head hurt. If only I could focus. I stared at the board. I couldn’t lose my smarts! I couldn’t end up just another idiot gym bunny who could only count as high as he could lift!

But then- his queen! There’s no way Marcus could have left that open without realizing it, right? I mean, it was like, a really important piece, right? Last chance! I picked up a piece and dragged it across the board, taking out his queen.

The effect was unreal to watch. Marcus’ whole body began to contort, legs getting more toned and growing dark brown hairs, shoulders rounding. He had to be four or five inches taller. He grinned what looked like a typical dumb jock grin. My erection strained against my gym shorts.

“You idiot!” he laughed. “You fell for it! Now I just gotta move one piece, and…”

He trailed off.

“It was a trap,” he said. “I give up my… what’s this one called again?”

Marcus held up the queen I had just taken.

“And then, all I gotta do is… move one piece, and I win…. but, like…”

He stared at the board.

“Fuck,” he said. “I don’t… I can’t remember…”

“Hah!” I laughed. “You’re too stupid to even remember how to play! Can’t win now!”

He stared at the board, went to pick up one of his pieces, but stopped.

“Go ahead,” I dared him. “Move that one.”

His hand hovered over a couple and stopped.

“Can’t do it!” I grinned. “You’re just some dumb sexy jock boy.”

He froze, and stared at me. Fuck, that dumb look on his face was hot.

“Yeah, well, you’re basically just some hot dumb asshole too, bro.”

Did he… did he just say I was hot? My now bigger dick twitched.

“Smarter than you,” I said. “Probably all you can think about is working out, and like, sex, and stuff. Make a move so I can end this, and you can go back to basketball practice or something.”

The new jocked-out Marcus looked at the board.

“I…” he started. “I…. Fuck it.”

He picked up a random piece and moved it forward a space.

And suddenly, I realized I didn’t even know if he could move that one like that. My brain felt full of cotton. My biceps swelled a little more. My delts! Oh man, my traps! Fuck, bro.

“Fuck that’s hot,” Marcus said, grinning at me.

We both looked at the board.

“So… who the fuck won?” I asked.

Marcus stared at me like a dog eyeing a steak.

“Who the fuck cares, bro? It’s just, like… some stupid game.”

I stared back at him, my eyes tracing his arms, his chest, down his treasure trail to his shiny blue gym shorts, then back to his intense stare.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

We stared, frozen for a few seconds. And then we leapt over the board at each other, groping each others’ hard body, my tongue thrusting into his mouth.

“Fuck bro!” he said, his hand thrusting down my shorts and onto my raging hard on.

The board and pieces lay scattered on the floor. I moaned as Marcus’ hand pumped my cock. I pinched his nipple, earning a matching groan from him.

Marcus wasn’t my rival at chess anymore, alright.

We started fucking right there on the floor, flipping the other over, grinding, breaking apart, pinning the other, fucking again…

Everyone needs a break during the summer, even an uptight lawyer doing his internship at city hall. He complained in a forum about how stressed out he was, that he just needed to get laid , that he was over thinking everything so I had one of my twinks send him a simple link. One simple click on it sealed his fate, it took his pressed and tailored suits, perfectly gelled hair and posh attitude and did a 180. His time spent more in a gym then a library or classroom as muscles exploded on his frame. His clothes went from stylish to efficient with little fabric to show off his body and full range of motion. Tightie whities became kokstraps filled to the brim with a giant cock and full set of balls, his jeans permanently sagging.

His face which always had its nose upturned and filled with an unearned sense of superiority now looked dopey and relaxed. His lips plump and always open, his jaw a perfect lantern jaw and his brow bone extended giving him this neanderthal look that just drives me crazy. A backwards hat materializing on his head, messy sweaty hair becoming a constant. The hat turns backwards, removing the last vestiges of his intelligence until it's perfectly backwards, eyes no longer bright with knowledge, instead now empty, vacant and hungry. His cock was hard as steel, if he came it would be permanent, he couldn’t cum… but he loved cum, dumb himbos love cumming. Young dumb and wanting to cum. So cum, cum and let go. Thats it let go and cum those brains out..

Good boy

________________________

Note: the pastry is claimed by @justonemorefeeling. There was a problem with the accounts.

---

Truth was, you had never really watched Star Wars. However, you knew that May 4th was an important day for said fandom, and so, what other cake could you have picked but a Star Wars themed one?

it's difficult not to have some fondness for these kind of thematic days, after all.

Furthermore, even if you couldn't call yourself a fan of the movies, the cake offered by Mr. Hexum pastry shop had been completely free of charge. Any qualms you may have had were, thus, completely gone.

When it arrived, you had enough pop culture knowledge to know what you were seeing. The box was being carried by a woman. Beautiful, in most aspects. Unfortunately, she was merely appealing to you in an aesthetic sense. Being gay, the beauty of a woman was equal to one of a sublime painting: utterly unarousing. Still, her physical appeal was the least interesting thing about her: she was wearing a cosplay. A really good one. Of Princess Leia.

Of course, you didn't know from which movie exactly her white dress and her bizarre yet iconic hairstyle came from. You just knew it was from one of the Star Wars films from the 70s. That said, it was a very good costume.

"May the force be with you, Luke," she said, with a smile that you knew would have made a straight man blushed.

You were not such man.

"Thank you, but I'm not Luke, I am..." you replied as you received the cake box.

She didn't let you finished. Walking away before you could say your name. After some steps, she turned around and winked.

"Goodbye, Luke! We'll see each other soon"

Mouth slack, you watched her go while holding the cake box. What a weirdo... You thought, as you got back inside. It was a shame really, she did seem like a nice girl. But she was either too into her character, or simply disturbed.

Or had you missed a memo? You didn't recall any such thing while making the request for a cake.

With a sigh, you got the cake box to your kitchen. It was pink, with the name of the store in fancy white letters. How neat! You opened the box, and there it was. A wonderful Star Wars cake. Black, with multiple white stars. Star Wars written in yellow at what should be the front. And a space ship on top: white, resembling a slice of pizza but with the widest side rounded.

It's the Millennium Falcon... A voice said, in your head. Which made you stop in your tracks. Since when did you hear voices?

Regardless of the meaning of such strange events, you decided to cut a slice for yourself. It almost felt like a shame. After all, the cake was masterfully decorated. Looking more like a miniature model rather than a pastry.

You felt slightly bad you were eating this cake, knowing perfectly well a better fan lf the franchise may have enjoyed it more. Alas, it was too late to regret anything.

Still, you wished you were able to know more about Star Wars.

Just the first bite was enough to know something had gone wrong. Not because it wasn't delicious—it very much was—, but because something changed in a way that made no logical sense.

Looking down at yourself, you realized your clothes had been replaced in a single instant. Somehow. Now you wore a white shirt with a low neckline, and similarly light pants and boots. For contrast, maybe, you also wore a thick dark belt, rather low on your torso, basically at the level of your hips. You could easily attach some tools to it.

"What the...?" you exclaimed, wondering where you clothes had gone.

Trust the force, Luke... Trust the force...

"I'm not Luke!" you yelled, only to realize you had no idea who you were talking to. You barely were aware about what the force could even be, although you had some notion that it was important in the movies. Why or how, however, you couldn't say.

Looking at the cake with suspicion, you didn't know if to continue eating or not. After all, if it had changed your clothes, maybe it could also change you...

The cake was in your mouth before you were aware of the decision you had made. You didn't stop, too curious and reckless about the idea of being transformed. Of finally experiencing life as somebody else. You had always been fascinated by the concept. As risky and illogical as it could be seen from someone else's perspective, it was one of your highest fantasies. Even if just temporarily, you wanted to live the life of another man.

Magic wasn't something easily found. This could be your only chance of making your fantasy come true.

Threwing yourself at your chair, breathing uneven after devouring the pastry so hastily, you were satisfied. You had done it. You had eaten the entirety of the slice of cake. If the cake was the one which was truly magical, you would be transformed soon. To what? You didn't know. And didn't really care. The transformation itself was far more exciting than knowing what you were going to be turned into.

Of course, you did hope it was a nice body. But anything would do, to be fair. You just wanted to be changed into someone different, and that was all you could say about the subject.

First, your hands began to shift. Thick fingers, with some calluses from working with your hands. Lighter in color. Melanin was dissolving in front of your eyes. The natural brown you were used to was turning into a tan. A white person's tan. One whom had lived all their life under the heat of a desert, yet still recognizable as a white man despite it all.

Rolling up your sleeves you checked your arms were also growing lighter in color. Lean muscle was being built under your fingertips, as you touched your skin with wonder. Said muscle was nothing that would suggest heroic might, no. Instead, it was the musculature of a young man. One who had done enough physical labor in his life to have a toned physique. Lithe, slender, but promising.

Height wise you remained more or less the same. Not very tall. Which was a bit of a disappointment. Yet there was nothing you could do about it. Conversely, it could have been so much worse. Still, wouldn't it be more satisfying if you shrunk or grew? Remaining the same stature wasn't truly exciting.

Next thing you noticed shifting was your hair. Mostly because it seemed to stop resisting gravity from one moment to the other, as it fell over your forehead and ears. Taking out your phone, you tried to see how your hair, as well as your face, were changing.

You hair was lighter. Almost blond, although fundamentally brown. Texture wise it was almost straight, keeping just the slightest of waves, giving it some energy and charm that wouldn't have otherwise. It was a harsh contrast with what you usually had. Your afro of curls had been completely replaced by this new hair.

It felt so different when touching it with your new hands.

As for your face? It was completely unrecognizable. None of the features you were familiar with remained. Now you possessed straight nose, dimpled chin, less full lips. A cute, youthful face. That showed so much promise and potential. With a frown, you realized you looked like... You looked like...

Luke... You are Luke Skywalker...

"No! I am not Luke! Am I?" you yelled, surprised by your own doubts. "I'm not Luke! I know I'm not! My name is..."

Your voice grew quiet. As if the name you had answered to all your life had vanished from your memory in the blink of an eye. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't recall your original name. Instead, it had been replaced by Luke. Only Luke.

Luke here. Luke there. Luke up and down. No trace of what you used to be called. No trace of who you used to be.

"This cannot be happening!" you yelled. Yet your horror had shifted into surprise more than anything.

After all, you had expected to change. Just not this way. This was a natural consequence of your wishes, as unintended as it may be.

You tried to look at your face again, meeting a stranger's eyes on the screen. Light blue eyes. Big, innocent eyes. The eyes of a hero who had yet to meet his quest.

"That's Luke... I know that's Luke... And... That's me?" You said, your voice hesitant. "I'm Luke..."

The phone fell to the floor. Your hands trembling. Screen shattering alongside the image of your new face. You didn't care. Stepping back on this new strange body of yours. The phone wasn't important anymore.

Still... You didn't hate... This. You didn't hate this new body you inhabited, so different from your original self. It simply didn't feel as foreign as it should. It felt so right... You knew you actually loved this new body as you felt how your erection pushed against your pants.

Unused to your new clothes, you fumbled trying to see how your cock had changed. Until now you had been too focused on the loss of your identity to worry about the meaty light saber between your legs.

It wasn't surprising that you were fairly proud of it. Your cock had a nice size. Big enough to impress, but not so massive it would have made sexual encounters awkward or difficult. The perfect size, some may argue. And as curious as you were about it being either bigger or smaller, you were perfectly content with keeping the exact same dick size in this new body you now inhabited.

The magic didn't seem to agree with you, however.

Before your very eyes, the hard dick you were so proud of began to dwindle. For a moment you hoped it would stop at being average. But it kept shrinking. Until it was four inches to the dot. By all intents and purposes, it was a small dick. Although, like the rest of your physique, it was small but not to be underestimated.

Or so you would have liked to believe.

After all, it was uncut and girthy. As if trying to make up for the lost length. Overall, you couldn't really be unhappy. Your palm was perfect to grab most if your dick's length. Only a tiny bit of your cock head was free, unless you began to stroke. The girth was so nice to feel, you couldn't help but smile. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have such a short cock...

Surely you won't have any trouble when you finally got with a girl... Wait... A girl? Weren't I gay?

What even is that? Does that word, gay, even mean anything at all? You tried to make sense of it. Knowing it was an important part of who you were supposed to be. But the more you tried to grasp the word and its meaning, the less sense it made to you.

Shaking your head, you continued stroking your dick. Even if it was short, a nice girl would appreciate it. And if not, you would try to make up for it as much as you could. After all, you wanted this hypothetical girlfriend of yours to have a good time while sleeping with you. Right?

You were so focused on your beautiful small dick, that you had been completely unaware of how your environment had also suffered a tremendous shift. Looking around, you recognized the place as your bedroom. Although it was the first time you had ever been here... Or was it? Your brain felt fuzzy, as if your memories were being scrambled.

There was a window. Looking outside, you found yourself on a desert. Sand all around your new residence. Or at least inside the vision cone your window allowed.

"I'm in Tatooine... This is home now," you whispered, after a gulp. "I'm Luke Skywalker. I always were..."

Somehow, you were on a distant planet, on a past lost to time. Even if you wanted to, there was no way of returning to the life you previously had. You were barely aware of its existence anymore. Perhaps it would be better to forget about it. To pretend it was a silly dream. There was little else you could do.

From that day on, you were Luke Skywalker. And no one else.

"Luke! Are you awake! I need your help with the Harvest, boy!" uncle Owen said, taking you out from your state of contemplation.

"I am! I'll be right there with ya in a moment!" you replied, closing the window and running to open your door. Wanting them or not, you had duties to tend to.

The rest of the day you helped your uncle with the farm, until he let you have some free time in the afternoon. For fun, you flew in your X-34 landspeeder. It wasn't the best for tricks, but you loved flying so much...

You were an awesome pilot, like your father. Whoever he was.

As the day came to a close, you returned home. At a perfect time to watch the two suns set down in the purple sky. As much as you wanted to go to the Academy, you had to admit Tatooine offered it's own type of beauty. Maybe home wasn't such a bad place overall...

And so your days went after that. Helping your uncle with the farm. Flying in your X-34 landspeeder at any chance you got. Dreaming about leaving for adventure. To become a great pilot, since you've always shown promise. All your friends were at the Academy already.

You couldn't wait for your turn to join them.

Maybe one day everything would change. Maybe one day you'd be able to leave this place and prove yourself to the whole cosmos. You may be small, but you were more than your size.

But for now, you said goodbye to aunt Beru, and went along your uncle Owen. He needed to buy a couple of droids to help with Harvest. An unfun task, all things considered, but perhaps it will result into something exciting.

You could only hope... Right, Luke?

Inspired by @warping-realities

Ryker wiped sweat from his brow, exhaling hard as the barbell clanged back onto the rack. His crew surrounded him, hyped and clapping his back. "365! Damn, man!" Trent yelled. "That's gotta be a PR."

"Yeah," Ryker nodded, flexing with a grin. Veins snaked across his forearms, and he trembled from the effort.

He was kind of the unspoken leader of the group, always pushing the guys, focused on form and overload.

He wasn’t the biggest of them, but he was the most disciplined. Had his macros dialed in, foam rolled after every session, and tracked every rep in his gym bag journal.

His Apple Watch buzzed.

Dinner reminder.

"Shit, I gotta bounce. Wife’s got lasagna in the oven."

His buddy Zeke groaned. "Bro, stay. We're gonna hit the sleds next."

Ryker chuckled and shook his head, piling his stuff into the gym bag. "Y’all enjoy. I’ll catch you Thursday."

His crew groaned jokingly, tossing a towel at his face. All in good fun. Ryker was the glue. Hell none of them would have started lifting together if it wasn't for him. The family man.

He waved them off, threw his towel over his shoulder, and jogged lightly toward the parking lot.

As he walked out, Silas stood off to the side, wiping down a barbell. He said nothing, just watched Ryker leave.

Silas was new.

Silas had only joined the crew a few weeks ago. Quiet, respectful, shredded. The guy had approached the lifting group for a spot a few times. Things seemed to click. Soon he started showing up at the same time as the guys, and eventually made his way onto the group chat.

Zeke elbowed Silas, motioning him over to the sled. "Ryker's really dialed in with his family right? what a stud." He said, loading weight.

Silas stared after Ryker, watching the headlights to his truck light up. "He'll grow out of it." Silas said,

quietly

The air went cold for a second,

Almost unnoticiable.

****

Ryker got home to the usual chaos. His wife, Claire, was plating up dinner while their son ran around the kitchen and their daughter asked for help with math homework.

He smiled, slipping back into Dad Mode, tossing his gym bag into the corner and giving Claire a kiss.

“Hey, babe. Smells amazing.”

“Don’t forget to wash up,” Claire said, playfully swatting his butt with a towel. “You smell gross.”

He laughed, ruffling their son’s hair as he headed for the shower. As the steam rose around him, something about the water felt different. warmer, thicker. There was a tightness in his chest.

Must have been a great pump.

The evening went smoothly. The dishes were put away, the homework was done, and the kids were put to bed. Another amazing night at home.

He dreamt of his gym crew, well, one of the crew in particular.

****

Ryker woke up early to prep breakfast. He padded down the hall in gym shorts and stopped in front of his son’s room.

He blinked.

The door was open, and inside... was different.

No toys. No kids bed. Instead, a rubber gym mat on the floor.

Dumbbells racked in the corner. A full-length mirror. Protein tubs lined up next to resistance bands. There was still the faint smell of chalk. Sweat.

A single black compression tank top was tossed over a barbell bench.

Ryker’s head throbbed for a moment.

He picked it up. Warm. Slightly damp. And it smelled like him. Like sweat and deodorant. A little boys face flickered in his minds eye, and then dissolved. He remembered... setting this home gym up.

Without thinking, he pulled the tank on.

It hugged him tighter than any shirt he'd ever worn.

It contoured every pec striation. The neckline dipped low, showing a fresh trail of chest hair shaved clean. His reflection flexed back. His traps looked huge. Fuller. Shoulders broader.

He adjusted the hem, admiring the fit.

Wait...hadn’t this room been...

No. This had always been his home gym. Right? put a lot of money in this pad.

****

"Bro, that shirt is spray-on tight," Zeke laughed as Ryker walked into the gym.

Ryker smirked. "Fits good, huh?"

He bounced his pecs, chuckling. The new shirt clung to his chest like it had been tailored. The other guys clapped his back.

Silas watched silently, setting up incline press. He glanced up, locking eyes with Ryker.

"Tight man. Suits you," he said.

Ryker felt that low heat crawl up his spine. His cock stirred faintly at the compliment. He wasn't sure why he put a hand in front of his shorts.

****

That night, he passed by his daughter’s room.

room... her....... room.

Inside, recessed LED lighting hummed softly. Mirrored walls reflected a hardwood floor.

A posing pedestal sat in the center, and there was a closet filled with oil bottles, tiny shorts, and cut-off tanks. Fitness magazines were stacked where a dollhouse used to be.

Ryker stepped in slowly. The scent of tanning lotion and pheromones clung to the air. His eyes fell on a red jockstrap on the floor.

It shimmered in the low light.

He picked it up.

The fabric was soft. Expensive. The label read PRO PHYSIQUE.

Without thinking, he dropped his shorts and stepped into it.

It hugged his glutes like a glove. He turned in the mirror, watching how the straps cupped his ass, how the bulge filled out the front.

why.... was he wearing this. Something was wrong.

His glutes flexed instinctively. He grinned, teeth flashing.

Why the fuck did he feel so good?

He flexed. His biceps bulged. His abs were tight. His tan looked darker. Richer. Oiled.

Wait...

Did he have kids?

No... couldn’t have. He was too young.

Too focused on the grind.

Too shredded.

Horny

****

"Buzzcut’s new," Trent said two days later.

Ryker scratched his head. "Yeah... looks tight, right?"

His voice was deep. Slower.

Ryker swaggered up to the weights, his phone rang, an income call from his wife.

He silenced it, snorting and grabbing the dumbells.

Silas passed by, smirking. "Progress looks good. Gear’s kicking in."

"Just a lil test," Ryker murmured, pecs bouncing slightly as he laughed. "Nothin’ crazy."

His delts had new striations. His chest heaved when he breathed. He couldn’t go an hour without flexing in a mirror. Sometimes... he needed to.

****

That night, Ryker lay in bed. Sleep was fitful,

probably the test.

He was sweaty. Musky. The scent clung to his sheets like sex and cedar.

He turned over.

A man lay next to him.

Bearded. Muscular. Smirking in the dark. Tattoos ran across his chest.

"Baby... you smell fuckin’ amazing tonight," he whispered, kissing Ryker’s pec.

Where the hell was his wife.

This was wrong

Ryker moaned. "Yeah, bro... fuck... don’t stop."

As hands explored his body, as lips wrapped around his nipple, Ryker forgot...

Everything. Fuck

Claire? Who the fuck was that?

Man He lived for these hook ups.

His cock hardened in the jock as the man slid lower. He gasped when his balls were licked. Ryker dug into the other mans ass, getting ready to flip him.

****

Morning.

Ryker oiled up in front of his mirror. His chest massive. His skin golden. Hair buzzed tight. He bounced his pecs, laughing to himself.

The house was different Perfect

He had engineered this place to the perfect gym rat pad. Home gym, posing room, Master bedroom. One fridge for meal prep, one for roids. Posters and nudes lined the walls. Definitely not kid friendly haha.

He strutted out in his jock, thick cock swinging.

Silas stood at the counter,

sipping a shake, pump cover on,

no bottoms.

"Mornin’, bro," Ryker grinned. "Wanna fuck before we hit legs?"

Silas raised an eyebrow. "Obviously."

They kissed, rough and hot, Silas grabbing Ryker’s ass like it belonged to him.

Ryker groaned, already leaking. He flexed for Silas, grinding against him, cock hard and needy.

The lifting group could wait for a few, but then again, they knew that Silas and Ryker needed to hook up before the gym most days.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Man he Fucking good life.

****

Note: the pastry is claimed by @justonemorefeeling. There was a problem with the accounts.

---

Truth was, you had never really watched Star Wars. However, you knew that May 4th was an important day for said fandom, and so, what other cake could you have picked but a Star Wars themed one?

it's difficult not to have some fondness for these kind of thematic days, after all.

Furthermore, even if you couldn't call yourself a fan of the movies, the cake offered by Mr. Hexum pastry shop had been completely free of charge. Any qualms you may have had were, thus, completely gone.

When it arrived, you had enough pop culture knowledge to know what you were seeing. The box was being carried by a woman. Beautiful, in most aspects. Unfortunately, she was merely appealing to you in an aesthetic sense. Being gay, the beauty of a woman was equal to one of a sublime painting: utterly unarousing. Still, her physical appeal was the least interesting thing about her: she was wearing a cosplay. A really good one. Of Princess Leia.

Of course, you didn't know from which movie exactly her white dress and her bizarre yet iconic hairstyle came from. You just knew it was from one of the Star Wars films from the 70s. That said, it was a very good costume.

"May the force be with you, Luke," she said, with a smile that you knew would have made a straight man blushed.

You were not such man.

"Thank you, but I'm not Luke, I am..." you replied as you received the cake box.

She didn't let you finished. Walking away before you could say your name. After some steps, she turned around and winked.

"Goodbye, Luke! We'll see each other soon"

Mouth slack, you watched her go while holding the cake box. What a weirdo... You thought, as you got back inside. It was a shame really, she did seem like a nice girl. But she was either too into her character, or simply disturbed.

Or had you missed a memo? You didn't recall any such thing while making the request for a cake.

With a sigh, you got the cake box to your kitchen. It was pink, with the name of the store in fancy white letters. How neat! You opened the box, and there it was. A wonderful Star Wars cake. Black, with multiple white stars. Star Wars written in yellow at what should be the front. And a space ship on top: white, resembling a slice of pizza but with the widest side rounded.

It's the Millennium Falcon... A voice said, in your head. Which made you stop in your tracks. Since when did you hear voices?

Regardless of the meaning of such strange events, you decided to cut a slice for yourself. It almost felt like a shame. After all, the cake was masterfully decorated. Looking more like a miniature model rather than a pastry.

You felt slightly bad you were eating this cake, knowing perfectly well a better fan lf the franchise may have enjoyed it more. Alas, it was too late to regret anything.

Still, you wished you were able to know more about Star Wars.

Just the first bite was enough to know something had gone wrong. Not because it wasn't delicious—it very much was—, but because something changed in a way that made no logical sense.

Looking down at yourself, you realized your clothes had been replaced in a single instant. Somehow. Now you wore a white shirt with a low neckline, and similarly light pants and boots. For contrast, maybe, you also wore a thick dark belt, rather low on your torso, basically at the level of your hips. You could easily attach some tools to it.

"What the...?" you exclaimed, wondering where you clothes had gone.

Trust the force, Luke... Trust the force...

"I'm not Luke!" you yelled, only to realize you had no idea who you were talking to. You barely were aware about what the force could even be, although you had some notion that it was important in the movies. Why or how, however, you couldn't say.

Looking at the cake with suspicion, you didn't know if to continue eating or not. After all, if it had changed your clothes, maybe it could also change you...

The cake was in your mouth before you were aware of the decision you had made. You didn't stop, too curious and reckless about the idea of being transformed. Of finally experiencing life as somebody else. You had always been fascinated by the concept. As risky and illogical as it could be seen from someone else's perspective, it was one of your highest fantasies. Even if just temporarily, you wanted to live the life of another man.

Magic wasn't something easily found. This could be your only chance of making your fantasy come true.

Threwing yourself at your chair, breathing uneven after devouring the pastry so hastily, you were satisfied. You had done it. You had eaten the entirety of the slice of cake. If the cake was the one which was truly magical, you would be transformed soon. To what? You didn't know. And didn't really care. The transformation itself was far more exciting than knowing what you were going to be turned into.

Of course, you did hope it was a nice body. But anything would do, to be fair. You just wanted to be changed into someone different, and that was all you could say about the subject.

First, your hands began to shift. Thick fingers, with some calluses from working with your hands. Lighter in color. Melanin was dissolving in front of your eyes. The natural brown you were used to was turning into a tan. A white person's tan. One whom had lived all their life under the heat of a desert, yet still recognizable as a white man despite it all.

Rolling up your sleeves you checked your arms were also growing lighter in color. Lean muscle was being built under your fingertips, as you touched your skin with wonder. Said muscle was nothing that would suggest heroic might, no. Instead, it was the musculature of a young man. One who had done enough physical labor in his life to have a toned physique. Lithe, slender, but promising.

Height wise you remained more or less the same. Not very tall. Which was a bit of a disappointment. Yet there was nothing you could do about it. Conversely, it could have been so much worse. Still, wouldn't it be more satisfying if you shrunk or grew? Remaining the same stature wasn't truly exciting.

Next thing you noticed shifting was your hair. Mostly because it seemed to stop resisting gravity from one moment to the other, as it fell over your forehead and ears. Taking out your phone, you tried to see how your hair, as well as your face, were changing.

You hair was lighter. Almost blond, although fundamentally brown. Texture wise it was almost straight, keeping just the slightest of waves, giving it some energy and charm that wouldn't have otherwise. It was a harsh contrast with what you usually had. Your afro of curls had been completely replaced by this new hair.

It felt so different when touching it with your new hands.

As for your face? It was completely unrecognizable. None of the features you were familiar with remained. Now you possessed straight nose, dimpled chin, less full lips. A cute, youthful face. That showed so much promise and potential. With a frown, you realized you looked like... You looked like...

Luke... You are Luke Skywalker...

"No! I am not Luke! Am I?" you yelled, surprised by your own doubts. "I'm not Luke! I know I'm not! My name is..."

Your voice grew quiet. As if the name you had answered to all your life had vanished from your memory in the blink of an eye. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't recall your original name. Instead, it had been replaced by Luke. Only Luke.

Luke here. Luke there. Luke up and down. No trace of what you used to be called. No trace of who you used to be.

"This cannot be happening!" you yelled. Yet your horror had shifted into surprise more than anything.

After all, you had expected to change. Just not this way. This was a natural consequence of your wishes, as unintended as it may be.

You tried to look at your face again, meeting a stranger's eyes on the screen. Light blue eyes. Big, innocent eyes. The eyes of a hero who had yet to meet his quest.

"That's Luke... I know that's Luke... And... That's me?" You said, your voice hesitant. "I'm Luke..."

The phone fell to the floor. Your hands trembling. Screen shattering alongside the image of your new face. You didn't care. Stepping back on this new strange body of yours. The phone wasn't important anymore.

Still... You didn't hate... This. You didn't hate this new body you inhabited, so different from your original self. It simply didn't feel as foreign as it should. It felt so right... You knew you actually loved this new body as you felt how your erection pushed against your pants.

Unused to your new clothes, you fumbled trying to see how your cock had changed. Until now you had been too focused on the loss of your identity to worry about the meaty light saber between your legs.

It wasn't surprising that you were fairly proud of it. Your cock had a nice size. Big enough to impress, but not so massive it would have made sexual encounters awkward or difficult. The perfect size, some may argue. And as curious as you were about it being either bigger or smaller, you were perfectly content with keeping the exact same dick size in this new body you now inhabited.

The magic didn't seem to agree with you, however.

Before your very eyes, the hard dick you were so proud of began to dwindle. For a moment you hoped it would stop at being average. But it kept shrinking. Until it was four inches to the dot. By all intents and purposes, it was a small dick. Although, like the rest of your physique, it was small but not to be underestimated.

Or so you would have liked to believe.

After all, it was uncut and girthy. As if trying to make up for the lost length. Overall, you couldn't really be unhappy. Your palm was perfect to grab most if your dick's length. Only a tiny bit of your cock head was free, unless you began to stroke. The girth was so nice to feel, you couldn't help but smile. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have such a short cock...

Surely you won't have any trouble when you finally got with a girl... Wait... A girl? Weren't I gay?

What even is that? Does that word, gay, even mean anything at all? You tried to make sense of it. Knowing it was an important part of who you were supposed to be. But the more you tried to grasp the word and its meaning, the less sense it made to you.

Shaking your head, you continued stroking your dick. Even if it was short, a nice girl would appreciate it. And if not, you would try to make up for it as much as you could. After all, you wanted this hypothetical girlfriend of yours to have a good time while sleeping with you. Right?

You were so focused on your beautiful small dick, that you had been completely unaware of how your environment had also suffered a tremendous shift. Looking around, you recognized the place as your bedroom. Although it was the first time you had ever been here... Or was it? Your brain felt fuzzy, as if your memories were being scrambled.

There was a window. Looking outside, you found yourself on a desert. Sand all around your new residence. Or at least inside the vision cone your window allowed.

"I'm in Tatooine... This is home now," you whispered, after a gulp. "I'm Luke Skywalker. I always were..."

Somehow, you were on a distant planet, on a past lost to time. Even if you wanted to, there was no way of returning to the life you previously had. You were barely aware of its existence anymore. Perhaps it would be better to forget about it. To pretend it was a silly dream. There was little else you could do.

From that day on, you were Luke Skywalker. And no one else.

"Luke! Are you awake! I need your help with the Harvest, boy!" uncle Owen said, taking you out from your state of contemplation.

"I am! I'll be right there with ya in a moment!" you replied, closing the window and running to open your door. Wanting them or not, you had duties to tend to.

The rest of the day you helped your uncle with the farm, until he let you have some free time in the afternoon. For fun, you flew in your X-34 landspeeder. It wasn't the best for tricks, but you loved flying so much...

You were an awesome pilot, like your father. Whoever he was.

As the day came to a close, you returned home. At a perfect time to watch the two suns set down in the purple sky. As much as you wanted to go to the Academy, you had to admit Tatooine offered it's own type of beauty. Maybe home wasn't such a bad place overall...

And so your days went after that. Helping your uncle with the farm. Flying in your X-34 landspeeder at any chance you got. Dreaming about leaving for adventure. To become a great pilot, since you've always shown promise. All your friends were at the Academy already.

You couldn't wait for your turn to join them.

Maybe one day everything would change. Maybe one day you'd be able to leave this place and prove yourself to the whole cosmos. You may be small, but you were more than your size.

But for now, you said goodbye to aunt Beru, and went along your uncle Owen. He needed to buy a couple of droids to help with Harvest. An unfun task, all things considered, but perhaps it will result into something exciting.

You could only hope... Right, Luke?

He spots her across the living room before anyone else really registers she’s arrived. New face, effortless confidence—his kind of challenge. He takes a second, smooths his shirt, then crosses the room like he already knows how this ends.

“Hey,” he says, easy smile, leaning just enough to feel close without crowding. “You look like you’re deciding whether this party’s worth staying at.”

She glances at him, amused but unreadable.

“I was,” she says. “Still am.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “Give me five minutes. I’ll make it worth it.”

She tilts her head. “You always open like that?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“Confident.”

“Usually rewarded for it.”

“Usually,” she echoes.

He grins, holding eye contact. “Stick around. You’ll see.”

She doesn’t answer. Just watches him, an amused smirk forming on her face. Jake returns the smirk- god she was hot. He couldn't wait to make her...

“Not my type.”

That actually lands. Jake blinks, thrown off, but only for a second. His smile returns quick, “Alright, maybe I started off wrong. Name’s Jake.”

“Lena.”

“So what is your type?”

Her eyes travel over him, slower this time. “Bulky guys aren’t really my thing.”

Jake scoffs, rolling his shoulders. “How can you not be into muscles?”

He flexes his arm, showing off muscle that no woman could resist. Only the peak isn’t as full, the sleeve of his shirt hanging just a bit looser than it did a minute ago. He catches it, but maintains the smile. Figures the lighting is off.

She looks at him, unimpressed, “I said what I said.”

He smirks, leaning closer. “I’m more than just muscle, you know.”

“Mhmm... Doubt that.”

"Yeah?” he smirks, "Give me a chance and I'll prove you wrong." He readjusts his shirt, barely registering how it no longer clings tightly to his chest.

“I'm good." She shrugs, "All that body hair isn't winning you any prizes with me."

Jake huffs a laugh. “What? C’mon! That’s what makes me a real man.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing down as he casually drags his thumb along his forearm- then pauses.

The dark hair there looks… lighter. Thinner. He rubs again against increasingly smoother skin.

“That's... that doesn't make sense.” he mutters, forcing a grin, though his fingers linger.

His other hand comes up, brushing his jaw. He paused. His usual rough stubble is... gone. Like he just shaved. His confidence flickers and he feels a cold shiver run through him as his chest prickles under his shirt.

Jake straightens abruptly. “Woah that's not...” Lena is smiling, a predatory look in her eye, "I... wait here, I'll be right back" He chuckles, nervously- mind racing. He needed a mirror. Just to check. To confirm.

He takes a half step back. Lena leans in just slightly, smiling.

“No, stay,” Her voice lifts. “I’m enjoying our little conversation.” She runs a hand along his smooth jaw, "Please." Jake feels his heart flutter, "Just relax, tough guy."

Jake grunts as the tension drains out of him. He should be on edge. He was on edge. But he feels his posture soften, weight shifting onto one leg, hips angling slightly without permission. His stance opens up. Less guarded, more… inviting.

“Wh-what?”

His lower back arches subtly as he shifts. His stance now blatantly emphasizing his ass. Jake stiffens at that, registering just how exactly he looked standing there.

“No way...” he mutters, trying and failing to address his stance, "I look so..."

He tries to square himself again. To stand with the same commanding presence he usually did. But the adjustment slips, settling back into that same relaxed pose. His ass jutting out, begging for attention.

“You did ask me what my type was." Jake's eyes widen as he realizes he's standing at eye level with Lena now, "But it's so much more than the physical. I like guys who know how to be vulnerable."

Jake swallows, “I mean... yeah, I can be vulnerable,” he says, but it comes out softer, less certain. His shoulders pull in as he talks, frame narrowing further, “It’s just, like... I don’t usually say this stuff out loud, I just kinda… push it down, you know? Be a man about it...” He freezes, “Why am I saying this?” His voice jumps... higher. Whinier.

Lena smiles, "It's okay to open up, Jake."

Jake’s hand flies to his throat. “Okay, no... like why does my voice sound like this? This's not... like, not my voice.” It spikes again, edging toward a whine.

"Jake?" He recognizes that voice, "Dude, what the fuck?"

“Brett!” Jake blurts, cringing at the pitch of his voice, but relief floods in anyway. “Oh my god... thank god you noticed! Something’s like… totally wrong!”

Brett steps in close, brow furrowed. “What happened to you, man?”

“I don’t know!” Jake says quickly, voice light and uneven. “She just, like... started saying stuff and now I’m...”

A sharp snap. Brett goes still. His expression melts, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. Drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Jake stares, “What? Brett?”

He grabs Brett’s arm instinctively and pauses. His fingers press into Brett’s bicep, lingering a second too long. There’s a flicker of something... appreciation?

Jake jerks his hand back and spins towards Lena, “Like, what did you do to him?!”

Lena barely glances at Brett. “Don’t worry about him,” she says smoothly. “Focus on something more fun. Like gossip… or cute guys.”

Jake tries to hold onto his panic, but her voice threads through it, steady and impossible to ignore. His thoughts begin to blur at the edges, like something is quietly wiping them clean, and before he can latch onto what he’s losing, new ones slip in—lighter, easier, strangely compelling. He finds himself wondering who’s attractive, who gets attention, who deserves it.

Behind him, Lena leans toward Brett, whispering into his ear. Jake turns without meaning to... and this time, he really looks. The line of Brett’s arms, the way his shirt fits across his chest, the way his slacked jaw and dim eyes look.

“Oh wow.” Jake’s breath slows and he licks his lips.

He'd seen Brett in the locker room after games. Knew what he was packing. He never thought much about that. But now? God... he wanted it now. He wanted Brett.

“Now you’re more my type,” Lena looks over Jake carefully, satisfied. “But I doubt I’m yours.”

Jake blinks, still looking at Brett, something warm and fluttery settling in his chest. He lets out a soft, airy laugh, barely even thinking about it.

“Yeah, I mean… like… no offense, but… yeah.” He winces slightly at how natural that felt.

Lena smiles. “So tell me... what is your type?”

Jake doesn’t hesitate this time. He glances back at Brett, eyes lingering, a small, giddy smile slipping through. “I mean… Brett,” he says, almost giggling. “Obviously.”

"He's kinda cute."

“Kinda? Bitch, he's hot." Jake can't believe the words leaving his mouth, but they don't stop, "So like... we're..."

"Besties." Lena grins, "I needed a new gay bestie anyway." She looks over at Brett and snaps her fingers, "And what are besties for?"

Brett's face contorts and settles. The dull look in his eyes shifting as he looks over Jake. Replaced by something hungrier. Jake watches as Brett steps closer, slow, deliberate. His eyes stay locked on Jake.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice lower than Jake remembers. “You look… different.”

Jake giggles, “Different good, right?”

Brett’s hand comes up, hesitating just a second before brushing along Jake’s waist. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Really good.”

Jake inhales sharply, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans, eyes flicking up through his lashes.

“Wow, okay…” he says, half-giggling. “You’re, like, being really forward right now.”

Brett smirks faintly, closing the space between them. “You don’t seem to mind.”

Jake bites his lip, heat rushing to his face. “I mean… I don't.”

“My room’s just upstairs,” Brett murmurs, leaning in slightly. “You wanna check it out?”

Jake lets out a soft, breathy laugh, glancing back at Lena for half a second before looking up at Brett again. “I mean… yeah,” he says, voice light and a little giddy, fingers brushing Brett’s arm. “Lead the way.”

Lena watches for a beat, satisfied, “Have fun, you two!”

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

Jake moans loudly as Brett slams into him from behind. He arches his back, pushing his fat ass further along Brett's length. His own cock, smaller than he remembered it being, throbbing uselessly. But he doesn't care. Not when he can feel Brett balls deep inside him.

"Fuck yes," Jake gasps out, hands fisting in the sheets beneath him. "Harder, Brett. Fuck me harder." Brett grunts, gripping Jake's hips as he picks up the pace, "Oh fuck!"

Jake couldn't help but cry out in ecstasy each time Brett bottomed out. The same kinda sounds he imagined Lena making if the night had gone differently. But now? His world was narrowing, focused only on the feeling of the dick pounding into his thicc, juicy ass. Because for Jake, nothing else mattered in this moment - not his pride, not his former identity. And it never would again.

Steven encounters Mr. Hexum randomly, and is given a chance of a lifetime. However things don't go exactly as Steven was expecting.

Dedicated to @oopshehe

Next Part

He spots her across the living room before anyone else really registers she’s arrived. New face, effortless confidence—his kind of challenge. He takes a second, smooths his shirt, then crosses the room like he already knows how this ends.

“Hey,” he says, easy smile, leaning just enough to feel close without crowding. “You look like you’re deciding whether this party’s worth staying at.”

She glances at him, amused but unreadable.

“I was,” she says. “Still am.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “Give me five minutes. I’ll make it worth it.”

She tilts her head. “You always open like that?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“Confident.”

“Usually rewarded for it.”

“Usually,” she echoes.

He grins, holding eye contact. “Stick around. You’ll see.”

She doesn’t answer. Just watches him, an amused smirk forming on her face. Jake returns the smirk- god she was hot. He couldn't wait to make her...

“Not my type.”

That actually lands. Jake blinks, thrown off, but only for a second. His smile returns quick, “Alright, maybe I started off wrong. Name’s Jake.”

“Lena.”

“So what is your type?”

Her eyes travel over him, slower this time. “Bulky guys aren’t really my thing.”

Jake scoffs, rolling his shoulders. “How can you not be into muscles?”

He flexes his arm, showing off muscle that no woman could resist. Only the peak isn’t as full, the sleeve of his shirt hanging just a bit looser than it did a minute ago. He catches it, but maintains the smile. Figures the lighting is off.

She looks at him, unimpressed, “I said what I said.”

He smirks, leaning closer. “I’m more than just muscle, you know.”

“Mhmm... Doubt that.”

"Yeah?” he smirks, "Give me a chance and I'll prove you wrong." He readjusts his shirt, barely registering how it no longer clings tightly to his chest.

“I'm good." She shrugs, "All that body hair isn't winning you any prizes with me."

Jake huffs a laugh. “What? C’mon! That’s what makes me a real man.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing down as he casually drags his thumb along his forearm- then pauses.

The dark hair there looks… lighter. Thinner. He rubs again against increasingly smoother skin.

“That's... that doesn't make sense.” he mutters, forcing a grin, though his fingers linger.

His other hand comes up, brushing his jaw. He paused. His usual rough stubble is... gone. Like he just shaved. His confidence flickers and he feels a cold shiver run through him as his chest prickles under his shirt.

Jake straightens abruptly. “Woah that's not...” Lena is smiling, a predatory look in her eye, "I... wait here, I'll be right back" He chuckles, nervously- mind racing. He needed a mirror. Just to check. To confirm.

He takes a half step back. Lena leans in just slightly, smiling.

“No, stay,” Her voice lifts. “I’m enjoying our little conversation.” She runs a hand along his smooth jaw, "Please." Jake feels his heart flutter, "Just relax, tough guy."

Jake grunts as the tension drains out of him. He should be on edge. He was on edge. But he feels his posture soften, weight shifting onto one leg, hips angling slightly without permission. His stance opens up. Less guarded, more… inviting.

“Wh-what?”

His lower back arches subtly as he shifts. His stance now blatantly emphasizing his ass. Jake stiffens at that, registering just how exactly he looked standing there.

“No way...” he mutters, trying and failing to address his stance, "I look so..."

He tries to square himself again. To stand with the same commanding presence he usually did. But the adjustment slips, settling back into that same relaxed pose. His ass jutting out, begging for attention.

“You did ask me what my type was." Jake's eyes widen as he realizes he's standing at eye level with Lena now, "But it's so much more than the physical. I like guys who know how to be vulnerable."

Jake swallows, “I mean... yeah, I can be vulnerable,” he says, but it comes out softer, less certain. His shoulders pull in as he talks, frame narrowing further, “It’s just, like... I don’t usually say this stuff out loud, I just kinda… push it down, you know? Be a man about it...” He freezes, “Why am I saying this?” His voice jumps... higher. Whinier.

Lena smiles, "It's okay to open up, Jake."

Jake’s hand flies to his throat. “Okay, no... like why does my voice sound like this? This's not... like, not my voice.” It spikes again, edging toward a whine.

"Jake?" He recognizes that voice, "Dude, what the fuck?"

“Brett!” Jake blurts, cringing at the pitch of his voice, but relief floods in anyway. “Oh my god... thank god you noticed! Something’s like… totally wrong!”

Brett steps in close, brow furrowed. “What happened to you, man?”

“I don’t know!” Jake says quickly, voice light and uneven. “She just, like... started saying stuff and now I’m...”

A sharp snap. Brett goes still. His expression melts, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. Drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Jake stares, “What? Brett?”

He grabs Brett’s arm instinctively and pauses. His fingers press into Brett’s bicep, lingering a second too long. There’s a flicker of something... appreciation?

Jake jerks his hand back and spins towards Lena, “Like, what did you do to him?!”

Lena barely glances at Brett. “Don’t worry about him,” she says smoothly. “Focus on something more fun. Like gossip… or cute guys.”

Jake tries to hold onto his panic, but her voice threads through it, steady and impossible to ignore. His thoughts begin to blur at the edges, like something is quietly wiping them clean, and before he can latch onto what he’s losing, new ones slip in—lighter, easier, strangely compelling. He finds himself wondering who’s attractive, who gets attention, who deserves it.

Behind him, Lena leans toward Brett, whispering into his ear. Jake turns without meaning to... and this time, he really looks. The line of Brett’s arms, the way his shirt fits across his chest, the way his slacked jaw and dim eyes look.

“Oh wow.” Jake’s breath slows and he licks his lips.

He'd seen Brett in the locker room after games. Knew what he was packing. He never thought much about that. But now? God... he wanted it now. He wanted Brett.

“Now you’re more my type,” Lena looks over Jake carefully, satisfied. “But I doubt I’m yours.”

Jake blinks, still looking at Brett, something warm and fluttery settling in his chest. He lets out a soft, airy laugh, barely even thinking about it.

“Yeah, I mean… like… no offense, but… yeah.” He winces slightly at how natural that felt.

Lena smiles. “So tell me... what is your type?”

Jake doesn’t hesitate this time. He glances back at Brett, eyes lingering, a small, giddy smile slipping through. “I mean… Brett,” he says, almost giggling. “Obviously.”

"He's kinda cute."

“Kinda? Bitch, he's hot." Jake can't believe the words leaving his mouth, but they don't stop, "So like... we're..."

"Besties." Lena grins, "I needed a new gay bestie anyway." She looks over at Brett and snaps her fingers, "And what are besties for?"

Brett's face contorts and settles. The dull look in his eyes shifting as he looks over Jake. Replaced by something hungrier. Jake watches as Brett steps closer, slow, deliberate. His eyes stay locked on Jake.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice lower than Jake remembers. “You look… different.”

Jake giggles, “Different good, right?”

Brett’s hand comes up, hesitating just a second before brushing along Jake’s waist. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Really good.”

Jake inhales sharply, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans, eyes flicking up through his lashes.

“Wow, okay…” he says, half-giggling. “You’re, like, being really forward right now.”

Brett smirks faintly, closing the space between them. “You don’t seem to mind.”

Jake bites his lip, heat rushing to his face. “I mean… I don't.”

“My room’s just upstairs,” Brett murmurs, leaning in slightly. “You wanna check it out?”

Jake lets out a soft, breathy laugh, glancing back at Lena for half a second before looking up at Brett again. “I mean… yeah,” he says, voice light and a little giddy, fingers brushing Brett’s arm. “Lead the way.”

Lena watches for a beat, satisfied, “Have fun, you two!”

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

Jake moans loudly as Brett slams into him from behind. He arches his back, pushing his fat ass further along Brett's length. His own cock, smaller than he remembered it being, throbbing uselessly. But he doesn't care. Not when he can feel Brett balls deep inside him.

"Fuck yes," Jake gasps out, hands fisting in the sheets beneath him. "Harder, Brett. Fuck me harder." Brett grunts, gripping Jake's hips as he picks up the pace, "Oh fuck!"

Jake couldn't help but cry out in ecstasy each time Brett bottomed out. The same kinda sounds he imagined Lena making if the night had gone differently. But now? His world was narrowing, focused only on the feeling of the dick pounding into his thicc, juicy ass. Because for Jake, nothing else mattered in this moment - not his pride, not his former identity. And it never would again.

--- Originally posted by unknown before 2018-09-09 ---

Officer Davies sat back in the police vehicle, sighing as he rubbed at his brows. He eyed the nearby gym, stepping out of the car and starting to head on over. The gym had come under suspicion when multiple college students, all young men had gone missing from the nearby campus of Birling College. The last known place they were all last heading to was this particular gym and it seemed Davies was the unlucky one. He didn't think there was anything suspicious about it all. After all, it was just a gym?

What harm could it do? However his superiors sensing his disinterest decided to send him to investigate, a few simple questions to the manager, and Officer Davies could head back and start properly doing his job.

He stepped into the and was surprised at just how many men there were. Sure, Officer Davies had been heading to the gym before (especially recently with the amount of weight he was putting on as his age was starting to have its effects), but he never saw so many bodybuilders and jocks just around the place. Davies cringed somewhat at the musk but it only took moments before he got used to it and didn't so much mind the smell anymore as he was lured in further.

"Hey there, can I help you?" asked a bodybuilder, coming up and shaking the officer's hand.

"Yeah, I'm Officer Davies, the department called earlier. I was meant to be meeting the manager to-"

"Oh right, hey I'm the manager," interrupted the bodybuilder. "I've got a couple of things to do, I'll be an hour but maybe you can fill the time with a quick workout." Davies frowned at the suggestion. He wanted to speak to the man right now and as much as he loved getting back into his gym routine, there was no way he could spend time exercising right now especially on duty and in uniform.

"I don't think that's best, how about we just-"

"You should just wait," interrupted the bodybuilder again, it was less off a suggestion and more of a command as the man's deep eyes stared into Officer Davies. For a moment all his thoughts and his trepidation simply ceased and he nodded.

"I'll just wait," said Officer Davies as he simply moved on his own, feeling too uncomfortable in the lobby and stepping through the nearest doors he could find, ending up in a large room, surrounded by weights and gym equipment, all alone. "Well look at this place." The officer muttered to himself, feeling the need to check out the room as if it was some crime scene. It was probably that over analytical mind that made him one of the best officers on the force, yet right now he was spent having to wait nearly an hour just to talk to the manager.

In the meantime it couldn't hurt to check out the room. The man walked around, some of the equipment absolutely baffling him either because there was no way he'd be able to use it, or from just how expensive it looked. The sleek room, with a wall of mirrors, looked like it had state of the art equipment and even as Officer Davies loved getting back to the gym, none of it appealed to him as much as it would any other bodybuilder.

He continued to walk, wondering how this place could lead to so many men disappearing. He didn't need to think any further as his foot hit something hard and he stopped to look down, seeing two dumbbells by his feet, left astray all over the floor close to some treadmills, far away from the other weights.

"I better put these away, who would just leave them here?" He muttered as he picked up both dumbbells. It was probably some dumb bodybuilder, thinking he owned the place, Officer Davies thought. As he picked them up and began walking, he realised something halfway that almost made him stop in place. He was just somewhat surprised by how easy it was to pick up the heavy weights as he came to a stop in the mirror, looking at himself in his uniform holding the weights. He smiled as he lifted one arm up, flexing as he pulled up the weight, not noticing how strained his sleeves were getting as he pulled up the dumbbell. "Hey, I actually look pretty good."

Davies grinned as he began repeating the motion, lifting the dumbbells one by one, at first jokingly, even going as far as to mimic some deep grunts of a bodybuilder, never noticing how each time he could begin to hear his sleeves buckle under the pressure. Soon he started lifting it with more and more effort, becoming serious as the sleeves were beginning to tear more and more each time. He just carried on, admiring his arms as he carried on lifting, one after the other...one after the other...

The police officer's pudgy arms began to grow even larger, but this time it wasn't fat that was straining his sleeves, but muscle. His arms began to thicken considerably as they grew heated, his muscles breaking and repairing at such a rapid rate that with every lift of the dumbbell Davies could see his arm slowly grow larger right before his eyes.

There was something wrong with this, Davies knew that, but by the time he could even consider putting the dumbbells down, his sleeves suddenly burst. The dark blue uniform gave way to showcase his muscular biceps.

"Woah shit, I should be careful with this," said Davies, his somewhat dignified tone was no longer there. Instead he sounded far more relaxed and smiling as he put the dumbbells down carefully in their rightful place and spent his time admiring his muscles in the mirror. "Still, I look...wow, I look really fucking good." He flexed his biceps, but of course he had to focus on waiting...and maybe some more exercise to fill the time.

The leg press was the next to catch the officer's eyes and he instantly started walking towards it. It was odd, he had never used it at the gym before, but he instantly began getting seated and aligning his legs perfectly as if he knew exactly what he was doing. It had probably been a few minutes, what bad could another exercise do to fill the time?

He began using it, pressing against it each time and grunting slightly as he felt the heavy resistance against the movement, his own somewhat thin legs not used to the machine. But with each press, it began getting easier and easier, suddenly as the officer started worrying about losing focus, he was amazed by how good it felt to be getting back into the gym.

After all he was watching his leg grow right in front of him! With each press, his legs felt the familiar heat of his muscles breaking and repairing quickly, as the quads began to expand, it got easier and more exciting to use the machine.

Officer Davies enjoyed the elated feeling, the strength of it all, as he watched his pants be the next to split as his thighs began to spill out of his broken uniform pants. The fat of the thighs melted away to reveal the muscularity underneath, starting to spread and make the gap between his quads thinner with each moment as the officer continued to exercise. He didn't care as his badge and everything else that finalised his uniform slowly faded to nothing as the dregs of his pants transformed into shorts.

"Oh fuck!" The office...suddenly unable to even remember his own name, was stunned as he realised just how big his legs were and how good they looked. He immediately got off the machine, looking down, unable to believe he was staring at his muscular quads and growing calves, even as his hands explored every ridge. It was wrong, it was unbelievable...and it felt so good!

He immediately ripped off his uniform getting down on the floor as he craved for more and knew exactly what was needed to finish this routine. The officer, still blinking as the saner parts of his mind tried to recollect who he was and why he was here, began doing sit ups close by the mirror. Each time he did he admired the quick glimpse he got of himself and of his own chest as he could start to feel the burning spread throughout his chest.

Amongst the burning there was an itching with each sit up, dark hairs beginning to grow slowly through the skin and form a treasure trail, just in time as the abs began to come in. His torso was the only part of him that still remained slightly skinny, and yet even then it began being carved into the perfect set of six pack abs.

His uniform began to stretch as the hairs trickled down his chest. The man could start to see his pecs form on his upper chest, almost as if invisible hands were stretching his body, piling more mass on top of him to form his great pecs and pushing in his stomach to create his six pack.

It wasn't concern that stopped the officer, but the overwhelming feeling of his new body as he tossed off the last parts of his uniform that managed to not cling onto his torso. He looked down, his hands exploring his six pack of abs as he could see his cock throbbing through his shorts and his hands threatened to go down further.

He finally grabbed at his crotch, looking at his shirtless body in the mirror and falling in love as he scratched at his face. He watched the wrinkles of his forehead fade away as his face thinned and hairs began to grow around his sharper jawline. As he began feeling his bulge, he could see the toes inside the last remaining parts of his old uniform threaten to push through them as they lengthened along with his soles. He knew that at any moment his feet would burst through the shoes and any remaining parts of his officer uniform would be no more.

But why would he be wearing that? He was just a bodybuilder, that's all he was, and as his (now brown) eyes looked over his biceps one last time, he stroked through the shorts and closed his eyes as his cock throbbed and he felt himself come.

He moaned in bliss as he stained the inside of his shorts, feeling his cock continue coming for what felt like forever, the orgasm so powerful he could barely realise just how musky his body had grown, how changed his visage was and the strain of his paler feel pushing through his shoes.

The man's eyes opened as he looked around. He was shirtless in the gym and looking at himself in the mirror. Immediately he grinned, he must have been checking himself out again after his workout.

The doors opened and he saw the familiar face of the manager, smiling from ear to ear as they watched him clumsily put on his tanktop that was left beside him on the floor.

"Hey man," said the man, he blinked somewhat confused. "Sorry I forgot why I came in here, uhh..." His voice trailed off, the smooth Californian accent echoing in the room.

"I think you said you wanted to meet me. You were here to claim your free one year membership? I just filled everything out on our systems for you, Mr. Davies," explained the manager. He said Mr. Davies like it was some sort of reminder as he began leading the man out from the room. "Was that all?"

"Yeah I think so man, thanks again!" said Davies as he smiled from ear to ear.

"Anytime, come again," said the manager and with that Davies walked back out of the gym and hopped into his car, taking a moment to admire himself in the rearview mirror as his headphones dangled around his neck. He may not have remembered even coming to the gym today, but he damn well didn't regret.

After all, that was probably his best gym session yet, and he couldn't wait to come back for the next.

The email from the lawyer, a woman named Brenda with a voice like slow-smoked brisket, had been succinct, and clear. “Your uncle, Cletus Holcomb, passed. Heart attack, peaceful as far as these things go. You’re the sole beneficiary. There’s a ranch. You’ll need to come sign some papers.”

Milo had stared at his phone on a rainy Tuesday in Seattle, utterly perplexed. Uncle Cletus. The name conjured a vague, sepia-toned memory from childhood: a giant of a man with a booming laugh, a thick southern drawl, and hands that had smelled of hay and motor oil. He was his father’s estranged brother, a figure of myth and mild family embarrassment. His father, a literature professor, had always referred to him as “the cautionary tale.”

Now, Milo was the sole beneficiary of said cautionary tale. A ranch. In Texas. The thought was as incongruous as a penguin in a palm tree to him. His life was a meticulously curated ecosystem that everything a ranch in Texas represented stood in opposition of. He wore slim-fit chinos and referenced TED Talks in casual conversation. The extent of his relationship with the outdoors was a curated houseplant collection and a twice-monthly visit to a gym with a rock-climbing wall, not a ranch in some redneck country.

The sensible thing, the only thing really, was to sell it. He’d fly down, sign whatever was necessary, hire a real estate agent, and use the proceeds for a down payment on a nicer condo. Perhaps a place with a view of the Sound. He booked a flight to San Antonio, rented a sensible sedan, and typed the address into his GPS. The voice, with its placid, generic tone, began to guide him away from the gleaming city, past the sprawling suburbs, and into a landscape that grew progressively wider, flatter, and browner.

The further he drove, the more the world seemed to shed its skin. Strip malls gave way to auto-body shops, which gave way to feed stores and churches with names like “The Lord’s Last Stop.” The cars on the road became larger, muddier. Billboards advertised chewing tobacco and gun shows. Milo felt a prickle of anthropological curiosity, like a Victorian explorer venturing into uncharted territory. He kept his windows up and the air conditioning on, a bubble of climate-controlled civilization, disgusted by the world around him.

The GPS finally announced, “Your destination is on the left.” Milo pulled up to a rusted gate, held shut by a loop of chain and a heavy, tarnished padlock. Beyond it, a dirt track snaked through a field of sun-bleached grass towards a cluster of low buildings huddled under a few ancient, gnarled oak trees. A wooden sign, weathered and pitted, hung askew from the gatepost. Painted on it, in faded, uneven letters, were the words: THE BAR NONE. Underneath, in smaller script, it read: Where the West Begins… and the Bullshit Ends.

Milo snorted. The bullshit was about to begin, all right. He had the code for the lock from Brenda’s email. After a brief struggle, he got it open and drove through, the sedan’s suspension groaning in protest on the uneven track. He parked in front of the main house, a sprawling, single-story structure with a tin roof and a wraparound porch that sagged in the middle like a tired old hound dog.

He stepped out of the car.

The silence hit him first. Not the sterile silence of his apartment, but a vast, living silence, filled with the drone of insects, the rustle of wind through the dry grass, and the distant, plaintive call of some bird. Then came the heat. It wasn't just the temperature; it was a physical presence, a heavy, dry blanket that settled on his shoulders and instantly beaded his forehead with sweat. The air smelled of dust, baked earth, and a faint, sweet undertone of something animal and organic.

He crunched across the gravel towards the porch, his city shoes feeling thin and insubstantial. The wood of the porch steps was soft under his feet. He used the key Brenda had sent, and the door swung open with a low, mournful creak.

Inside, it was like stepping into a museum of his uncle’s life. A vast pair of longhorns were mounted over a stone fireplace. The furniture was heavy, dark wood and cracked leather. A gun rack held two rifles. The shelves were lined with books with titles like Practical Farriery and The History of the Texas Cowboy. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and the air was still and close.

Milo wandered from room to room, making a mental inventory. It was a dump. A charming, rustic dump, but a dump nonetheless. He was already calculating the cost of a demolition crew when he reached the back door. He pushed it open and stepped onto a small, rickety porch that overlooked the land.

And that’s when he felt it.

It wasn't a sound, or a sight, but a feeling. A deep, resonant hum that seemed to rise from the very ground, travel up through the rotting wood of the porch, and vibrate in the marrow of his bones. He looked out at the land - the rolling, sun-scorched pasture, the distant line of a creek bed lined with cottonwoods, the endless, impossibly blue sky. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, it didn't look alien and desolate. It looked… right.

He shook his head, chalking it up to jet lag and the oppressive heat. He needed to get back to San Antonio, to a hotel with Wi-Fi and room service. He turned to go back inside, but his foot caught on a loose board. He stumbled, flailed, and pitched forward off the porch, landing hard on the packed earth below.

The breath was knocked out of him. He lay there for a moment, dazed, the sun blazing down on his face. His hand, splayed out to break his fall, was pressed firmly into the soil. It was warm, almost hot, and coarse. He could feel the grit of it under his fingernails, the tiny pebbles digging into his palm. A trickle of sweat ran from his hairline into his ear.

And then, the hum returned. But this time, it wasn't a vibration. It was a flood. It felt as if the heat from the ground was not just warming his skin, but seeping into his veins, flowing through his body like molten gold. It was a current, ancient and powerful, and it was re-wiring him. Entering every inch of his body and shifting, changing him. It was… peculiar, to say the least. But nice. Really, really nice.

He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He looked down at his hand. The palm was red and dirty. He rubbed it against his chinos, leaving a long, brown smear. He stared at the mark, a strange, primal part of his brain finding it… satisfying.

He walked back to his car, his steps feeling heavier, more deliberate. He got in, started the engine, and drove back down the track. He had to get out of here. He had to get back to normal.

But as he drove, he found his gaze constantly pulled from the road to the landscape. He noticed the way the grass moved in waves, the deep green of the live oaks against the pale sky, the way a distant hawk rode a thermal. He saw a stand of prickly pear cactus and, instead of thinking of them as hostile plants, he thought, Good cover for quail.

He blinked. Where had that thought come from? He didn’t know anything about quail.

He reached the gate. He got out to close it behind him, a habit born of city politeness. As he lifted the heavy chain, his eyes fell on the sign again. THE BAR NONE. He ran a finger over the rough, painted wood. This time, the words didn't seem quaint or pathetic. They seemed… true. A statement of fact. The bullshit did end here.

He got back in the car and drove towards San Antonio. But the city, when he reached it, felt wrong. The buildings were too tall, blocking the sky. The traffic was a chaotic, noisy mess. The air in his hotel room was cold and stale, smelling of industrial cleaner. He tried to work on his laptop, but the glow of the screen felt harsh, and the cascade of emails seemed like the meaningless chatter of ants. He couldn't concentrate. His mind kept drifting back to the wide, open space, the heavy silence, the feel of that warm, gritty soil in his palm.

He didn't sleep well. He dreamt of cattle, of horses, of a big sky full of stars. He woke up with a powerful, inexplicable craving for bacon. Greasy, crispy bacon. And eggs. And biscuits.

The next morning, he drove back.

This time, he didn't stop at the house. He walked out into the pasture. The sun was higher, the heat more intense. He took off his linen blazer and draped it over a fence post. He walked for what felt like hours, his city shoes getting scuffed and dusty. He came to the creek bed, the water a slow, muddy trickle. He sat on a fallen log and just… listened. To the water, to the wind, to the drone of a fly. A strange sense of peace settled over him. A peace he had never found in his silent, sterile apartment or in the controlled chaos of a project launch.

He saw movement. A jackrabbit, its ears twitching, bounded from behind a bush and vanished. A smile touched his lips. A real, unfiltered smile.

He went back to the house. This time, he didn't see a dump. He saw a home. He ran his hand over the rough-hewn wood of the porch support. He saw the craftsmanship in it. He walked inside and looked at the books on the shelf. He pulled one down, Practical Farriery. It was about horseshoeing. He opened it, and the words, which would have been gibberish two days ago, now seemed to hold a deep, resonant logic. They spoke of balance, of pressure points, of the relationship between a man, his tools, and his animal.

He spent the rest of the day exploring. He found the barn, a cavernous, dusty structure that smelled of hay, old leather, and manure. It had a good smell. An honest smell. He found a stack of old saddles, a collection of bridles, and a workbench covered in tools he didn't recognize but felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to hold.

That night, he didn't go back to the hotel. He found some sheets in a linen closet and made up the bed in the master bedroom. He lay there, the only sounds the creak of the old house and the distant yipping of coyotes. He stared at the ceiling, and for the first time in his adult life, his mind was utterly, completely still. No Gantt charts, no sprint retrospectives, no quarterly goals. Just the quiet.

The third day, the change accelerated.

He woke up with the sun, his body instinctively attuned to its rhythm. He found his uncle’s closet. It was full of faded Wrangler jeans, pearl-snap shirts, and scuffed cowboy boots. On a whim, he took a pair of jeans and a shirt. They were too big, but he put them on anyway. The rough denim felt substantial against his skin, a world away from the feather-light chinos. He slipped his feet into a pair of the boots. They were stiff, but they felt… grounded.

He walked out onto the porch. The land was no longer a problem to be solved. It was a responsibility. A birthright. He looked towards the barn and saw a figure approaching. It was a man, old and weathered as the land itself, leading a horse.

“Howdy,” the man said, his voice a dry rasp. He had a face like a crumpled paper bag and eyes the color of a faded blue jean. “You must be Cletus’s nephew. I’m Earl. Your neighbor. Saw a car here, figured I’d come introduce myself. Heard you might be selling.”

The old man’s gaze was direct, assessing. He looked at Milo in his uncle’s clothes, and a flicker of something - approval? Surprise? - crossed his face.

Milo opened his mouth to say the words he’d rehearsed. Yes, I’m here to assess the property for sale. But what came out was, “Just got here. Still gettin’ my bearings. Fine-looking horse you got there.”

His own voice sounded strange to him. The crisp, neutral accent was gone, replaced by something slower, more drawling. He felt a warmth spread through his chest. It was the right thing to say. The natural thing.

Earl spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dirt. “This here’s Dusty. Best cutting horse this side of the Nueces. You ride?”

The old Milo would have laughed. The new Milo felt a thrill of… was it fear? Or excitement? “Not in a long while,” he heard himself say. “But I reckon it’s like… well, I reckon it’s time to learn.”

Earl led Dusty to the fence. “Saddle’s in the barn, ain’t it? Get it. We got work to do.”

For the next three hours, under the brutal Texas sun, Earl taught Milo how to saddle a horse, how to mount, how to hold the reins, how to sit in the saddle. Milo fell off twice. The first time, he landed hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him. But instead of the searing humiliation he would have felt in his old life, he just felt the hard ground, smelled the dust, and let out a surprised grunt. He got back on. The second time, he managed to stay on for a few seconds before tumbling sideways. He landed with a thud, and then he did something he hadn't done in years. He laughed. A deep, full-bellied laugh that echoed across the pasture.

Earl just nodded, a ghost of a smile on his weathered face. “You got some of Cletus in you after all, boy.”

That night, exhausted, his body screaming in muscles he didn't know he had, Milo sat on the porch as the sun bled orange and purple across the sky. He was holding a long-neck bottle of Shiner Bock, a beer he would have scorned a week ago. Now, it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He was dirty, sore, and utterly content. He looked at his hand resting on his knee. It was already less pale. A smattering of freckles had appeared on his forearm. The nails were dirty.

He tried to summon an image of his old life. His sleek, minimalist apartment. His friends with their ironic t-shirts and encyclopedic knowledge of craft cocktails. His work. It all seemed like a movie he’d seen once, a long time ago. It was someone else’s story.

A week passed. Then two.

Milo’s transformation was now complete, as thorough as if he had been born on this soil. The land had claimed its own.

He spent his days with Earl, learning the rhythms of the ranch. They mended fences, the rhythmic thud of the post-mallet a satisfying counterpoint to the quiet. They checked on the dozen or so longhorns that were part of the property, their wild, magnificent heads making his heart swell with a strange, possessive pride. He learned to drive the ancient pickup truck, its engine a throaty rumble that felt more powerful than any silent electric motor. He learned to appreciate a good, sharp pocketknife and the proper way to roll a cigarette, even though he didn’t smoke.

His speech had coarsened, slowed. He used words like “reckon” and “fixin’ to” without a hint of irony. His thoughts, once a complex web of abstract concepts and strategic planning, were now simple and direct. That fence post is rotted. Need to replace it. Sun’s getting high. Time to get the cattle to the shade. That filly has a good eye. She’ll make a fine mount. There was a profound peace in this simplicity. The world had been reduced to the elements: sun, wind, land, animal, and the work that bound them together. The constant, chattering anxiety of his former life was gone, replaced by a calm, physical certainty.

His body had changed, too. The softness was gone, replaced by a ropy, wiry strength. His face, once carefully shaved, now wore a perpetual layer of stubble. His skin was tanned a deep, leathery brown. He moved with a new economy, a new confidence.

One afternoon, he drove the truck into the small, dusty town of Paint Rock. He needed fencing staples and a new blade for the post-hole digger. He walked into Holcomb’s Hardware - the name, he now realized with a jolt, was his family’s name - and was greeted by the smell of oiled steel, sawdust, and coffee.

Behind the counter was a woman. She was probably in her late twenties, with sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a faded t-shirt for a local feed store and jeans that fit her like they were made for her. She had strong, tanned arms and a smile that was both friendly and appraising. As Milo walked in, her eyes traveled over him, and a slow, appreciative grin spread across her face. It wasn't a subtle, city smile. It was a direct, open, purely physical acknowledgment.

“Well, howdy,” she said, her voice a low, sweet drawl. “You must be the new owner of the Bar None. Heard Earl had you out ridin’. I’m Jessie.”

Milo walked up to the counter. The old Milo would have crafted a witty, self-deprecating opening line. The new Milo just looked at her, at the curve of her neck, the way her t-shirt stretched across her shoulders, and felt a pure, uncomplicated surge of… want. It was as basic and powerful as the heat from the sun. He leaned an elbow on the worn wooden counter, a gesture that felt as natural as breathing.

“Milo,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But everyone just calls me Cletus’s boy.”

“I know who you are,” Jessie said, her eyes twinkling. “What can I get you?”

He told her. As she walked to the back to get the staples, he watched her go, an appreciative look on his face that would have horrified his former self. When she came back, he paid in cash, his thick, calloused fingers brushing against hers. A jolt, different from the land’s hum, went through him.

“You know,” he said, the words coming out slow and easy, “I just moved in. Ain't had a proper home-cooked meal since I got here. You reckon you might know a place in town that does a good chicken-fried steak?”

She leaned on the counter, mirroring his pose. “I might. But I know a place that does a better one. My place. I’m a darn good cook, Milo Holcomb.”

He grinned, a wide, uncomplicated grin. “I don’t doubt it for a second. What time?”

As he walked out of the hardware store, staples in one hand, the promise of a evening with Jessie in his mind, he paused. He looked up and down the main street. A dog lay sleeping in the shade of a porch. An old truck rumbled past, its driver giving him a two-fingered wave from the steering wheel. The sun was starting its slow descent, painting the town in shades of gold and amber. He felt the weight of the soil on his boots, the simple, honest tools in his hand, and the anticipation of a pretty woman’s cooking thrumming in his blood.

He had come to Texas to sell a ranch. He had found a home. He had come as Milo, the project manager. The land had made him into something else. He wasn't sure if he was dumber. He just knew he no longer needed to think about things that didn't matter. He knew the law of the land: you work, you rest, you take your pleasures where you find them. It was a simple law. A good law. The law of the Bar None.

He climbed into his truck, the springs groaning under him, and headed back to the ranch, the setting sun at his back, ready for an evening of steak, and Jessie, and the quiet, complete satisfaction of a day’s work done.