Hot Jocks and Dads

You've come to the right place!

Hot Daddy I can absolutely do, and it turns out I know of a vacant body ready for you to slot right into. The previous owner of this life is well... Off doing other things let's just say and won't be back to it anytime soon, so it's ripe for the taking.

Don't think I'll leave you without a little spicy twist on this all though.

You new life? You're a Daddy for real. Got a son that's about to leave for college, so have fun worrying about that 😉 You'll have your place alone to do whatever big black daddies do when they're home alone soon though, don't worry!

Inspired by this story from @kylecrusoe-captions

Richard Clarke had spent his whole life living a conventional life. Now in his late 50s, Richard had spent his life the way he was expected. He found a passion, worked hard at it, pursuing a degree and then eventually getting a job as a reporter on TV. Back in the day, it was so glamorous like you would expect, but as time went on all things lose their luster. Budget cuts led to less pampering and eventually newer more attractive talent comes along to steal the spotlight. Corporate came creeping up everyday trying to find a way to sunset Richard from the career he built brick by brick.

It was agonizing doing the work to stay visually appealing as he got older. Richard had to admit he let him go in some areas as complacency set in over the years. He was happy with what he had accomplished and felt like he had so much more gas left in his tank, despite what his corporate overlords were telling him.

Richard told himself today’s the day to start reinvesting in himself. He was going to make sure he put in his best foot forward to preserve the professional life he’s always known. He went out for a coffee in between shows to start planning his return to conventional attractiveness. While he waited for his coffee at a low-key cafe in the busy part of downtown, Richard got lost enviously gazing at the young men walking by. Making a mental list of the attributes he found attractive and aspirational. He wanted to attain what they had, even though it was unrealistic at his advancing age.

He glared too long at a guy grabbing the next coffee prepared at the counter. He may have been wearing a baggy hoodie but his shorts showed how much of a beast he was in the gym.

Syd was in a different cafe than he usually goes to. In true brooding boy fashion he liked the slightly run down edgy look this cafe had and he went inside. Syd may look like a typical gym bro that exits pictures with so much contrast you can barely make out the details, but he was….slightly more than that. He also dreamed of being a fitness influencer that made a life out of simply going to the gym so that way he could play games with his friends. He wanted an easier life but easier is u realistic. Plus he was paralyzingly introverted. A seemingly sad waste for someone so conventionally attractive and genetically gifted when it comes to musculature.

Richard was nearly salivating looking at Syd’s meaty thighs that he ran into him when going to collect his coffee. The TV news anchor quickly went into on air personality and composed himself to present a thoughtful and sincere apology. Syd played it off like no big deal and began making his way towards what he believed to be the cafes restroom to clean off. He went inside a restroom after assuring Richard it was no big deal and closed the door behind him. But Richard didn’t believe him and continued to feel guilty. He stayed but grew significantly concerned when Syd never came out. Richard knocked on the door and when no one answered he opened the door and walked into the dark room as the door closed behind him. He blindly searched for a light switch or string to pull when he finally found a string in front of him and pulled it as a light blared on nearly blinding him.

As Richard's eye adjusted to the bright light he tried to focus his sight on an odd mirror on a nearby wall. He thought he saw Syd standing there, causing him to jump back startled. But when he looked away, he realized he was alone in the room.

He stepped closer to the obscured mirror....there was Syd, clear as day, but Richard couldn't make out where he was. He focused his sight at the mirror and realized what was happening as the buff young man's eyes met his. "Wha?" Richard raised an arm in anticipation of his understanding of the outlandish predicament he now found himself in. The man in the mirror did the same, showing his hairy pits.

Richard worked in a world of fact and rational explanations....he had none in his head for how this was possible. He was uncharacteristically giddy as he looked at the unfamiliar man staring back ahead of him. He was already growing excited and as other things swelled he couldn't control his journalistic curiosity and yanked off the oversized sweater hiding the goods. Turning his cap the other way around like a man of his advanced age would do in their hey-day.

Richard looked at himself and his new reflection eye to eye and confirmed to himself through an inner dialogue, he had to get out of here stat. He gathered his belongings or rather Syd’s and headed out expeditiously. He didn’t know where he was going after he left the cafe doors and sifted through the baggy hoodie to find a trifold wallet. He entered the address on the ID haphazardly into his phones GPS and booked it. His new beefed up physique, moved with an ease he hadn’t been able to in years. He confidently stepped and glanced down at his striated legs as a smirk graced his handsome face.

He haphazardly fumbled looking for keys and clumsily flopped his way into an unassuming yet large abode. A mirror across the entry way inside a nearby bedroom immediately caught Richard’s eye as he dropped his belongings on the ground and confidently stripped himself of his cloth confines. 

“Jesus. I didn’t even know getting this shredded was humanely possible?” he gasped to himself in awe. 2 vein’s indecently aligned with the v-taper of his new body’s muscles down to another thing intriguing Richard. He tugged at the waistband to get a peak at his new manhood and wondered if it looks like that soft what’s it going to look like hard. That thought started the quick spiral into a feral mindset.

Richard nearly ripped his shorts as he pulled them off in his horned up stupor. Then came off the orange undergarments and he rushed to a nearby restroom. Another mirror greeted Richard and there he stood in awe gazing at his new corporeal home. He examined the black and crimson tattoos and stretch marks showing Syd’s skin pushed to the limit by his bulging muscles.

Richard poked and prodded at the muscles he’d alternate from relaxing to flexing. One poke and prod near his nipple accidentally lit the final match as Richard gasped feeling the blood rush down to his growing tool. He promptly used his vascular hand to grab hold of the thickening stick and allowed himself to fall into muscle memory. He may not know who Syd was or what he liked but his body remembered enough for him. He quickly turned on the scalding shower and as the room filled with steam he took a giant sniff of the musk emitting from his hairy pits. Oh yeah that’s the smell of man.

He walked into the hot stream of water and already knew to brace against one wall with his left arm. His right arm started going to work pumping up and down as he began twisting and expertly working his new shaft. As if he was doing an intense workout, primal grunts and moans escaped his new youthfully plumped lips.

Richard stepped backward and decided to lie down on the floor of the tub and used both hands to begin to plow them to feel more pressure sending him over the edge. As he huffed and puffed pulse after pulse of hot water and his seed dropped over her alabaster torso. He couldn’t help but scoop up the mixture and drink it like he had spend days in the desert.

He stepped out of the exploratory shower and took cocky photos. Richard realizing he didn’t know what to do now, as he got dressed. As he pondered how to figure out how to move forward with Syd’s life, he started feeling his pants stir once again. He decided to visit the dating apps Syd had on his phone and began to tink with preferences. Adding men and women instead of just one and adding the revealing post-shower pics.

Sure enough, the matches and messages started flooding in from the new found dating pool. Being fruity in his heyday would have been a no, but with this body in this century, Richard wanted to see what life had to offer. Something stirred him up once again when he saw a headless torso message him asking if he was down to be dominated.

Richard had always been the alpha in a typical cisgender relationship but this might be his chance to give into submission. He grabbed anything he could to look casual and set up the least candid looking photo of all time. The snap capturing all his body had to offer in a modest way.

“Wanna come over daddy?” Richard replied to the headless torso before adding the picture to the message. He had his fun with Syd’s physique but now he wanted to try something Syd had never done himself. Arching his lower back to emphasize his new assets.

Oh yeah he was gonna have fun, slowing once again guiding his new meaty hands down the elastic waistband to explore. As two finger managed to find their way to his tight hole, he pushed their way in slowly and his phone vibrated.

“Send the addy.”

Typing alien possession and takeover is 100 times better when your own body can become the base of the experience itself, plus, getting a hard on with an uncut dick is a totally new experience for me!

Part 1

Part 2

"Fuuuuuck yes," moaned Ethan as he lifted Brock's arm to flex, bushy pits on full display. He was alone in Brock's room, surrounded by that aphrodisiac jock smell. He and Tyler had gotten home from their outing a short while ago and each headed to their rooms to wrap up the day.

Ethan, of course, wasn't tired quite yet. He'd been pent up since the workout at the gym, smelling Brock's musk the whole time since. Finally alone, he'd wasted no time throwing off his shirt and revealing that glorious new body of his.

"You love these fucking pits," he said as he stared at the mirror, long-time fantasy of his playing out before his eyes. He took a big whiff, then licked the precious sweat from Brock's wiry hairs. It tasted salty and oh so wonderful.

He stood up and made a double-bicep pose, the obscene bulge in his gym shorts becoming prominently displayed. "You like my huge jock cock?" he smirked to the mirror, twitching his dick for good measure.

"How about these massive tits?" he continued, bouncing both pecs. He slipped off his shorts, tossing them aside. Brock's erection looked vacuum sealed in the sweaty boxer briefs he was wearing. The view didn't last long, as Ethan slipped those off and immediately brought the crotch of the underwear to his face.

He took another big sniff before sighing contentedly. "That's what a man smells like," he cockily told the mirror. "And it's 100% me."

His hand ran down his sculpted chest and abs, before pausing at Brock's blonde bush. He smeared some of that groin sweat on his hand and brought it up for another sniff. It was as potent as ever, and Ethan kept his hand there as his other hand wrapped Brock's underwear around his cock. He grunted as he started to jerk off to his reflection, giving into primal urges. He rutted into his own hand, intoxicated on his scent and drunk on the image of himself flexing.

At long last, he fully flexed his huge arms, abs, and pecs and couldn't hold any longer, cum spraying from Brock's dick. As before, there was a lot of it, much coating the mirror even though Ethan tried to catch it in the underwear. In his haze he took the cum-filled underwear and stuffed it in his mouth, afterglow mingling with the salty damp taste of ball sweat and jock cum. He rubbed his cum-covered hand over Brock's abs, enjoying the feel of it smearing over the well- muscled torso.

"I can't go back," he said, realizing the truth in his mind. Sure, he could probably return to the mirror and get his reflection back. But he knew that wasn't an option for him mentally any more. He was committed to being the new Brock. His old life could get declared missing for all he cared. Not like his dad would notice for weeks anyways.

Ethan studiously made sure to clean up his post-sex mess, though he noted the effort it took to clean up how much cum Brock produced likely influenced why there were so many cumstains on Brock's things. He tossed the used gym clothes in the hamper, then glanced at the packed suitcase in the room.

In all likelihood, the move was happening tomorrow. If Ethan went with the Rourke family, then there pretty much was no going back. He felt strangely at peace with that.

His solemn reverie was interrupted by a loud knock at the door, followed by a shout of, "Where is he, Tyler?!"

It took Ethan a second to recognize it, but that was clearly his former voice! For the sake of not getting arrested, he slipped on a pair of yellow lounge shorts, not bothering with underwear. With haste he hurried out of the room. Tyler had also just left his room and glanced in Ethan's direction. "That's totally your voice- er, your old voice," Tyler commented. "What's going on?"

"Let's find out," Ethan said, feeling a surge of confidence strengthened by his resolve from earlier.

He opened the door to see his skinny 18 year old body in the apartment hall, face contorted with rage. "Keep it down, Mr. Gawne doesn't take kindly to noise complaints," Ethan said with a smirk before grabbing his former body and pulling it inside.

"You! Why do you have my body?!" seethed Ethan's body, confirming Ethan's suspicions.

"Quite frankly, it doesn't matter," responded Ethan, towering over his former body. "Here's how things are gonna work: this is MY body from here on out. I'm moving with MY parents and MY brother tomorrow. You can chill out and leave and figure out what you want to do, or I can MAKE you leave us alone."

Brock in Ethan's body stuttered, not used to NOT being the physically dominant presence in a room. He turned to Tyler. "Dude, why are you just standing there? Don't you believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you," Tyler confirmed from where he stood across the room.

"And you're just gonna let this douchebag steal your brother's body?!" Brock practically shouted.

Tyler gave Brock a level gaze, the face of his best friend contorted in a rage foreign to it, but all too familiar as Brock. "Yeah, Brock, I am. Ethan was already my best bro, but now that bond is blood. I like him being Brock way better than you ever were. Even mom and dad see it; Ethan charmed them both all day today before they left. So they aren't gonna ask questions."

Ethan's former face looked stunned by this revelation. Brock couldn't process it. His own brother willing to sell out his body? To trap him in this scrawny dweeb with no future? For the first time in his over two decades of life, Brock began to feel the tiniest prickle of regret for his treatment of Tyler.

"Anyways, I don't care what you do with him, 'big bro'," Tyler said before turning and heading back into his room to close the door with finality.

"But- but-" Brock stuttered in impotent anger.

"But nothing," Ethan said authoritatively. "I'll give you a little bonus if you leave quietly. One last chance to be close to your body. I really have been craving someone to properly worship these muscles since I became you."

"I'm not a fag!" Brock cried.

"That tent says otherwise," Ethan said, bemused.

Brock turned beet red, covering Ethan's small bulge. "C'mon, you'll have plenty of time to think on the way back to your apartment," Ethan said.

He effortlessly picked up his own previous body and threw it over his shoulder, Brock gasping from within it. He marched down the hall to his own apartment and stepped inside, throwing Brock down onto the ground of Ethan's room before lying out on the bed in a way that showed his impressive member straining against his shorts.

Brock, overwhelmed by Ethan's body's hormones and his own deeply repressed attraction, cracked. He reached a trembling hand out and gingerly touched his former chest. Ethan responded by flexing his pecs. Brock then ran his hand down Ethan's abs, marveling at how they felt and looked from this angle. Fuck, he'd been so hot.

Ethan sat up and flexed his arms. "Worship my biceps," he commanded.

Brock complied, running his hands over the huge bicep peaks before leaning in and licking them. Ethan lifted his arm straight up, exposing his hairy pits further, a new wave of his jock musk pushing out.

"Show these pits how much you fuckin love them," he commanded Brock.

Irresistible, Brock leaned in, getting Ethan's former face buried in the pit hairs that were once his. He inhaled deeply before sticking out his tongue and desperately lapping up that godly jock sweat.

"You're such a little slut for my pits," Ethan said derisively, before pushing Brock away. Brock looked hurt to be pulled away from worshiping his former body, but that swiftly changed when Ethan slipped off his shorts, thick jock cock springing free, surrounded by his trimmed bush.

"Now worship MY fucking dick," Ethan commanded, pointing at his erection standing straight out.

Brock fell to his knees and Ethan grabbed the back of his head, shoving him into his crotch to the side of his dick. Brock took a huge whiff of ball sweat and caught the scent of lingering cum from Ethan's earlier masturbation sessions. He flicked his tongue out, lathering up Ethan's hairy thick balls.

Ethan grunted in satisfaction, before pulling Brock back again. "Open wide," he said, and then brought his head down onto his cock.

Brock was barely ready as his own former cock invaded his mouth. Ethan was slowly pushing it further and further down his throat to find his limit, and to push just past it. Brock sputtered as he nearly choked on his precious pride and joy, tears welling in his eyes, part from the choking and part from the loss of this huge fuckstick.

Ethan pulled back but left the tip in Brock's mouth before releasing his head. "Show me how much you love this big fuckin dick, you little cock sucker."

Brock still couldn't resist, nose so close to such a potent source of that jock musk, and began to eagerly, messily, bob his head up and down on Ethan's stolen cock. Ethan let out a low, slow moan as he leaned back and enjoyed the sensation. "This is all mine now," he said as he made eye contact with Brock. Brock looked like he was about to pull off Ethan's dick to respond, but Ethan firmly planted his hand on the back of his head and pushed him back down on it.

This continued for a while, before Ethan finally let Brock pull off his dick. He grabbed some lube from the night stand and grinned at the mixed look of lust and fear in Brock's eyes. He slicked up his fingers, and then pushed Brock face down into the bed. He started with one finger, slowly and surely sliding it into his own former tight asshole. Brock involuntarily moaned, Ethan's smaller dick stiffly jutting out and twitching.

Ethan simply grinned, and then slid in another finger as he moved back and forth, seeking the prostate to make Brock melt like the little bitch he was. Soon, Brock was moaning as Ethan fit three fingers into his ass.

Satisfied, Ethan pulled his hand away, and wasted no time lathering up his dick and applying a generous amount to Brock's eager hole. He ran the tip around the entrance, teasing. "God just put it in!" Brock whined, ashamed how badly he wanted it.

"What's my name?" Ethan taunted, and Brock made a pitiful sound. Ethan smacked his ass and asked again "I said, what's my name?"

"Brock," Brock said, need for dick overcoming his resistance.

"That's right," Ethan said, finally sliding his dick into the eager hole before him.

Brock gasped, thinking he'd be ready from the finger fucking but his former dick was so fucking thick. Ethan was slow but relentless as he pushed deeper and deeper, until he buried his cock to the hilt, pausing there. Brock took heavy breaths, he felt absolutely impaled, and with shame he fucking LOVED it. His own cock filling an emptiness he never realized was there until this very moment.

Ethan then began rocking his hips back and forth, slowly at first, but gaining speed as he got more and more rough. Brock felt it against his prostate and moaned more, face down in the bed. Ethan gazed at the mirror of the room, and saw a fantasy fulfilled. Brock's broad frame absolutely railing Ethan's thin body, but this time he was looking from Brock's point of view.

He roughly grabbed Brock's hair and lifted his head to make him gaze in the mirror. "Watch while I fill you up, 'Ethan'," he grunted.

He felt his orgasm finally arrive, and his stolen balls tightened up as loads of Brock's cum flooded. His dick twitched multiple times inside his own ass, warm hot cum blasting out. The sheer volume Brock's cock produced forcing it to leak out back down his cock. The feeling of it filling him up was too much for Brock and he involuntarily started to orgasm without touching his smaller dick while being forced to gaze at the reflection of his humiliation.

Ethan pulled out, his sperm leaking out of Brock's hole. He grabbed a pair of his own underwear and wiped his dick off with it before shoving it in Brock's face. "Little souvenir. Don't come around again, 'Ethan'."

Brock just lay there, fully broken, unable to even muster a response. Ethan left him that way before heading back to the Rourke apartment. He entered and Tyler came out into the living room upon hearing his return.

"He's dealt with," Ethan said confidently.

"Good," Tyler replied, rubbing the sleep in his eyes. "The move is tomorrow and then we won't have to deal with him any more."

"I'm excited," Ethan said, breaking out into a grin.

"Me too! Hey, I was thinking. Since you're gonna be slipping into his life, it's maybe best if we start referring to you as Brock from now on."

Ethan nodded in agreement. "I'd like nothing more."

Tyler moved up and wrapped his brother in a hug. "Welcome home, Brock."

********

Brock looked in the hotel mirror of his room. His younger brother and best friend Tyler had already gone down to grab breakfast. Their parents had put them up in a hotel while the move to the new house finished up. He grinned, fully accepting his new role. He flashed a pic of his hot fucking body to add to his new Grindr profile.

"Get ready, gay boys. Brock is officially on the menu," he chuckled to himself.

Epilogue

Brock (the original) hurried down the stairs to the storage units. He'd wallowed for a few days now, but finally rage had taken over. He wasn't going to let that twerp Ethan get away with stealing his fucking life. He'd take that stupid magic mirror all the way out of town if he had to.

(AI-Generated - Story concept by the incredible @kylecrusoe-captions)

Kyle’s life had always been a gray blur. An only child to parents who barely looked up from their phones, he’d grown up starved for connection, his days bleeding into one another in a haze of neglect. Then the Armstrongs moved in next door, and everything changed. They weren’t any ordinary family—they were a force. Loud, physical, unapologetic, they filled the quiet suburban street with their presence. Kyle couldn’t look away. From his bedroom window, he watched them, his chest tight with longing, his mind spinning fantasies he’d never dare voice. They were untouchable he thought, until he found the tome.

It was a fluke, really. Tucked in the back of the college library, behind a row of moldy textbooks, the ancient book practically pulsed under his fingers. Its leather cover was cracked, its pages yellowed and curling, but the words inside promised power: Shape reality. Claim what’s yours. Kyle didn’t believe it at first, but desperation has a way of eroding skepticism. That night, alone in his room, he lit a candle, traced the runes with trembling fingers, and whispered the spell. He didn’t expect it to work. He fell asleep to the sound of his own heartbeat, disappointed... until he woke up somewhere else.

The bed was too small, the air thick with the musky scent of sweat and testosterone. Kyle blinked, disoriented, and then he felt a warm, heavy leg slung over his own. Clive Armstrong—his new younger brother—lay sprawled beside him, his lean, runner’s body barely contained by a pair of tight briefs. His wavy brown hair was a mess, his thin mustache twitching as he snored softly.

Kyle’s breath caught. He was in the Armstrong house, sharing a queen-sized bed with Clive like it was the most natural thing in the world. The room was cramped, cluttered with gym bags and running shoes, a testament to the family’s athletic obsession—and their lack of funds for separate bedrooms. Clive shifted, his bare chest brushing Kyle’s arm, and Kyle realized he was in his underwear too. No awkwardness, no hesitation—just the casual intimacy of brothers. The spell had worked.

Jared Armstrong: The Stoic Patriarch

The father, Jared Armstrong was a man carved from grit and muscle. At forty-five, he didn’t look a day over forty, his frame lean but powerful, honed from years of coaching college athletes into submission. His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw perpetually shadowed with stubble that gave him a rugged, almost dangerous edge. He was the kind of handsome that hit you like a punch—unpolished, raw, and utterly masculine. As the head coach at the local college, he had a reputation for running brutal gym classes, leaving students hobbling away with sore muscles and whispered curses. Cold and intimidating, he carried himself with a quiet authority that made people shrink in his presence. But with his sons, there was a flicker of something softer—a gruff tenderness he’d never admit to.

Kyle’s first morning as an Armstrong started with Jared. He stood in the kitchen, shirtless in a pair of faded sweatpants, barking orders as he blended a protein shake. His biceps flexed with every move, a sheen of sweat already clinging to his chest from an early workout. “Up and at ‘em, Kyle,” he grunted, barely glancing over. “No slackers in this house.” His voice was a low rumble, but there was no malice—just expectation. Kyle nodded mutely, still dazed, and Jared tossed him a banana with a smirk. “Eat. You’re too damn skinny.” It was the closest thing to affection Kyle had ever gotten from a father, and it lit something warm and dangerous in his chest.

Clive Armstrong: The Wild Spark

Clive was chaos in motion. At nineteen, a college freshman, he was the younger of Jared’s sons, and he wore his rebellion like a badge. Lean and toned, his body was built for speed—powerful legs that carried him through endless runs, a smooth chest that glistened with sweat every summer morning. His wavy brown hair fell into his eyes, and that thin mustache on his upper lip gave him a roguish charm. He was mischievous, quick with a smirk or a jab, but his temper was a live wire—explosive and unpredictable. Rumors swirled about him on campus: a passionate lover who’d leave you breathless, but a selfish one who’d sulk if he didn’t get his way. Kyle had seen it firsthand—Clive jogging shirtless around the neighborhood, ignoring Kyle’s timid waves with an annoyed glare.

Now, as his “little brother,” Kyle got the full Clive experience. That first morning, Clive rolled out of bed with a groan, stretching his jockish frame until his spine popped. “Fuck, I hate mornings,” he muttered, scratching his abs as he stumbled to the bathroom. He didn’t care that Kyle was there, didn’t bother to cover up—just strutted around in his briefs like it was nothing. Later, at breakfast, he shoved Kyle’s shoulder playfully, grinning. “You’re eating like a bird, bro. Gotta bulk up if you’re gonna keep up with me.” His touch lingered, his fingers brushing Kyle’s arm, and Kyle felt a jolt he couldn’t explain. Clive was a tease, a spark—and Kyle wanted to get burned.

Benjamin Armstrong: The Silent Storm

Benjamin, at twenty-one, was the eldest, a college senior with a presence that filled every room. Tall and muscular, he wasn’t bulky like a bodybuilder but lean and defined, his frame a testament to years on the basketball court. His intense eyes—dark and unreadable—could pin you in place, and the slight stubble on his cheeks only sharpened his brooding edge. Ambitious and quiet, he carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, dismissing anyone he deemed unworthy of his time. But those he cared about? He’d guard them with a ferocity that was almost feral. His athletic fame stretched across state lines—everyone knew Ben Armstrong, the guy who could sink a three-pointer with his eyes closed.

Kyle’s first real encounter with Ben came that afternoon. He was shooting hoops in the driveway, shirtless and focused, his muscles rippling with every move. Kyle hesitated, then stepped outside, and Ben glanced over—those piercing eyes locking onto him. “You just gonna stand there?” he said, voice low and clipped. He tossed Kyle the ball, hard enough to sting. “Shoot.” Kyle fumbled it, and Ben snorted, stepping closer. “Gotta work on that grip, man. You’re an Armstrong—act like it.” There was no warmth, but there was something else—possession. Ben didn’t ignore him anymore. He saw him.

---

For weeks, Kyle soaked it in. The Armstrong house was a whirlwind of testosterone—sweaty gym clothes strewn across the floor, Jared’s gruff lectures about discipline, Clive’s endless energy, Ben’s quiet intensity. Kyle belonged, finally, and it was intoxicating. He’d catch himself staring—Jared curling weights in the garage, his biceps straining; Clive sprinting past the window, abs flexing; Ben toweling off after a shower, water dripping down his chest. They were his family now, but the tome under his mattress whispered a darker desire. He didn’t just want their acceptance. He wanted their love—the kind that crossed every line.

One night, alone in the dim glow of their shared room, Kyle pulled out the tome. Clive was out running, the house quiet. The spell was there, buried in the back: Bind their hearts. Irreversible. The warning loomed large, but Kyle’s hands shook with need. He’d rewritten reality once—what was one more push? He lit the candle, chanted the words, and felt the air hum with power. When he finished, the flame guttered out, and he waited.

The shift was slow, deliciously so. The next morning, Jared’s hand lingered on Kyle’s shoulder as he passed him a plate of eggs. “Looking stronger, kid,” he said, his voice softer, his stubble brushing Kyle’s cheek as he pulled him into a long, sweaty hug. Clive ambushed him later, tackling him onto the couch with a laugh. “Gotcha, bro!” he crowed, pinning Kyle down, his lean body pressing close, his sweaty armpit shoved playfully into Kyle’s face. “Smell that? That’s victory.” His grin was wicked, his touch too firm to be innocent. Ben, meanwhile, waited by the car after class, insisting on driving Kyle home. “Can’t trust you out there alone,” he muttered, his hand grazing Kyle’s thigh as he drove, his eyes flickering with something unspoken.

Day by day, it deepened. Jared took to coaching Kyle in the garage, his hands guiding Kyle’s form, his breath hot against Kyle’s neck. “Good boy,” he’d murmur, and the praise sank into Kyle’s bones. Clive’s roughhousing turned flirty—tickling that lingered on Kyle’s sides, headlocks that pulled their bodies flush. Ben grew obsessive, shadowing Kyle everywhere, hoisting him onto his shoulders after practice with a grip that was too tight, too tender. They were falling for him, their coy glances and casual touches betraying the spell’s work. Kyle had them—father, brothers, all of them—and he wasn’t done yet.

The Morning Fire

The tension between Kyle and Clive had been simmering for days, a slow boil of lingering touches and heated glances. It all came to a head one evening when their usual roughhousing took a turn. Clive had Kyle in a headlock, his lean, sweaty body pressed tight against Kyle’s, his armpit shoved into Kyle’s face as he laughed. “Take it, bro!” he’d teased, but Kyle—caught up in the musk and the heat—flicked his tongue against Clive’s skin, tasting salt and desire. Clive froze, his grip tightening for a split second before he let go, his face flushed, his breath uneven. He didn’t say anything, just smirked and walked away, but the air between them crackled.

The next morning, Kyle woke to a sensation that jolted him from sleep—Clive’s hand, warm and insistent, buried deep in Kyle’s underwear. Fingers curled around him, stroking slow and deliberate, coaxing him awake. Kyle’s eyes fluttered open, groggy, and there was Clive—his wavy brown hair tousled, his thin mustache framing lips inches from Kyle’s own. His face was flushed, his hazel eyes burning with intensity as hot breath fanned across Kyle’s skin. “I want you,” Clive rasped, voice thick with need, before closing the gap. His lips crashed into Kyle’s, hungry and unrestrained, a kiss that was all tongue and heat and perverse promise.

They made out like they were starving for it, hands roaming, bodies tangling in the sheets. Clive rolled Kyle onto his side, pressing up behind him, his jock musk filling the air as he positioned himself. “Gonna take care of you, bro,” he murmured against Kyle’s ear, his voice low and filthy. He entered Kyle slowly, inch by inch, his lean frame molding to Kyle’s back, arms wrapping around him in a possessive hug. The rhythm was sensual, deliberate—Clive’s breaths hitching as he thrust, his lips brushing Kyle’s neck, his cock buried deep. When he finished, he came with a shudder, spilling inside Kyle, kissing his spine as he stayed lodged there, unwilling to pull out. Exhausted and sated, they fell asleep again, entwined in the musky haze of their shared bed.

For the next week, it became their ritual. Every morning, Kyle woke to Clive’s hands or mouth on him, followed by slow, passionate fucking—Clive always the big spoon, always finishing inside, always kissing Kyle’s back as they drifted off again. The bedroom reeked of sweat and sex, an erotic sanctuary for their newfound bond.

The Steamy Afternoon

Benjamin noticed the change almost immediately. His younger brothers were different—closer, more tactile, their mornings stretching longer behind that closed bedroom door. He’d hear the muffled laughter, the creak of the bed, and it gnawed at him. Envy twisted in his gut. Kyle was his brother too, and Ben wasn’t about to be left out. He started claiming Kyle’s time during the day, dragging him to the basketball court five times a week. “Gotta toughen you up,” he’d say, his intense eyes raking over Kyle’s exhausted form. Kyle didn’t mind—Ben’s presence, all towering muscle and quiet intensity, was its own kind of drug.

One afternoon, after a grueling session, they stumbled into the house, drenched in sweat. Ben peeled off his shirt, revealing a torso carved from marble, and nodded toward the bathroom. “Shower time. But, uh, heater’s busted—only enough hot water for one.” It was a lie, and they both knew it, but Kyle didn’t argue. “We’ll share,” Ben said, casual as anything. “No big deal, right? We’re brothers.” The bathroom filled with steam, their wet bodies brushing as they stepped under the spray. Ben scrubbed Kyle’s back, his hands lingering, sliding lower than necessary, and Kyle returned the favor, tracing the lines of Ben’s muscled shoulders. The air thickened, their breaths syncing, until they were both hard, cocks straining against the heat.

Ben turned, water dripping from his stubble, his eyes dark with something raw. “I love you, lil bro,” he said, voice barely audible over the spray. Then, softer: “Need a favor.” Kyle didn’t hesitate. He sank to his knees, the tiles biting into his skin, and took Ben’s engorged cock into his mouth—thick, pulsing, tasting of sweat and salt. Ben groaned, hands fisting in Kyle’s hair, guiding him deeper.

They didn’t stop there. The afternoon bled into hours in Ben’s room, locked in a feverish 69—Kyle’s mouth on Ben, Ben’s on Kyle, sucking and licking until they were both spent, throats raw and bodies trembling.

The Ultimate Weekend

It was a lazy Saturday morning when it all collided. Ben slipped into the younger brothers’ room, intent on dragging Kyle out for an early shootaround, only to freeze in the doorway. There they were—Kyle and Clive, naked and tangled, lips locked in a sloppy, passionate kiss. Clive’s hands roamed Kyle’s body, possessive and greedy, and Kyle moaned into it, arching against him. Ben’s jaw tightened, envy flaring into rage. “What the fuck?” he snapped, storming in. Clive pulled back, smirking, but his eyes were defiant. “He’s mine, Ben. Back off.”

“Yours?” Ben scoffed, stepping closer. “I’ve been fucking him too, asshole.” The room erupted—shouting, shoving, a messy tangle of jealousy and testosterone. Kyle, caught between them, tried to mediate, but they weren’t listening. Finally, Clive growled, “Fine. Let’s settle it—whoever makes him cum hardest wins.” Ben nodded, grim and determined, but they couldn’t agree on turns. “Fuck it,” Ben said, stripping down. “We’ll do it together.”

What followed was a blur of heat and flesh. Kyle found himself sandwiched on the bed—Clive behind him, thrusting into his ass with that slow, possessive rhythm, while Ben knelt in front, feeding Kyle his thick cock, hands gripping his head. Kyle gagged and moaned, lost in the dual assault, their sweaty jock bodies pinning him in place. They were relentless, each trying to outdo the other, forcing him toward climax.

Then the door creaked open. Jared stood there, a tray of pancakes and coffee in hand, his plan to surprise Kyle with breakfast in bed crumbling at the sight. Clive and Ben froze, mid-thrust, panic flashing across their faces. “Dad, we can explain—” Clive started, but Jared cut him off, his voice a low growl. 

“You little shits didn’t think to invite me?” He set the tray down, and Kyle noticed the bulge in his pocket—a stack of condom wrappers he’d tried to hide. His intentions had been less innocent than pancakes.

Jared stripped, revealing a body that put every dad in town to shame—hairy, muscular, a coach’s physique built from years of discipline. At school, he was a tyrant, but here, with his sons, he was different—gentle, submissive, eager to please. “I’ve got experience,” he said, voice rough with lust. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

The room descended into chaos—a perverse fuckfest. Clive resumed pounding Kyle’s ass, Ben fucked his throat, and Jared dropped to his knees, devouring Kyle’s cock with a hunger that bordered on worship. His tongue worked expertly, sucking and slurping, while his sons ravaged Kyle from both ends.

Hours passed in a haze of sweat and moans. Kyle came again and again—first from Clive’s relentless thrusts, then Ben’s brutal pace down his throat, and finally Jared’s insatiable mouth, draining him dry. When they finished, well past noon, Kyle collapsed on the musky bed, sore and blissed out. Ben snuggled close, nuzzling his neck, while across the room, Clive bent Jared over the edge of the bed, fucking him with the same passion he’d given Kyle. Jared took it eagerly, groaning his sons’ names.

Kyle lay there, surrounded by their heat, their love, their twisted devotion. Two jock brothers and a coach dad, all his—family and lovers in one. The tome had given him everything, and as he drifted off, drained and overjoyed, he knew he’d found his perfect place in the world.

---

The Final Night

Kyle had everything he’d ever dreamed of—two jock brothers and a coach dad, their bodies and hearts bent to his will by the tome’s magic. But as the days wore on, a gnawing discontent settled in his bones. He’d crafted a perfect family, a perverse paradise of love and lust, but when he caught his reflection in the mirror—scrawny, unremarkable, a shadow next to the Armstrongs’ chiseled glory—it soured everything. He wasn’t one of them, not really. Not in the way he wanted to be. The tome, still hidden under his mattress, hummed with its final offer. Three spells per human, it had warned, before it would vanish forever. He’d used two—reality bending, heart binding. One remained.

Late one night, while Clive slept beside him, Kyle pulled the tome free. Its pages rustled as if alive, guiding him to a spell buried in the back: Soul Possession. The words were stark, immoral, promising to let him claim another’s body, their identity, their life—erasing them to make room for him. His eyes drifted to Clive, sprawled out in the dim moonlight, his toned runner’s body glistening with a sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Clive’s jock perfection, his promising future as a track star, his effortless charisma—it was everything Kyle craved. Losing Clive as a lover stung, but taking his place? That was worth it.

He lit the candle, traced the runes, and whispered the incantation, his voice trembling with greed. The air grew heavy, but nothing happened. Disappointed, he crawled back into bed, pressing himself against Clive’s warm frame, and drifted off. It wasn’t until the dead of night that the spell ignited.

Kyle woke—or thought he did—to a sensation of weightlessness. His body shimmered, losing form, dissolving into a pulsing cloud of pure energy. He hovered, disembodied, above the bed, staring down at Clive’s sleeping form. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to flow. Tendrils of his essence slithered downward, seeking entry. They slipped into Clive’s mouth, curling around his tongue, tasting the musk of his breath. They poured into his nose, filling his lungs, and wormed into his ears, threading through the delicate canals. Lower, they ventured—sliding under the waistband of Clive’s briefs, seeping into his cock, hardening it as they invaded, and creeping into his asshole, stretching and filling him with a perverse intimacy.

The process was slow, sensual, a violation so deep it bordered on ecstasy. Inside Clive, Kyle’s energy spread, weaving through every blood vessel, every nerve, a warm, electric tide. He pushed deeper, seeking Clive’s core, his soul, his essence, and found it; a bright flickering spark. Kyle enveloped it, forcing himself inside, fusing with it until there was no separation. Clive’s knowledge flooded him—every race he’d run, every lover he’d taken, every rebellious outburst. His dreams, his aspirations, his thoughts. They were Kyle’s now, absorbed and owned.

On the bed, Clive’s body rebelled. His lean frame seized, muscles twitching violently, his head thrashing against the pillow. Sweat poured from him, soaking the sheets, his jock musk thickening the air as his limbs flailed. His cock strained against his briefs, leaking, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then, with a final shudder the new core snapped into place. Kyle’s essence fully merged and Clive’s body stilled, limp and glistening in the moonlight.

Morning broke, and the new Clive woke. He stretched, relishing the taut power of his legs, the flex of his abs, the weight of his cock in his briefs. He slipped out of bed, leaving the damp sheets behind, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with Clive’s face, and he stopped, breath catching. This was his now. Every detail, every curve, and he intended to savor it.

He leaned closer, hands trembling as they rose to his head. His fingers tugged at the wavy brown hair, thick and soft, pulling gently to feel the roots stretch against his scalp. It was wild, untamed, a runner’s mane, and he let it fall back into place, a slow smile spreading. His gaze dropped to the thin mustache framing his upper lip. He caressed it with his thumb, tracing its coarse texture, the bristles prickling his skin. It was Clive’s signature—roguish, bold—and he pressed harder, feeling the shape of his mouth beneath it. His tongue darted out, thicker than he remembered, heavy and warm as he ran it along his lips, tasting the faint salt of sweat. He pushed it further, curling it against the mustache, playing with its heft, a perverse thrill building in his gut.

He raised an arm, flexing the lean muscle, and buried his face in the pit. Clive’s jock musk hit him—sharp, earthy, a heady mix of sweat and testosterone that made his head swim. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs, his cock twitching in his briefs as the scent consumed him. With Clive’s vocal cords, he spoke, voice thick and resonant, a rumble that vibrated through his chest: “I love myself.” The words hung in the air, a declaration of ownership, and he groaned, the sound raw and primal.

Memories flickered—Ben in the shower, water slicking his chiseled frame, their bodies pressed tight, then locked in a 69 on Ben’s bed, sucking each other dry. Jared bursting in with breakfast, only to strip and beg Clive to fuck him, his hairy ass clenching around every thrust. The reality he’d crafted had followed him, woven into this new life. The sight of Clive’s face staring back, the musk, the voice, the memories—it was too much. His hand brushed his briefs, and he came hard, a hot, shuddering release that soaked the fabric, his knees buckling as he gripped the sink. He panted, watching the flush spread across Clive’s cheeks in the mirror. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to know more, to feel more.

He stood there, panting, and let Clive’s memories unspool in his mind, a torrent of sensation and sin. Clive jerking off in the shower for the first time, marveling at the power of his own body, the water slicking his lean frame as he came against the tiles. A summer night, lying shirtless on the roof with a boy from track, his hands on Clive’s abs, his mustache brushing the boy’s neck as he whispered filthy promises he’d never keep. And the dreams—Clive’s aspirations to go pro, to feel the wind on his face as he broke records, to fuck his way through every city he’d race in, leaving a trail of spent lovers behind. Every memory was vivid, visceral, a tapestry of sweat, sex, and defiance, and Kyle drank it all in, his cock throbbing anew as he claimed it as his own.

Clive—once Kyle, stepped out of the bathroom, his briefs still damp from his spontaneous release. The mirror had been a revelation, a slow dance of self-discovery that left him trembling with power and lust, but it wasn’t enough. His new flesh hummed with potential, every nerve alight with Clive’s vitality, and he craved more. He padded back to the bedroom, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex that clung to the sheets from nights of passion with his former self. The tome was gone, its third spell spent, but its legacy pulsed in his veins. This was his now—every inch, every scent, every shudder—and he intended to claim it fully.

The bed loomed before him, a tangled mess of stained fabric and jock stench, a testament to Clive’s athletic life and their shared mornings of perverse love. He crawled onto it, knees sinking into the mattress, and pressed his face into the pillow where Clive’s head had rested hours before. The smell hit him—sharp, tangy, a heady mix of sweat and testosterone that made his cock twitch anew. He groaned, low and guttural, and dragged his tongue across the fabric, tasting the salt of Clive’s essence, now his own. His hands roamed his new body, tracing the lean muscles of his chest, the taut ridges of his abs, and he marveled at the power beneath his skin—runner’s legs, a sprinter’s core, all his to command.

He flipped onto his back, briefs straining as his arousal grew, and raised an arm high. Burying his nose in his pit, he took a long, drawn-out whiff, savoring the jock musk that rolled off him in waves—raw, earthy, intoxicating. It was Clive’s scent, distilled and potent, and he inhaled again, deeper, letting it flood his lungs until his head spun. “Fuck, I love this body,” he rasped, Clive’s thick voice rumbling through his chest, a sound that vibrated with ownership. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding against the bed, the friction sending sparks up his spine. He needed more—needed to feel this body break under his will.

He rolled onto his stomach, straddling the mattress, and began to hump it slow and deliberate. The sheets rubbed against his cock through the briefs, rough and teasing, as he thrust his hips, imagining every race Clive had run, every lover he’d fucked, every moment of this body’s life now his to relive. His breaths came in pants, hot and heavy, as he picked up the pace, grinding harder, the bed creaking beneath him. He lifted his ass high, thrusting into the air, muscles flexing—calves tight, thighs quivering, abs clenching—as he chased the edge. One hand gripped his hair, tugging at the wavy strands, while the other slid to his mustache, caressing it, feeling its bristles against his fingertips. His tongue lolled out, thicker and wet, licking at the air as if he could taste his own musk.

The pressure built, a molten coil in his gut, and he raised his arm again, shoving his face into his pit for one last, obscene sniff. The musk overwhelmed him, a primal trigger, and he lost it. With a guttural shout—“Fuck, yes! I’m Clive!”—he came, an explosive climax that tore through him. Jock semen erupted from his cock, thick ropes shooting out, splattering across his chest, the sheets, and—impossibly—arcing high enough to hit the ceiling in wet, dripping streaks. His body convulsed, hips jerking, as he rode the waves, smearing the mess across his abs with every shudder. The room reeked of cum and sweat, a shrine to his new identity, and he collapsed, panting, a grin splitting his face.

The door creaked open. His brother Ben and father Jared stood there, framed in the entrance, their faces frozen in shock and streaked with splatters of Clive’s cum. A dollop clung to Ben’s stubble, another dripped from Jared’s eyebrow. For a moment, silence hung heavy, then Ben swiped a finger through the mess on his cheek, bringing it to his lips. He licked it clean, slow and deliberate, a wicked smile curling his mouth. Jared followed, wiping the cum from his face and sucking it off his thumb, his eyes darkening with hunger. “Fuck, Clive,” Ben growled, voice thick with lust. “You’re a goddamn mess.”

They barged in, shedding clothes as they went—Ben’s basketball shorts hitting the floor, Jared’s sweatpants pooling at his ankles—revealing their muscular, sweat-slicked bodies. Clive, still sprawled on the bed, cock half-hard and glistening, didn’t resist. Ben dove first, pinning Clive’s wrists above his head, his tongue lapping at the cum on Clive’s chest, while Jared knelt between his legs, hairy coach frame looming as he took Clive’s cock into his mouth, sucking with a submissive fervor that belied his brash exterior. “My favorite son,” Jared mumbled around him, voice muffled, and Ben chuckled, nipping at Clive’s neck. “Favorite brother, too.”

Clive groaned, head tipping back, as they ravaged him—Ben’s hands roaming his pits, inhaling deeply, Jared’s throat working him with expert care. Round two stretched into a blur of flesh and moans, their twisted love consuming the room. Clive didn’t mind—couldn’t mind. This was the final ending he’d hoped for all along: The tome was gone, but Clive Armstrong was his, body and soul, and his family’s insatiable devotion sealed the deal. The bed creaked, the air stank of jock musk and cum, and as he came again, spilling into Jared’s eager mouth, he knew he’d never want for anything else.