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[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts!]

Going to the wrestling tournament was only meant to be a bit of fun. Collin (left) and Ben (right) were hardcore members of their college’s GSA, so they knew that not all gay men were averse to sports. But they themselves were definitely the types to prefer marathoning Britney Spears videos to sitting down to watch a football game on TV.

Wrestling was a bit of an exception, though. At least for Collin. He couldn’t care less about the rules or how to get points or whatever. All he cared about was watching the hot college jocks writhing around with one another, getting sweaty. Ben cared so little about sports that he even got bored watching that after five minutes or so, but it turned Collin on so much that his efforts to attend these matches were always well worth the sacrifice.

Tonight’s tournament wasn’t meant to be any different. Ben and Collin had fun watching the early rounds. Collin snuck a few rubs of his cock when he figured nobody was watching him. And Ben amused himself by imagining what each wrestler's innermost fears might be and envisioning a wrestling-themed soap opera where they all stomped around behind-the-scenes throwing wine glasses of Gatorade on one another’s faces. To each his own.

Collin was clearly about ready to pounce, and Ben hoped the tournament would end soon. so he and his boyfriend could get home and get busy. He checked his phone and breathed a sigh of relief when he learned that this last round would end the night. The only thing was, the round wasn’t starting. They kept sitting there, and nobody took the stage. Or the ring or whatever.

Ben checked the time on his phone, bobbing his knee up and down impatiently. Why wasn’t the round starting? A big coach-looking guy was angrily whispering with a bigger, coachier-looking guy and they were looking around in every corner of the room. Clearly they needed something and they couldn’t find it. Ben hoped that meant they could just go home early.

That’s when the smaller guy caught his eye and locked on. Ben figured it was just a trick of the light or something, but the coach pointed straight at him and beckoned him to come talk to him.

Collin said, “I think that coach guy wants to talk to you.”

“Well, that’s his problem,” said Ben, not moving.

“Go talk to him! Give him what he wants. Maybe he’ll invite us to meet some of the wrestlers after.”

Ben heaved a sigh and said “sure,” before walking up to the coach, who turned out to be about a foot taller than him. He was only short compared to the other guy, it turned out.

The coach barked at him, “boy, we need you in the ring, pronto. Come with me to get changed.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked toward the locker rooms, Ben tripping in his haste to follow him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Ben, “but I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“I couldn’t care less who you are, boy,” said the coach, gruffly. “Griffin called in sick at the last minute. I need a wrestler, so you’re going to wrestle.”

The coach waved his hand in the air, gesticulating weirdly. Ben was about to insist that he wasn’t a wrestler when the coach’s hand closed on something he couldn’t see. Confused, Ben shut the hell up.

“There are a lot of ways for men to become wrestlers,” said the coach. “For you, this’ll be easiest.”

He held out his hand, which wasn’t actually empty. Ben could just make out a shimmering, glowing blue blob that seemed to be connected to his chest with a similarly transparent umbilical cord.

The coach said, “This is your sexuality. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything to it. I’m just going to move it from the outside… to the inside. Then everything else will follow.” With that, he pushed his closed fist directly into Ben’s chest and through it, like he was an X-Man or something.

When the coach pulled his fist out again, Ben felt dizzy. He wished Collin was there to help him. Collin was better about dealing with weird situations. Ben thought about Collin and smiled. He loved him so much… That love was what kept him- It was what- It was shameful. And he had to keep hiding it from the world. He couldn’t let people know about his secret lustful urges for other men, it would ruin his entire career.

He just needed to keep bottling it up, so he pushed Collin out of his mind. Collin. His love for him. And every memory ever associated with him. By the time he was done, it was almost like he’d never had a boyfriend at all. Hell, he couldn’t even remember ever having one.

Ben’ss memories warped. Instead of his memories of meeting Collin in high school and conspiring to go to the same college so they could share a dorm in freshman year, he could remember jerking off to old Brent Corrigan videos and instantly deleting his browser history afterward. He remembered fearing that his older brother would find out that he was gay, and channeling those feelings toward becoming an even greater jock than his brother was. To prove his masculinity.

As that memory blossomed, so did his body. Muscle exploded from him. Bulging pecs, enormous biceps and corded forearms. His thighs thickened into Christmas hams and his glutes ballooned, squashing themselves against his jeans. His jaw also broadened, and he inwardly thanked those looksmaxxing videos for helping him get the ideal masculine jaw. It was perfect camouflage.

His hair also degayed itself, falling flat over his forehead in a careless, just-rolled-out-of-bed style that screamed “I don’t care” loud enough that even he could believe it sometimes.

He rubbed a hand through it nervously, hoping it didn’t look too styled. He checked himself out in the mirror before throwing on his singlet and heading back out into the arena to show that other guy who was boss. That guy that he secretly fantasized about at night, rubbing himself before screaming into his pillow and punching it. He’d show that guy who was the true man around here. When he pinned him to the mat.

As he walked out of the door, he noticed a weird, twinky looking dude sitting alone, watching the wrestlers milling around while biting his lip. It sent a shiver down Ben’s spine. God, imagine being so open with your lust. It was weak. What must everybody else be thinking about that guy? They’d all know he was different. He really should learn to hide it better. Like Ben had.

You were only supposed to be killing time. That’s what you told yourself as you ducked inside the Enigma Emporium: Halloween Express, the kind of pop-up store that springs up in abandoned strip malls when October hits. The aisles reeked faintly of rubber and cheap polyester. Plastic skeletons dangled from wires, their jaws perpetually laughing, and bad tinny Halloween music dribbled from ceiling speakers. You told yourself it was harmless. You were a grad student, late twenties, overworked, perfectionist tendencies driving you into the ground. This little detour—just a break from the thesis drafts and stacks of grading—was a joke. Something to tell your boyfriend when you got home.

But then you saw it.

Not the masks or the costumes, not the fake blood or dollar-store props. No, this was tucked way in the back, away from the bright orange packaging and cartoon pumpkins. Hung alone, like it didn’t belong there at all: a baseball cap and a grillmaster apron, both plain, so aggressively ordinary they stood out like wounds. The cap was faded navy with no logo, no team insignia. The apron was heavy canvas, oil-stained, with a patch sewn over the chest in block letters:

“Father Knows Best.”

You frowned. Who the hell would buy this for Halloween? Still, your hand lifted before you could stop it, fingers brushing the stiff canvas. The fabric felt… warm. Not warm like fabric pulled from a dryer, but warm like skin.

You chuckled nervously and muttered, “Well, that’s creepy as shit.”

Still, you slipped the cap onto your head, tying the apron strings around your waist. For irony. For the joke. You turned toward the smudged mirror at the end of the aisle.

That was when the store disappeared.

The hum of fluorescent lights cut off. The racks of costumes blinked into nothing. The floor beneath your sneakers softened into plush beige carpet. You staggered backward, clutching at your head, the apron heavy against your chest. When your vision cleared, you weren’t standing in the Halloween Express anymore. You were in a hallway. A suburban hallway. Beige walls, framed family photos you didn’t recognize, a faint smell of lemon cleaner and barbecue smoke. And nailed to the wall beside the mirror: a crucifix.

You blinked hard, muttering, “No… no, no, this isn’t real. I was just—”

Your voice cracked off into a grunt. The cap on your head tightened, biting into your scalp. You reached up to yank it off, but your fingers—Christ, your fingers—looked swollen, thicker than they should’ve been. You tried again, but your hands didn’t feel like yours, the tendons bulging under a skin that was already growing coarser, hair sprouting darker along the backs.

The apron’s strings constricted around your waist. You sucked in a breath, but your chest pressed outward instead, ribs widening, meat piling onto your frame. Your T-shirt strained, seams creaking. You pawed at your chest and felt it heave outward, slabs of muscle and fat layering in grotesque slow-motion, every fiber stretching, every nerve lit with a sting like fire ants crawling under your skin.

A hot spear drives through you, forcing the air from your lungs. Your pecs puff for one grotesque instant, then sag forward into soft, flabby slabs. You grab at them in disbelief, gagging at the new heaviness, the way they hang on your chest like sacks of meat. The skin beneath your fingers stretches pale and thin, nipples flattening, darkening into something bland and fatherly.

“Stop… please, stop,” you hissed, to no one, to the crucifix, to whatever force had brought you here.

Your stomach surged forward. Not soft like indulgence, but hard, distended, like a barrel of meat strapped to your torso. The sensation was unbearable—the skin stretching, tugging, thickening. You clawed at it, nails digging red welts into your own belly, but there was no stopping it. Your body was carving itself into something bigger, older.

Your belly follows, swelling outward with a wet, sick lurch. Flesh pools over your waistband, the bar mirror catching every inch of your new paunch. The firm torso you’d been proud of is gone, replaced by a dad-gut that strains the buttons of your shirt with every labored breath.

You whisper hoarsely, “God, no, please don’t—” but your voice cracks, breaking into something small and defeated.

Your face joined in. You could feel the cartilage grinding in your jaw as it squared, your teeth pressing into new grooves. Your beard prickled out, wiry, streaks of gray threading through hair that had been trimmed neat just this morning. You turned toward the mirror, eyes wide, and saw a man ten years older staring back at you—no, fifteen years older—his brow furrowed deep as if scowling at the world.

Your own voice rasped back at you, low and guttural:

“Earned. Built. Deserved.”

You staggered, shaking your head violently. “No. That’s not me. I’m not—”

But the words in your mouth didn’t taste like yours anymore. They rolled out heavy, arrogant, coated in beer and grease:

“Fuckin’ look at me. Man’s man. Father.”

You slapped a hand over your lips, horrified, but your reflection didn’t stop speaking. The older man in the mirror leaned closer, the apron rising and falling with his broad, meat-thick chest. His lips curled back into a smirk that wasn’t yours.

“Father knows best.”

The words echoed through the hallway, and your knees buckled under their weight.

You staggered forward, half-expecting the carpet to dissolve and the Halloween store to snap back into place. But no—your bare feet sank into beige fibers that smelled faintly of stale dog and foot sweat. Your sneakers were gone. So were your jeans. Instead, you were standing in cargo shorts, the kind your dad used to wear on camping trips, the apron stretched tight across your belly.

The hallway yawned open into a living room. The air was too thick, humid with a smell that turned your stomach—burned meat and cheap beer. A recliner sat angled toward a flat-screen TV, a ring of sweat stains etched into the leather headrest. A half-empty bottle of Budweiser sweated on a coaster.

You froze.

On the wall above the mantel, three family portraits hung in neat frames. A wife. Blonde hair, skin just starting to crease at the corners of her mouth. A son with a smug little smirk. A daughter, braces flashing in a forced smile. And you. Standing behind them, arm clamped around your wife’s waist. Except it wasn’t you. Not really. Not yet. The man in the photo had your eyes, but older, harder, narrowed like he was about to snap at the photographer.

You whispered, hoarse, “No… I don’t know these people. I don’t…”

But as you stared, your temples throbbed. New memories shoved themselves inside your skull, greasy and unwanted. You were grilling burgers last summer. You were laughing too loud at a fart joke in the garage. You were barking at your son to mow the lawn properly. You were sliding a hand down your wife’s hip, wishing she hadn’t put on those extra ten pounds.

You clutched your head. “No! I have a boyfriend! I live—God, I live in the city, I don’t—”

The crucifix on the wall rattled. Something deep in your chest rumbled out of your throat, a voice that wasn’t yours.

“Fag bullshit. Don’t say that word in my house.”

Your stomach lurched. Your voice sounded older. Meaner. And worst of all—it felt true.

You stumbled into the kitchen. Linoleum floor. Oak cabinets. A calendar pinned on the fridge with church bake sales and “Little League Finals” circled in red. A lump rose in your throat. You could almost hear it: children’s feet pounding up these stairs, your wife calling dinner, the hiss of meat fat dripping onto hot charcoal.

You turned to the sliding glass door. Out back, a grill smoldered on the patio, smoke curling upward in greasy black ribbons. The smell slapped you across the face—charred beef, pork fat, hot dogs swollen until they split. It clung to you, crawled down your throat, filled your lungs until you felt drunk on it.

You coughed hard, but the cough turned into a laugh. A big, ugly, dad laugh, chesty and wet. The sound horrified you, but it felt good, like it belonged.

Your forearms prickle, every hair standing on end before dissolving into nothing, falling away in invisible clumps. You stare down in horror as the dense, masculine hair that marked you as a proud bear vanishes, leaving behind pale, suburban-soft skin. The muscles underneath—your strength, your labor, your self—go slack. You feel them melting, collapsing, until your arms hang heavy, doughy, with no power at all. Your tattoos bleed into smudges before fading entirely, erasing years of identity in seconds.

Your reflection in the glass door grinned back, thicker, older. The apron rode higher on your gut, your arms swollen with a heaviness you hadn’t earned. You pressed your palms to the glass, desperate, pleading.

“I don’t want this. Please, let me out. I’m not him. I’m not—”

But the reflection leaned close, mouth twisting around your own teeth, and whispered through the hiss of the grill:

“Father knows best.”

There's a pressure in your temples, then a grinding churn in your skull. Memories blur, unravel. Lovers’ faces fade. Their laughter, the parades, the nights you danced—gone, slipping away before you can grab hold. You whisper their names desperately, but they drip from your lips like water through cupped hands.

New memories shove themselves in, violent, invasive. A cul-de-sac under a setting sun. A manicured lawn you mow every Saturday morning. A woman’s plain, smiling face—your wife—her eyes shining like she’s been beside you for decades. Children’s voices cry out, calling you “Dad,” tugging your softened arms, needing you.

You thrash, shaking your head violently. “No—I’m me, I’m—”

But your name dissolves mid-sentence. Something else replaces it. A name heavy with church directories and Little League sign-ups. A name that drips with cheap beer, grilled burgers, scripture.

You choke on it, gagging as it roots in your mind, claiming you. Your mind screams in the back of your skull, a last frantic pulse of resistance, but it’s fading, thinning into silence. Your real name—your true name—tries to surface one last time, but the sound dies in your throat.

What comes instead is the new one. Solid. Heavy. Final.

“Greg,” you mutter hoarsely, then again, stronger: “Greg Whitfield.”

The words settle deep, rooting in you. You are Greg Whitfield. Suburban husband. Republican father. Devout Christian. The man you see in the mirror isn’t a stranger—it’s you. It has always been you.

You stand, and the motion feels right, natural, even as your shirt strains over your dad-gut and your belt digs into your soft waist. You adjust your collar, smooth the front of your shirt, like you’re preparing to greet neighbors after Sunday service. The bar feels wrong to you now, the neon garish, the music sinful, the smell of beer stale.

But the thought of home—your cul-de-sac, your tidy lawn, your wife waiting for you—fills you with warmth. A righteous warmth.

Images of her flood your mind. Her soft blonde hair, the curve of her hips, the way she smiles when she greets you at the door after a long day at work. Desire twists hot and primal in your belly, your cock stirring in your slacks. You can already picture her in the bedroom, in the kitchen, anywhere you want her. Your wife. Yours to love, to claim, to breed.

You grin, smug and entitled, your thick hand patting your gut. “Can’t wait to get home to her,” you mutter under your breath, the thought sparking a flash of heat straight to your groin.

You leave a bill on the counter, the old hesitation gone, and stride out of the bar with the confidence of a man who knows exactly who he is. A strict, suburban father. A man of God. A Republican through and through. A man whose purpose is clear: to uphold his family, his faith, and to take his wife—hard, again and again.

The final traces of who you were before are gone, buried under the crushing certainty of your new life. There is no “before.” There is only now.

You are Greg Whitfield. You are Dad. And you’re going to fuck your hot wife.

The sun was a massive heavy orange ball sinking low into the dirt fields, turning the whole sky into a messy mix of bruised purple and gold. It was one of those humid evenings where the air feels like a wet blanket, sticking to everything it touches. Elias, an older guy pushing fifty with a back that constantly ached and knees that popped like gravel in a blender, didn’t even hear the tire go at first. There was just that sudden weird drag to the left, the steering wheel becoming a stubborn piece of iron in his tired hands.

He muttered a curse, his voice sounding thin and scratchy in the quiet cabin.

He guided the fading sedan onto the crunchy gravel shoulder. He was in the middle of nowhere. No houses, no lights, just flat fields stretching out forever. He sat there for a second with his hands still on the wheel, feeling every single bit of his fifty years. He was just so tired. Tired of the driving, tired of the back pain, tired of the quiet house he was heading back to. He stepped out of the car, his joints feeling stiff and brittle. The back tire was a total disaster. Shredded rubber flapping against the rim. He popped the trunk and just stood there staring at the spare tire. He hadn’t changed a tire in twenty years, and his brain felt thick and foggy from the summer heat.

That was when he heard it. A low vibrating hum that grew into a window-rattling roar. A sleek black sport bike ripped through the quiet air, moving so fast it was almost a blur. The rider saw him and slowed down, the bike growling and popping as it decelerated. The guy turned the bike around in one smooth easy motion and rolled up, stopping just a few feet away. The engine idled with a deep rhythmic thrum.

The rider swung a leg off the bike like it was nothing. He was young and loose, moving with this heavy, confident gravity. He didn’t take his helmet off. It was a matte black AGV with a mirrored visor that hid his face completely.

“Need a hand, man?” Jax asked. His voice came through the helmet, slightly muffled but deep and grounded.

Elias wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yeah. Tire’s gone. I’m a bit out of my element here, honestly.”

“It’s chill, I got you,” Jax said, stepping closer. The smell of him was intense. Heavy leather, gasoline, and a sharp hot sweat that seemed to radiate off his gear. “It’s easy once you get the rhythm. Here, crouch down with me. Just watch my hands.”

Elias knelt on the gravel. Jax reached out and gripped his shoulder. His heavy riding glove felt incredibly warm through the thin fabric of Elias’s old shirt.

“First thing is the wrench. Don’t stress it. Just feel the weight of the metal. Hear that sound?” Jax tapped the wrench against the rim. Click. Click. Click.

“Just focus on that sound, Colton,” Jax whispered, his voice a low, steady drone from behind the dark visor.

Colton. The name felt familiar. Elias didn’t even correct him. It felt like a word he’d forgotten and just found again. He watched the wrench. Click. Click. Click.

“Just keep turning it,” Jax said. “Don’t think about the rest. Just the metal. The road. The rhythm.”

Elias found himself staring at his own hands on the metal. Every time Jax spoke, a little more of his old life felt like a dream he was waking up from. He tried to remember his last name. He tried to picture his living room. It was there for a second, but then it got hazy, like looking through dirty glass. He tried to hold onto it, but the effort made his head ache. Why was he trying to remember a house? Houses were just boxes. It was easier to just listen to the wrench.

As Jax kept talking, guiding his hands on the bolts, the physical world started to shift.

His old dusty work boots grew heavy and stiff. The leather became hard and non-breathable, turning into professional black biker boots with thick rubber soles and plastic armor. Inside, his feet were widening, his toes getting thick and calloused. The heat inside the boots was instant and intense. His socks soaked through with a heavy, sour, extremely pungent foot sweat. It was a thick cheesy smell wafting up from the unvented boots, mixing with the hot engine oil.

He noticed the foul smell. It was undeniably rank. But then Jax shifted closer, and the younger biker smelled exactly the same. Thick, unwashed, heavy with the scent of the road. The smells blended together perfectly. It didn’t gross him out. It felt like they matched. Like they belonged to the same pack.

“Check the bolts, Colton,” Jax murmured, his gloved hand lingering on his arm.

Colton’s knees stopped aching. They felt like steel springs. He used to be taller, but he felt his bones compacting, his center of gravity dropping to a solid powerful five-ten. Perfect for hugging a gas tank. His old work slacks thickened, the fabric transforming into a pair of heavy charcoal-grey sweatpants. He felt his rear end firm up, expanding just enough to get that plump bubbly biker shape that filled out the soft cotton perfectly.

In the front, a heavy thick bulge was filling out, the soft grey cotton leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Colton shifted his weight on his heels, feeling the low-hanging heaviness between his legs.

His upper body broadened, his chest expanding as his old shirt split and merged into a tight black gym shirt with faint grey details. It clung to his new biceps. It felt like he’d been wearing it since yesterday’s heavy lift. It was damp with old sweat, smelling like a locker room and heavy unwashed musk. His armpits were soaking through, releasing a thick masculine scent of raw onions and salt.

His stomach gave a deep, bubbling rumble. His diet was rewiring itself—he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a salad. All his body knew was cheap gas station burgers, protein shakes, and monster energy drinks. A heavy pressure built up in his gut. He didn’t even try to hold it in. He shifted his weight and let out a long, loud, vibrating fart that sounded like a dirt bike idling.

“F-fuuckkk..ughhhh..I just fucking farted..” Colton said, moaning.

It was incredibly pungent. A thick, heavy, eggy stench that lingered in the humid air like a physical cloud. He remembered his farts always reeked. So did Jax’s farts.

Jax didn’t wave his hand or back away. Instead, he stepped right into the cloud. He reached up and popped his helmet’s visor open. “Good one, bro,” Jax chuckled, taking a slow, deliberate sniff, letting the foul eggy air invade his helmet.

Colton looked up, a dumb happy grin spreading across his face. A warm surge of pride pooled in his gut. He liked that Jax liked it. He liked that he could be completely filthy and gross and Jax just claimed it. It was a weird, intense kink that suddenly felt completely natural to him. He wanted to smell like Jax. He wanted Jax to smell him.

He stood up, brushing his calloused hands on his sweatpants. This was the moment where things started to get really blurry.

He looked at the sedan parked on the shoulder. He stared at it for a long time. It looked wrong. It was too wide. It had four doors. Why would anyone need four doors? He tried to remember driving it, but the memory cut off mid-thought. He remembered hands on a steering wheel, but they didn’t feel like his hands. His hands were meant for grips, not a wheel.

The blue paint of the car seemed to swim in the humid air. The edges of the metal softened and folded inward. It was compressing, getting darker. He blinked, rubbing his eyes with a thick thumb. When he looked back, the four wheels were gone. It was a sleek black Yamaha.

He didn’t freak out. He didn’t even gasp. He just looked at it and felt a wave of relief. Right. The bike. Obviously. It was his bike. He knew the scratch on the gas tank. He knew how the clutch felt. It had always been there.

Colton didn’t want to move away from Jax. He naturally gravitated closer, their shoulders almost brushing. There was a deep quiet gravity between them. He didn’t need to make decisions anymore. He tried to think about that other life—something about a wife? A job? but the thoughts just slid off his brain. It felt gross to even try. His whole sexuality, his whole personality, had narrowed down to a single point. He just wanted to be right here, right next to Jax. Wherever Jax went, he went. They rode together, they slept together, they shared everything. It was a loyalty so deep it didn’t need words.

Thoughts were getting real simple in his head.

Hot out.

Bike looks good.

Jax is ready.

Just ride.

Jax grabbed a matte black AGV helmet from his bike and tossed it to Colton.

Colton caught it easily. His hands knew exactly how to hold it. He pulled it over his head. The inside was cramped and hot. It smelled incredibly stale, reeking of old hair wax, old sweat, and his own pungent unwashed musk. The pads squeezed his cheeks tight, making his lips pout a little behind the mirrored visor. To anyone else it would be claustrophobic. To Colton, it was a cocoon. It was his zone.

He stepped toward his Yamaha. He swung a heavy muscular leg over the seat. His bubbly sweaty rear settled onto the firm seat, the grey sweatpants bunching up perfectly to show off his thick thighs. He didn’t have to think about where to put his feet. His heavy smelly boots found the pegs by pure instinct. He leaned forward, his back curving naturally, and his hands gripped the handlebars. The calluses on his palms aligned perfectly with the rubber grips. He had done this a million times.

He revved the engine. The vibration traveled up his arms, settled deep in his chest, and buzzed against his crotch. It felt like a heartbeat.

He looked over. Jax had walked his bike over, but before he mounted it, he stepped close to Colton’s Yamaha. Jax reached out with a heavy black glove and rested his hand firmly on Colton’s plump, grey-clad butt. He gave it a slow, possessive squeeze, his thumb pressing into the soft cotton.

Even through the helmet, Colton could feel Jax’s smirk. Colton just revved the engine again, a low moan escaping his lips inside his helmet, his body leaning into the touch.

Jax patted him twice, then swung onto his own bike.

Good.

Ready.

Follow Jax.

Jax kicked his stand up and rolled forward onto the dark asphalt. Colton didn’t hesitate for a single second and followed.

Jesse is beyond jealous of the new gay hunk being brought into his circle, Ethan. After blowing up at him midgame, it turns out Ethan may have just the program to help Jesse overcome his jealous streak.

Bog-standard hairy himbofication! Hope you enjoy Jesse stumbling towards a life simpler than he wished to be more like the man he can't stand! -Occam

It wasn't that Jesse disliked Ethan, though if it were that simple perhaps it would be less of a problem. For a few months now his friends had been including Ethan in more and more of their plans. At first Ethan was just hopping online to fill in if they needed an extra guy to game with, but as he became a more constant presence Jesse found his jealousy slowly rising. 

Purely a him-problem, of course. It was just something he’d need to get over. He should be glad that there’s another gay guy in their little group. It’s not like he was being replaced, it was just another friend. Despite how many times he told himself this, it did little to soothe the discontentment running rampant in his heart.

Every time Ethan spoke over him accidentally there was another mark against him. Deep rooted anxieties he thought he put to bed reawaken and sear his ego. Seething quietly to himself as the new man beats him to the punch on a joke, it’s a wonder his jaw doesn’t get more defined with how often he clenches it. 

There is a rumor among the businessmen of 756 Orchard Road, an anecdote well established execs like to tell rookies. They say that no matter what you are wearing as you step in the elevator, by the time you reached the offices in the top floors your clothes will be transformed into an exquisite looking, full business suit.

Some are cynical and think that it’s just a metaphor for climbing up the business ladder; by the time you had reached a high enough rank to have any business even being in the top floors you would be in a position to afford expensive suits and would even be expect to dress well to come to work.

Recently however someone put a security video online that, indeed, showed one of the security guards taking the lift to the topmost floor to investigate a disturbance. The cameras clearly showed him stepping into the elevator cabin at exactly 4:00 am, dressed in his guard uniform…and stepping out of it on the top floor dressed in what appeared to be an exquisite, and expensive, looking navy business suit at 4:25.

Since then there was a lot of talk about the rumor among the rookies and lower offices. Was it true, had the elevator really transformed the guard’s clothes? Had he just doctored the video? Had he just hidden the suit in the elevator and changed quickly while riding it in order to play a prank? The security guard himself remained smugly silent when questioned about the video.

But today four aspiring, young office workers from lower management have decided to find out for themselves. They each agreed to come to work dressed casually and ride the lift together, this way they had each other as witnesses and none of them could cheat by bringing along spare clothes and changes in the elevator.

First of them to arrive was Hernandez, wearing an unbuttoned suit jacket over simple shirt, black jeans and sneakers. A couple of moments later Roberts and Stohl joined him in front of the elevator; Robert’s, tall and broad shouldered similarly Hernandez, but Stohl didn’t even wear a suit jacket, sporting nothing but a buttoned shirt and jeans.

“Hey, I thought we’d agree we’d dress casually?” Stohl complained as he saw the other two, “now, once we find out the magic dress up elevator doesn’t work I’ll be the only one embarrassing himself by coming to work under dressed…”

Hernandez was about to reply something, but just as he opened his mouth his eyes grew wide and his jaw hung open as he saw who was walking up to them behind Stohl.

“No, you won’t” Robert’s added with a similar befuddled look on his face.

Confused Stohl turned around to see the source of his colleagues’ reaction and there he was…Wilson, the fourth man in their circle, dressed in nothing but a pair of slack, riding dangerously low on his hips, low enough to make it clear that he wasn’t wearing underwear either. His toned, hairless, gold skinned upper body was completely exposed, only a leather bag causally swung over one of his shoulders and a big grin on his lips.

“Morning!”

The three others just stared at Wilson, none of them, as of yet able to return his greetings.

Finally, Stohl spoke “You want to go to work…dressed like that?” he asked unbelieving, the button of his shirt not sufficient to hide his hardening junk.

Wilson shrugged his shoulders “This thing is supposed to transform whatever we wear into a full business suit, right?” he nodded at the elevator “So it shouldn’t matter how much I have on going in, and if the clothes get transformed, there’s no point in wasting any good ones, clothes cost money.”

Hernandez didn’t quite buy Wilson’s excuse about not wanting to waste clothes, he was sure the man just wanted to show off his body. He had to admit Wilson had the best body out of them all, though, he was even better toned than Roberts.

“Well, should we?” Roberts asked and the four men entered the elevator. Wilson stood in the centre of the group each of the men able to feel the warmth radiating from his naked, golden torso.

“Top floor?” Stohl asked, trying not to stare at Wilson.

“That’s what the legend says, ain’t it?” asked Wilson cocking an eyebrow, then he looked at Hernandez “you got your phone ready to record the whole thing?”

Hernandez nodded, getting his smartphone out of his pocket and started the camera app “Ready.” To be honest he felt a bit silly, did any of them really believe that this elevator somehow possessed the magical ability to change their clothes?

The doors closed and their elevator ride began, all the way up to the highest floor. For a while Hernandez just started at the number above the door as it slowly increased, indicating their ascension to the top floor. They had arrived before most people, so there was little chance for their experiment to be interrupted by additional passengers. Bored with that he started to film the others with his camera; Roberts had gotten his own phone out and was replaying to messages, Stohl still did his best to avoid staring at Wilson, while Wilson used the time to seduce his own reflection in the elevator doors by letting his rock hard muscles dance under his golden skin.

Then something usual happened; halfway up the building between floors 25 and 26 the elevator just stopped.

“What the fuck?” Wilson asked, “why did we stop?”

“Maybe the elevator broke?” Roberts suggested.

Before anybody could properly react to the sudden stop the elevator’s intercom sprang to live with a loud, mechanic sound “Error! Subroutine: Dress for Success cannot be executed! Too many valid targets detected! Reduction of targets initiated!”

Hernandez wondered what it was that spoke to them, it sounded like a robot or an AI, and what it meant by those words…

Stohl meanwhile cursed under his breath; trying to shrink into a corner. Hernandez felt sorry for his colleague, as he had learned after one too many drinks at the last office party Stohl was not only gay, but madly in love with Wilson who was a very proud heterosexual, and now he was stuck in an elevator with an half naked Wilson just inches away from him, for an undetermined amount of time. There was sweat in Stohl’s face, his breathing grew heavy. And then, Stohl did something Hernandez never had thought possible; like moved by some external force, and seemingly just as surprised as Hernandez, Stohl sprung up and took a few stepped closer to Wilson, who still stood with his back to the rest of the group. Pushing Roberts aside Stohl positioned himself directly behind Wilson.

“You alright buddy?” Wilson asked seeing the whole thing in the mirrored elevator doors.  

Stohl didn’t answer, instead he just stared down at Wilson’s strong, muscled back and placed one hand on each of Wilson’s shoulder blades.

Hernandez switched his camera off, fearing that whatever Stohl was doing would lead to an ugly meltdown better left unrecorded; but what happened instead made him wish he hadn’t done so, for it was too crazy to be believed without video evidence.

With a loud slurping sound Stohl was…sucked into  Wilson’s body, clothes, shoes and all, disappearing under the other man’s naked skin.

Wilson cried out in surprise, though the cry also had an undertone of ecstasy Hernandez thought, and curled his body as if some projectile had hit him in the back.

Then as just as quickly as this happened it was over; Wilson straightened himself up again and it was as if nothing had happened, as if Stohl had never stood there and had never been absorbed into the gold skinned hunk.

Wilson, of course, looked completely freaked out, he touched his chest, turned his back to the mirrored walls to see if any trace of Stohl remained, but that was not the case.

“What just happened?” Roberts blurted out, shrinking up against the wall behind him, away to even brush against Wilson, “What happened do to Stohl?”

Wilson looked at him “How should I know?”

“Well, you just….” Robert’s twisted his mouth “…ate him…”

Wilson scoffed “I did no such thing he jumped into me! Anyways how….” Wilson’s words trailed off into a strained moan as he curled up again. Sweat built on his naked, golden skin as a…a bump emerged on his chest…Hernandez and Roberts watched in horror as this bump grew and developed, forming into something like a screaming face–yes, a face! Stohl’s face, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, the whole thing tightly wrapped into Wilson’s golden skin, like covered in shrink-wrap. A similarly “shrink-wrapped” hand and arm emerged from Wilson’s abs. It was a grotesque sight; two men, two bodies forced together under one skin, fighting, struggling to get apart but unable to do so.

As this strange Wilson-Stohl fusion thrashed and cringed about it threw itself into Robert’s direction by accident. Too much in shock about what was happening in front of his eyes the man was unable to dodge and the fusion hit him with full force, square in the chest, pinning him between the fusion’s grotesque body and the wall. There was another slurping sound and Robert’s was added to the Wilson-Stohl creature.  

Before Hernandez’ unbelieving eyes this creature, which was also three men wrapped into one skin, reeled and cringed. It almost looked like the three men it was formed off where mud-wrestling against each other as slowly, very slowly their bodies seemed to lose consistency, to lose their distinctive shapes, seemingly melding into a heap of clay. But it didn’t stay with the clay, just as the shapes of the three men had dissolved into it, the clay now sculpted itself into a new shape, but it wasn’t the three men form before that emerged, but one man, one single, huge hunk. Slowly it took shape…mighty pecs and abs emerging from the shapeless clay, muscular arms and legs formed themselves from the moist material like veins of marble in the ground, only the head remained featureless, for now. The clay golem seemed to stabilize, looking at his reflection with his featureless head, exploring his wet, mannequin-like body with his large hands.

Hernandez, pressed tightly against the wall gulped, “Wilson?” he finally asked carefully “Roberts? Stohl? Are you guys in there? Are you alright?”

The golem regarded him with his blank, featureless head.  Then he reached out his arms and placed his large, wet hands next on each side of Hernandez, drawing closer to him. As Hernandez looked at the large, wet torso infront of him, the liquid, moist sheen on its bulbous pecks and perfect abs he knew what would come next…and he was not sure if he was frightened or excited.

But that didn’t matter anyway as the golem thrust his mighty body at the man. Hernandez felt the golem’s liquid flesh oozing around his body and face. There was a sensation of being sucked in deeper and finally a sensation like being thrown into a bowl of white hot, liquid iron as Hernandez mind met what was left of those of Wilson, Stohl and Roberts and was assimilated into it, the minds and souls and bodies of four men forming into a single new one.

The new man moaned as his body finished; clay blending over into golden skin, adding up four men worth of musculature the new body was not just toned as Wilson had been, it was ripped. But its skin was not baby smooth like Wilson’s had been, Robert’s and Stohl supplied plenty of body hair to cover the new man into a virile carpet. He was also no longer blonde like Wilson had been, Hernandez and Stohl darkened the hair and made it fuller. Their added testosterone also caused the new man to grow a handsome, manly beard, almost like an added bonus. The new man opened his dark eyes and looked at himself in the mirror, exploring and enjoying his muscular, hairy arms and chest with his large hands. He had no idea what had happened, he had no idea if he was Wilson or Hernandez or Roberts or Stohl or all of them together or none of them. The only thing he knew was that he was hot as hell. Finding Hernandez’ smartphone on the floor he picked it up and made a picture of himself in the elevator wall mirror. Just as he did that the elevator sprang alive again, continuing the journey four men had started and one man would now finish. Still enjoying his new body the fusion wondered what would happen now, if there was a way to split him back up, if he even wanted to go back to be four average men instead of one hot hunk when he felt the grubby blue pants he was wearing melt and cover his body. Confused he looked down at himself, watching as the colourless, shiny liquid his pants and shoes had become encased him completely up to his chin. The liquid started glowing and changed from, covering him into a hot, sharp, full business suit, just like the legend told.

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

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

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

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

Their father had been obscenely wealthy... real estate, contracting, the kind of empire that didn’t leave room for doubt. And like many men in his position, he’d had affairs. Thomas was the result of one of them. But instead of denying him, their father had claimed him, raised him, given him every advantage. Now, after his death, that decision was being dragged back into the light.

“Father should’ve never...”

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

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

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

“Excellent report, Thomas.”

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

He hadn’t needed the family business to succeed. His work ethic and easy charm carried him forward at a startup where he was quickly making a name for himself. He was building something on his own terms. Something he could be proud of.

Later, changing for an evening walk, he queued up a philosophy podcast and grabbed an iced green tea.

“Alright, let’s...”

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

“Are you Thomas Lancer?”

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas sat in a stark room, surrounded by agents, judges, lawyers. William sat across from him, smirking. Thomas could only listen as his life was dissected into probabilities, reduced to numbers. And after several hours of discussion, the head judge spoke.

"Thomas Lancer, it is our belief that your existence itself deviates significantly from the expected trajectory based on the most likely statistical outcomes. Moreover, this anomaly has significant ramifications for the Lancer family and therefore confers necessary corrections."

Thomas swallowed hard. William had won. Embarrassed him. Demeaned him in front of everyone.

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

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

Thomas frowned. “What does that mean?”

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

The room went silent.

Thomas felt his blood run cold.

“Wh… what?"

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

Thomas barely had time to process what William's words meant before he was dragged by the DOC officers to a sterile white room filled with strange pod-like devices.

"Welcome Mr. Lancer." A man in a different suit greeted him outside the pod, "I'm DOC Assessment Officer Davis. I'll be overseeing your correction." He smiled and looked down at his tablet.

"Correction?" Thomas whispered, "I don't... what're you going to do to me?"

Davis didn't look up, "We reconstruct the life you were statistically meant to live, introduced directly through our system. As those layers integrate, the pod makes corresponding physical adjustments so your body aligns with that history. It’s comprehensive, seamless. You won’t experience it as loss, Mr. Lancer… if that’s what you’re worried about."

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

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

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

“You don't have a choice.” Davis replied softly, gesturing toward the pod as it hissed and opened, "Now please undress."

Thomas hesitated only briefly before complying, folding his clothes with trembling hands as if the small act of neatness might anchor him to himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the pod. Lean, toned, swimmer’s build, smooth skin, the careful maintenance of someone who had always had time to care.

"Please enter."

The interior glowed faintly, sterile and inviting in a way that made his stomach turn. He stepped inside, lying back as the curved surface molded to him, sealing him in.

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

At first, it wasn’t pain. It was… intrusion.

A warmth spread along his temples, threading inward, and suddenly there was a memory... Forceful, overwhelming something else that had been there. A cramped living room. The hum of an old TV. The sharp scent of cheap beer.

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

The name landed wrong... Tommy- and yet, disturbingly, it didn’t stay wrong for long. He could see himself moving through that space, younger, grabbing a bottle from a fridge that rattled when it opened.

A man... Greg, his mom’s boyfriend, sat sprawled on the couch, broad, worn, solid in a way that radiated authority without effort.

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

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s body slackened slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased. The sterile hum of the machine blended with the low drone of that TV, the two realities overlapping until the difference blurred. The memory of his real father- tailored suits, polished offices- felt… distant. Thinner. Less lived in. Greg’s presence, by contrast, was heavy, immediate, grounding.

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

The next shift came harder.

Thomas... no... Tommy... stood in front of a mirror, but the reflection wasn’t quite right. The frame was thicker, the edges of muscle less refined and more functional, built through repetition rather than design. His hair looked less styled, more… neglected. He lingered there a moment too long, staring, trying to reconcile what he was seeing... trying to understand.

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

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s breath hitched sharply as sensation followed the memory. His muscles tightened, then shifted, a dull, spreading ache as fibers seemed to knit differently beneath his skin. It wasn’t dramatic, not all at once, but it was real. His arms felt heavier, denser. His chest expanded, rising with each slow breath.

"Dial it up." Davis said, watching Thomas's progress closely.

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

The shift into the next phase did not come gently. It hit like impact. Sudden, jarring, full of motion. Tommy was on a field, the ground uneven beneath his cleats. Someone slammed into him, and instead of fear, there was a surge... hot, immediate, good. Football. Not swimming or golf. A real man's sport.

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

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s back arched as sensation flooded him. His muscles tightened violently, then began to swell... not grotesquely, not all at once, but undeniably. His shoulders broadened, the clean, streamlined lines of a swimmer thickening into something denser, more impact-ready. There was weight to him now.

"Wait..." Thomas mumbled, voice flat and distant.

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

The next wave came rougher. A flick of a lighter in the dark. The sharp inhale of smoke burning down his throat, making him cough hard enough to double over while laughter echoed around him.

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

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

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

Inside the pod, Thomas’s lungs seized for a moment, a phantom irritation scraping through his chest before settling. And then he felt it. A craving. A need for a cigarette. And the memories didn’t stop.

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

A cheap bar, loud and crowded. The sticky floor beneath his boots. Someone bumping into him too hard... and the reaction was immediate. A shove. A shout. Then fists.

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

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

In the pod, Thomas gasped as his face twitched, a deep, aching pressure forming along the bridge of his nose before settling. Not breaking, not fully, but changing. Less refined. Slightly off. His skin, too, seemed different. Less cared for, faint imperfections surfacing, the kind that came from sun, from work, from not paying attention to things that used to matter.

"How's his progress?"

Look for yourself."

Inside the pod, Thomas’s body had begun to tell the story before his mind fully caught up. His frame thicker now, muscle settling in with a denser, work-built weight. Fine hairs had started to gather across his chest and stomach, subtle but new. A faint shadow of stubble edged his jaw, and along his arms, the ghost of ink- half-formed lines of tattoos- lingered just beneath the skin, not yet complete, but no longer absent.

"Perfect."

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

This time, the memory didn’t force itself in. It settled. Tommy leaned against the side of a work truck, metal warm from the sun, dust clinging to his skin. He shifted and caught his reflection in the window.

Something felt off. He stepped closer.

His frame had filled out. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, solid rather than sculpted. His hair sat uneven, pushed back without care, and a rough layer of stubble shadowed his jaw. When he tugged at his collar, he noticed darker hair spreading faintly across his chest.

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

Inside the pod, Thomas grimaced as it happened. The itch across his chest, sharper now, as hair thickened. His jaw tightened as stubble coarsened.

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

“School starts next week.”

“Yeah… don’t think I’m goin’ back.”

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

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

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

"St... stop..." He whispered, eyes half lidded. His awareness of the word around him overwhelmed by the memories he was being guided by.

Thomas tried again to hold onto something... an idea, a plan, the importance of what he was losing... but each attempt came up shorter than the last. Thoughts simplified... the need for anything more complex was fading. In their place came something steadier. The memory of a long day’s work settling into his muscles. The satisfaction of finishing something tangible. The ease of sitting back with a drink, not thinking too far ahead. His breathing slowed. Deepened. The panic flickered... and then faltered.

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

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

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

There was no space for thought anymore. Just overflow. Drowning out anything that was left of "Thomas Lancer."

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

Nights stacked into each other without edges. Cheap beer burning down his throat after work, laughter he didn’t need to explain, cigarette smoke curling out into streetlight haze. Ash flicked away with an easy motion. The weight of his body collapsing into whatever chair, curb, or bed was closest. Exhaustion, release, repetition. Each memory slid into the next without pause, stripping away anything that required reflection to hold.

The morning light woke him up. He dragged himself upright in a narrow, unmade bed, sheets twisted and half-hanging off the side. The apartment around him was dim and cluttered. Empty beer cans on a table, clothes tossed wherever they landed, the air thick with a stale, musky smell that clung to everything. He didn’t notice it. Didn’t care.

"Hell..."

He stretched slowly, arms pulling up over his head, back arching as something popped along his spine. His pits were damp, hair thicker there now, holding onto the smell of yesterday’s sweat. He exhaled through his nose, scratching idly at his chest, fingers dragging through the coarse spread of hair. A low grunt left him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He shuffled toward the bathroom, bare feet dragging slightly against the floor, and leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror without really thinking about it. Ran a hand through his hair. Messy, sticking out in places, flattened in others.

Scratched at his beard. Spat into the sink. For a moment, he just stood there. Not analyzing. Not questioning. Life wasn’t complicated. Get up. Go to work. Get paid. Grab a drink after if the day was rough, which it usually was. Maybe catch a game if something was on. Didn’t need much more than that. He snorted softly to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. "Could be worse."

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

Inside the pod, there was no resistance left to mirror. Only completion. His body settled into itself fully. Weight distributed differently now, thicker through the torso and limbs, every inch of him carrying the quiet density of years of labor. The last traces of softness gave way to something more permanent, more worn-in.

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

The site was already loud when he rolled in, gravel crunching under his boots as he hopped out and lit a cigarette.

"Harris!" someone barked.

He jerked his chin up. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Damn, can’t even get a smoke in first?"

A couple guys chuckled.

Tom Harris now... had been for years. "Tommy" didn’t stick past being a kid. He grabbed his gear, spitting to the side. "Alright, what're we hittin' first?"

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

Inside the pod, his eyes fluttered beneath sealed lids, a faint groan slipping out as his head shifted against the surface.

"Aw, damn… my head…"

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

Leaning against a truck during a break, cigarette hanging loose from his lips, someone nudged him. "You still lookin' for steadier work?"

Tom shrugged, flicking ash onto the gravel. “Long as it pays better than this crap.”

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

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

The name didn’t stir anything... no memory, no connection, not even a passing sense of familiarity. Just another company, same as any other, another crew, another paycheck at the end of the week.

Later, filling out paperwork, he barely glanced at the logo stamped across the top.

Lancer Construction

His pen scratched across the line beneath it:

Tom Harris

Signed clean. No hesitation.

No idea.

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

The pod opened with a low hiss, and Tom stepped out slowly, his body heavy in that dull, satisfying way that followed deep sleep. He stretched without thinking, arms rising overhead as his back cracked, chest expanding with a slow breath that carried no urgency. The air felt cooler against his bare skin, but it didn’t bother him. His gaze drifted lazily to the folded clothes nearby, lingering only a moment as if trying to place them before the thought slipped. They didn’t feel like his. He turned instead to the rough denim and worn fabric set aside for him, already reaching for them without question.

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

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

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

Out in the hall, he slowed slightly when he spotted a sharply dressed man lingering nearby. Something about him stood out... clean, put-together, out of place.

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

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

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

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

Tom huffed lightly, already losing interest. Still, as he walked past, a faint thought tugged at him... what was he himself doing here? But it slipped loose before it could settle.

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

The site noise hit him full force as he arrived, boots crunching over gravel, cigarette already between his fingers as he lit it.

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

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

A couple of the guys laughed and he got to work. It came naturally, his body moving without hesitation, every motion familiar in a way that didn’t need thinking. He adjusted his grip, muscles tightening as he lifted, falling into rhythm with the others.

For a brief second, something felt off... but the weight in his hands grounded him again, steady and certain.

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

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

Receptionist Tommy struggles with newfound desires after a motorcyclist forgets his helmet at the front desk. He's never spent much time thinking of bikers but suddenly he can't help but wonder what it's like to put that helmet on.

Sub office worker to Vers Biker TF! I’ve been sitting on a ref and finally had an idea to use it! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

It’s just another dull day of work at the front desk of Fordham Enterprises. Tommy doesn’t quite mind how slow and mindless the work is, he’s happy to smile at their few guests and field phone calls for people with actual things to do. The pay certainly more than makes up for the dragging hours anyway. This particular Thursday however he’s already done every major paper’s crossword puzzle and the clock hasn’t even struck two. 

Briefly checking his email to find naught he debates whether to pick up solitaire or sudoku before his wishes for excitement are answered. There’s a ring of the door opening and Tommy jumps in his seat, just about everyone handles their business online so it’s rare that the man gets to flex his secretarial prowess. He barely holds back a gasp as he does not expect to see the caliber of man that now walks into his lobby. He’s wearing a sweaty tank and a massive chain around his neck, even more jarring than that he’s got a biker helmet completely obscuring his identity.

Tommy’s voice cracks as he welcomes the man in, “Ah! Good Morning sir, allow me to welcome you to Fordham Enterprises. If you um wouldn’t mind could you remove that helmet while you’re on the er, premises.” There is a pause as the mystery man stands there, Tommy gulps as he sees his neck flex as he clenches his jaw. The receptionist flinches as the man raises his arms to remove the helmet, his face burning red with blush as he hears the man laugh at him under the helmet.

Seeing his face does nothing to calm Tommy’s nerves. He fights against the urge to allow himself to be putty in the man’s hands as he lays his helmet on the desk before leaning onto it. His massive arms and sweaty pits lay bare in front of the receptionist. Eying the tattoos scattered around his built arms and the clearly less than formal outfit Tommy clears his throat before broaching the obvious, “You um, didn’t happen to have business with us today did you, sir?” His voice grows shakier and meeker as the short sentence drags on, the mystery man scratches his beard and smirks down at him. 

"What's up, kids? Your God, Master James here. Just got back from playing ball with a few of the boys, worked up quite a sweat. What do you think, slaves? Have you all been good to your God lately?" James flexed his guns, sweat still dripping from his bushy pits. He smirked at the camera, kissing his bicep to the raucous barrage of hearts and eggplants fluttering up his screen. He'd started with only a few followers on Twitter, mostly guys who thirst followed a few of his traps. That humble little gaggle of gays grew exponentially in just a few months, and it wasn't long until he'd had boys begging for his sweaty jockstrap after his basketball matches, or a pair of weeks-worn gym socks. Not only were they begging, they were willing to pay out.

Into his mind popped a brilliant little idea to make some side cash. He was just finishing college, was gonna start some menial sales job that probably wouldn't end up paying much... why not capitalize on the idea. Custom videos, to private chats, to livestreaming... A year later; dominating his drooling minions was his full time career.

Little bells rang through the room, as his tributes began to pour in. One by one, each begging for him to pull off his favorite pair of basketball shoes; bought by a particularly doting gentleman from Oregon. He smirked as he waved his finger to the audience.

"Nuh uh. A fresh, ripe, sweaty smell like this needs to be appreciated. That's why my favorite boy is gonna come help me with these, isn't that right?" He panned his camera down toward the floor, revealing a rather angelic young man clothed in shining latex, arms bound tightly behind his back. He looked up at his master with deep desire and thirst. Looking deep into his eyes, James winked at his cuckold, knowing full well how his constant teasing drove the kid wild. "Yeah, that's right, boy. C'mere."

The sub, who for now we'll call Ken, crawled across the floor over crusted cumsocks and used condoms and kneeling before his benevolent master. He'd always wanted to be dominated, and when James gave him the opportunity to live it; really live that fantasy, it felt only natural for him submit. For James was a different kind of dom. He wasn't one of the demeaning asshats who would bully and destroy his slaves, nor was he a lazy cashmaster whose boredom and apathy showed in every video. James was like the proud owner of a pet. If Ken misbehaved, he was locked in the cage, a chastity cage making him a eunic for a day or two. If he impressed, he was rewarded handsomely. He wanted so badly to please him, to have his appreciation in it's own twisted way, because each win was the soul candy of having earned it.

"That's my boy." He reached over and began to unbind his pet, being sure to bury Ken's face into his salty pits along the way. The computer pinged wildly as tributes kept pouring in, $5 to $500 each time. His wrists unbound, Ken grabbed at his master's wet chest, wrapping his arms around James' rippled torso. "Did I say yet, kid?" James pushed his sub to the ground once again on all fours. He casually grabbed the camera and placed it on the floor. Making sure to get the frame right, he plopped his feet right in front of the shot. "Go ahead, kid."

Ken salivated as he slowly pulled the shoestrings, feeling the heat radiating from within the sneaker's leather confines. Carefully and with precision, he pulled off the shoe. A wave of musky humidity washed over him, the sweat-soaked black socks poured sweet manna from heaven into his nose. It was so sweet, so sour, bottled and brewed with care and testosterone. The shower of pinging from the computer, mixed with the lavish strokes of his sub's velvety tongue on the slick soles of his socks had James smiling radiantly from atop his perch.

The session continued successfully, every minute of Ken's absolute devoted worshipping caught on camera to rave response. Money piled in, as it did every show, even a gifted pair of fresh AF1's added to the mix. After a monsoon of climaxes from both sides of the screen, the two eventually began their standard outro. James slid his cum-soaked sneakers back on and brought the camera back to it's tripod.

"I know you liked it, kids. Looks like he did too. Send in those tributes, and subscribe. That's an order." He smirked, and turned to Ken knowingly. "There is one more thing, too." James snapped his fingers and Ken knelt astute beside him. He patted his pet on the side of his head, ruffling the clean cut brown hair. "I've decided to give my favorite boy here a gift. The lil' guy has earned it, and besides. I'm thinking into the near future." He grasped the sub's hair, now completely off script, and pulled him to his feet."I'm gonna show you guys what happens when you're good to me. And you're gonna help me."

Ken's lean, twinkish frame stood before the adonis, in distinct sharp contrast. The mere difference in size alone was remarkable and indicative of the current dynamic. James' mischievous smile beamed down, as his basketball shorts plummeted to the ground. The sub began to shake in anticipation, he'd only ever pleasured his master's cock when the cameras were off, but it mattered not to Ken. He was so enveloped in the love, the domination, he would do absolutely anything for his master. James pulled the black compression shorts down slowly revealing his thick bush. From the forest snaked out his uncut serpent; thick, veiny, and pungent. James' egg sized balls hung low, with beadlets of shimmering sweat sparkling amongst the hairs. Ken looked down at the massive cock, awestruck while James gently stroked.

"Give it here, boy." James cupped Ken's throbbing dick, aching from the cup of semen expended over the past two hours. He gasped, his master's gruff touch took his breath away, as his master stroked their members in tandem. James stared intently at his pet with unwavering command, letting his slick, salty head be seen just long enough for him to dock Ken's cock into his foreskin. The computer was screaming in constant pings, the audience clearly enjoying themselves.

"Open up." James directed, as he thrust forward. Ken felt their heads intertwined in the slimy confines of his foreskin. It stretched right and left as they danced around. Ken huffed, doing everything not to blow his load right there, as even his master began to huff in heavy breath. There was a pinch in the cacophony, and Ken was overcome with a sense of penetration. He looked down at his master's huge monster inching into his slit. He cried out in ecstasy with every thrust pulling the cock deeper into his own. It stretched with an elastic quality and sound as James plowed himself into it, reminiscent of a wet, sloppy fleshlight fucking. The two were breathlessly moaning, on the edge of a white waterfall.

"Get ready." James growled before roaring in climax, with a stream of potent seed rushing out of his pulsating dick. To Ken, it started as if he couldn't catch his breath. He could feel every barrage of cum pump into him, one after another as if rivers began to rage into his body. His toes began to tingle, a warm feeling pooling in his soles, before his feet started to widen and grow. Accompanied by the labored breaths of his master, his feet inflated with the warm, sloshing seed. A sharp funk tickled his nose while his legs ballooned outward with a coat of hair springing up along the muscled grooves. He breathed it in deeply, the only air he could take in. Each gasping breath of musk clouded his mind as his muscles progressively engorged.

"Ohhhh fuck yeah, bro." James cooed, smiling with satisfaction at his pet. The world began to spin as Ken's hands and arms were filled; he could feel the slime rising up towards his throat just as his shoulders broadened out. Pressure built and built until finally reached the bottom of his skull. It burst through, flooding his head and mind. Completely filled to the brim, there was no where else to go but up, as the last of the cum flowed into him. His skin creaked and squeaked as it stretched upward and outward until Ken was of equal statue to his master. Finally pulling out of the 11" cock, whatever excess seed unabsorbed flowed out like a draining bathtub.

"That's right boys, look what happens when you submit." Ken opened his eyes, looking down at his now adamantine body, the body of a God just like his master. A confidence long suppressed and hidden within him like a bird from a cage burst forth, and he looked at James from a different dynamic: an equal, a brother, a mate. Inhibitions now long gone, he tossed his sweaty arm around his bro, planting a passionate, aggressive kiss on James' lips. "Say hello to your subs, Master Ken." He plopped down in the chair only ever used by James, bringing his ripe size 15 foot to the camera lens.

He waved with his toes, and winked. He felt as if he could hear the screams of his submissive slaves with every passing moment. The two finally began their sign off.

"Alright kids. Submit your tributes again soon. Subscribe, and...

“Hey man! Are you Paulie?”

“Yeah, and I take it that you’re Kevin?”

“You know it!”

“Alright, so where am I taking you? I just need to put it in the app’s GPS.”

“About that. The club I want to get to isn’t listed on a map. I’ll be giving you directions. I need you to follow them to the letter. I will pay you properly and give you a big tip, don’t worry.”

“Alright, cool. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it, man!”

“Start by going down this street. Now, take a left at this next stop.”

“You got it!”

“You’re going to need to keep going for a few stop lights. Take off your shirt. Once you hit the gas station, it’s a right.”

“Understood!”

“It’s a left after we get past that run-down house. Turn your pants into shorts. Make your shoes into sneakers to match. We will be in a weird area after that, but that’s how you know we are going the right way. Now, you will need to get a lot more muscles, enough to look toned and buff.”

“You’re the one paying so I will follow whatever you say, man.”

“Good. You’re a rather short guy, so grow 6 inches taller. Wait, my mistake. Grow a full foot, you need to be just below the ceiling of this car. It’s a right once we go by some palm trees. You’re too smooth, so grow hair all over, especially the face. Get a nice thick beard going.”

“No problem, Kevin.”

“That’s another thing, make your name Davíd. You’re too caucasian. You have to be from Peru now, with an accent to match. Oh shoot! You were supposed to turn there! We just passed it! Make a U-turn!”

“Sí. I comprehend, señor.”

“And now we’re here! You followed every direction perfectly! Here’s 100 dollars for your trouble, dude!”

“You’re too generous, amigo!”

“Oh, one last thing. Kiss your boyfriend and pick him up in a few hours. I need to brag about how I scored a hot tamale like you to all my friends!”

That was until the coach called for Josh into his office. He explained that he knew what Josh wanted, and Josh agreed. He didn’t know why he was being as honest as he was, but he didn’t think anything bad from it.

The coach explained that there could be ways to change, adapt his body and his mind in order to align with what he wanted. When the coach said this, Josh’s ears perked up and he listened deeply to what he had to say.

The coach opened his drawers, had a search through and produced a small packet of something. Then scrambled to his filing cabinet, unlocking it, and rummaging for something. He produced a small box, the size of a cereal box, wrapped in brown paper with no markings to tell of what it could be.

The coach sent Josh home with simple instructions, open the larger package and put on the thing, which the coach was incredibly vague about, and open the smaller packet and smear the contents on his face.

It was floating around in his mind all day, waiting for the moment he got home. As he got to his room he stripped away the paper to reveal in the box a strange blue suit of some kind. Picking up the fabric and giving it a bit of a pull, it seemed stretchy. Josh began to have doubts if it was just the coach making fun of him or something cruel but either way decided to go along with it just in case.

Putting on the rubber suit, he felt the material stretch over him. It felt loose in some parts, but other parts were difficult. It was incredibly difficult to zip the thing up, but eventually, once everything was in place, it wasn’t too difficult.

Next came the small packet. It had a tearable tab which allowed it to be easily opened. Josh gave it a smell before putting it on and it smelt strong. It smelt like a condensed smell of sweat, the smell he usually smelt from the jocks.

He squeezed out the packet into his hands and then worked it onto his face. It felt cooling and refreshing while he pushed it around his entire face. Once it was fully in, he felt a slight sting. He didn’t know what else to do, so assumed it was some kind of drying mechanism in the…. whatever it was.

He felt incredibly comfortable, and warm in the suit. It was long day, so he slipped back on his bed and relaxed. Before he realised he was fast asleep and the suit kept getting warmer and the liquid fizzed away at his face.

Waking up, he felt a kick of energy. His body moved with ease, looking down at his body he looked different. Fuck, he had muscles. He looked in the mirror and smiled dumbly, he knew he looked hot. His face roughing out and giving him the appearance of a cute jock staring back at him.

He walked to his wardrobe and got a white baseball cap, one he would wear and pretend he was a jock, even the night before this happened. But this time when he turned it backwards, it looked right. Trying to think, he felt it hard. His head swam.