Bigger, Stronger, Better

The locker room was completely empty. The rest of the team was already outside practicing. James slowly pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his cargo pants. He pulled on the padded football training shorts, rolled up the heavy black socks, and laced up the sleek black football shoes.

Standing there, bare-chested, he looked at his body and sighed. His ribs were visible, his shoulders sloped and narrow. He looked down at the massive green jersey and heavy shoulder pads waiting on the wooden bench. It was a joke. Defensive linemen were giants, beasts of pure muscle, not scrawny tech-nerds.

Then, a strange, burning sensation appeared deep within his core, radiating outward like a sudden flash of fever. It wasn't painful, but it was incredibly intense, a deep and heavy throb that made his knees buckle slightly. James gasped, clutching his soft stomach as a wave of heat rolled through his midsection. He looked down, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief as the skin beneath his pale fingers began to twitch and ripple. The soft, flat planes of his belly were tightening under an invisible, powerful force, shifting and molding into dense, hard muscle right before his eyes.

He watched in absolute shock as the transformation surged upward into his chest. His narrow, hollow sternum began to expand outward with a deep, heavy pressure, forcing him to take deep, ragged breaths as his lung capacity expanded. The soft flesh of his chest pulled taut, ballooning into hard, thick, and perfectly defined pectoral plates that looked like they belonged on an athlete who spent years in the gym. The sheer speed of it made his head spin. He raised his hands, staring at them as a violent tremor shook his fingers. His biceps suddenly swelled, bursting into thick mounds of muscle that stretched the skin, while thick, dark veins mapped their way down his forearms like rivers breaking through stone. His triceps thickened and hardened behind his arms, hardening into dense iron. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, completely unable to comprehend the raw, primal magic that was violently rewriting his flesh, turning his fragile frame into something dangerously powerful.

The transformation wasn’t stopping. It accelerated.

James felt a massive, intoxicating surge of adrenaline flood his entire system as a powerful, deep ache echoed along his spine. He groaned softly as his vertebrae began to stretch and crackle, his entire skeletal structure elongating in a matter of seconds. His perspective of the locker room shifted rapidly upward; the rows of lockers, the ceiling lights, and the wooden bench all seemed to shrink away as he rose into a towering, imposing height. He felt immense, heavy mass settling into his frame with every inch he gained.

Simultaneously, a violent expansion tore across his upper body. His collarbones creaked and extended outward, broadening his posture into a massive, sweeping V-shape that completely redefined his silhouette. Thick, dense blankets of powerful muscle layered themselves over his back and shoulders, making him feel incredibly wide. Lower down, the transformation squeezed his waist, hardening his core into a solid, unyielding wall of heavy, compact abs that rippled with iron-like definition. The sheer weight of his new upper body was supported by his lower half, as his thighs and glutes ballooned with thick, heavy layers of athletic muscle, swelling so rapidly that they stretched the tight fabric of his padded football shorts to their absolute limit, filling them out with the unstoppable bulk of a true powerhouse.

A heavy, intoxicated smile forced its way onto his face. The sheer, raw power pulsing through his veins was a narcotic. As the physical mass took over, a strange fog rolled into his mind. He tried to recall the physics formulas he had memorized that morning, but they were dissolving, slipping away like sand. In their place came a rush of new, dominant instincts—gap assignments, blitz packages, the violent, thrilling mechanics of rushing a passer. He didn't just look like a lineman; his mind was rewiring to think like one.

Suddenly, he noticed his hands. He held them up, his eyes widening as a rich, dark brown hue began to bleed into his pale skin. The deep pigmentation spread rapidly up his thick forearms, engulfing his massive biceps and rushing across his expansive, muscular chest. He watched, completely captivated, as his entire body transformed, his skin turning a beautiful, smooth, deep black.

He ran his changing hands up to his head. His dirty-blond hair was darkening, turning pitch-black as the texture shifted beneath his fingertips, coarsening into a thick, tight afro texture. His jawline had completely changed. Wider, heavier, and undeniably masculine, with full lips and dark, intense eyes.

The transformation was finally beautifully complete. Every trace of the scrawny, insecure tech-nerd who had crept into the coach's office had been entirely erased from existence. In his place stood an absolutely magnificent, towering Black defensive lineman—a living mountain of pure, dense athletic mass built for nothing less than absolute destruction on the football field. He stood several inches taller than the locker room partitions, his broad, dark shoulders casting a long shadow across the concrete floor.

James planted his heavy feet and slowly flexed his massive arms, watching the thick peaks of his biceps swell and harden into solid iron. A deep, booming, and completely confident laugh tore from his chest, its low frequency echoing loudly through the empty, tiled locker room. He didn't care about his old life, his old fragile body, or his stacks of dusty textbooks anymore; those belonged to a ghost. Every single inch of his thick, muscular new body throbbed with a raw, primal hunger for dominance and physical impact.

He reached down and gripped the heavy green jersey from the bench, his large, dark hands easily gathering up the fabric. His mind was entirely focused on the gridiron outside, completely empty of doubts. He couldn't wait another second to run out of that tunnel, line up shoulder-to-shoulder alongside his new brothers, and lay blood-chilling, bone-crushing hits on anyone who dared try to cross his defensive line.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Paul struggles to maintain the level of professionalism that has always done so well by him. “Look, Stacy, I’m sorry if my words are harsh but, well the project is unpolished and a little juvenile. I mean even the title, Juan Carlos: Latin Lovermano? Work with me Stacy, how am I supposed to give a note on that besides toss it and try again?”

Looking up at the ceiling to slow her sobs, surely to save some tears for the next poor fool she’ll weaponize crying at, Stacy tries to salvage anything. Sniffling, “So you just don’t like the title then.”

“Among many, many other things, no.”

“Daddy said people love puns? It’s camping or something, you must not get it…”

Paul wasn’t past the point of diplomacy, but eager to move on with his day he opts to just go scorched earth. Lining up the biggest issue he has with the book in his sights, the protagonist, he prepares to shoot. Stereotypical, vaguely racist, and lacking any motivation beyond whatever smutty thing Stacy sees fit to move the ‘plot’ forward, Juan Carlos was not a man you care to follow unless you’re actively masturbating. 

“I just think Juan Carlos leaves a lot to be desired, Ms. McClure.”

Pouting, she relents, “What do you even know! I swear all my gay friends are just like him! Literally spend five minutes talking to a sexy Latino hunk and tell me again how I don’t know how to write!”

Narrowing his eyes, at this he’s had enough. Obviously she doesn’t respect him enough to know a thing about him, daddy’s daughter be damned he’s not going to take that. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that I am both gay and my gra- abuela is columbian.”

“So what, you’re an eighth? And like so- do you want a trophy? You’re not the sexy kinda beefcake my audience wants to read about.”

“Stacy, first off you can’t say that. Second your math- Never mind that. You don't even have an audience.”

This strikes a chord. “Fuck you! Jesus! You don’t know how hard I worked to write this. It’s the culmination of my life’s work.”

“Well, I’d suggest in the next life to try to maybe spend a little more of that time learning how to write if you want to do anything other than waste my time.” Paul’s face freezes in a grimace of pain as the words fly out even sharper than he had intended. 

So used to dealing with harsh layout designers and demanding photographers, the kid gloves simply fell off as his patience waned. Keeping his eyes shut for a beat, he takes a deep breath in the silence before opening them to find Stacy’s face a mask of rage.

Tears have evaporated entirely as her eyes seem to almost burn with a palpable anger. “Y’know Paul? Funny you don’t think JC is realistic enough. Because the way I see it, you’re just like him.”

Rolling his eyes at this he can’t help but dig his grave deeper, “Really now? I don’t quite see it, given I’m your father’s best employee and Juan Carlos’ sole trait is thinking with his dick; Wishful thinking perhaps as that would indeed make me the ideal for this slop you’re calling a book.”

Paul feels something snap in the room as the fire leaves her eyes to be replaced with a simpler disdain. He assumes their meeting is over and prepares to apologize when Stacy grabs the edit marked manuscript and just tears it in two. Shocked at the act of strength, Paul stares stunned as she gets the last word. 

“You win, bitch. This was supposed to be fun. Hope you enjoy your last few days working here JC. I am so going to your boss.”

Annoyed, Paul immediately starts an email to HR to preemptively complain about his meeting and Stacy’s complete lack of professionalism. Laying the facts of the confrontation on the table, he ensures they know she was homophobic and racist only so they don’t can him when she tries to work her nepo-magic.

Still slightly reeling from just how poorly that meeting went, Paul tries to keep busy for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for the editor, his to-do list is quite sparse given he was supposed to be going through Stacy’s book through the end of the week.

Skipping ahead, McClure Sr’s next task for him was to do research on this influencer they’re optioning for a cookbook. Apparently he’s supposed to bring ‘alpha bros’ into their market. Paul doesn’t believe in the idea so to him this is more an opportunity to find receipts that prove Bryce Bentley is not a good fit for their brand.

Immediately searching ‘Bryce Bentley Apology Video’ the expert is soon privy to the content creator’s litany of scandals. Quickly jotting down the what, when, and where of a few tasteless jokes done by a man who shall certainly not get a book deal, Paul prepares to send his short take in an email before he glances back at Bentley’s instagram.

The man is pretty hot. No, he’s being unfair. The man is an absolute stud. How do you even get a body like that? Minimizing his email, Paul sets to just scrolling through Bryce’s feed. It’s important that he gets a full picture of the man after all, see what all the hype is about. 

Quickly do his eyes glaze over as he carefully inspects every shirtless and sweaty image of this man in the gym and at the beach. Tuning out his douchey chatter and paying extra close attention to his gay baiting, despite his usual composure, Paul’s hand sneaks under his table towards his pants.

Unable to stop staring at the fratty, surely illiterate bro’s biceps, Paul’s mouth falls ajar as he begins to feel a little sweaty himself. When his hand finds purchase on a package throbbing just a hair larger, there’s suddenly a sharp itch burning under his arms. 

No idea what at all could be causing this, the editor quickly yanks up his shirt’s sleeve to find a markedly hairier pit. Visibly wet with sweat he must’ve worked up during his spat, Paul can’t quite believe just how much thicker his usually manscaped pits have become. And yet, despite telling himself how gross the unmanicured patch is, he can’t tear his eyes away.

His nose twitches as his neck reflexively leans closer to the bramble of curls that seemingly grows thicker under his attention. His neck begins to crane down as his free hand abandons any decency to snake into his pants. Scratching through a similarly less tamed grove of pubes, in no time the employee of the quarter is fondling himself at his desk. “Whuh- what am I doing?”

Moaning to himself as his eyelids feel heavier, that he’s behind a desk is perhaps his only saving grace as his department head decides to stop by and check on him after his meeting with Stacy. Kindness in his eyes, Davis assumes his favorite underling’s visibly frazzled state must be due to that trainwreck of a meeting. Looking past the panting and messy hair, the strange rolled up sleeve and- is he sniffing his hand? 

Clearly Paul just needs a day. 

“Hiya there kid. Seems Stacy got ya all worked up huh?”

Bolting to attention, Paul’s hand slams into the desk as he tries to appear like he wasn’t seconds away from masturbating at work. Chest heaving from the anxiety of nearly being caught with said hand in his pants, Paul’s mind is scattered as he only just now realizes that he had his hand in his pants at work like some horny troglodyte. Smelling his sweaty fingers his eye twitches and he quickly and calmly clasps hands on his desk to feign normalcy as his semi still strains his pants. 

“Yes sir Mr. Davis,” one of Bentley’s thirst traps still loops on Paul’s monitor. Not quite showing print as much as every vein on his cock while doing pull ups, Paul can barely stop his eyes flitting over as he explains himself. “She did more or less tell me to hit the dicks- My god. Di- Bricks. Bricks. So sorry sir.”

“Don’t you worry about it Paulie. Why don’t you finish up what you’re doing and head out for the day.”

“Thank you so much Davis sir. I swear I’ll be back and better than ever tomorrow!” Stress melting off him, when Paul reclines in his chair it allows his monitor to reflect in the window behind him. Davis can’t help but see the softcore porn and does a doubletake before wishing Paul well and rushing back to his own desk. Kid just needs a break, shoot as far as he knows that smut was straight out of that hellion Stacy’s book. What is McClure going to do with her?

Free to leave, Paul rushes to do so as swiftly as he can. When his attention is immediately sucked back to the faceless sweaty torso and sweat stained gym shorts on his monitor, Paul grits his teeth and forces the machine to shut off. Gathering his things and standing, despite knowing how his soft cock should have more than enough space in his pants, he feels his package strain. 

Having gone through great lengths to appear professional, Paul is shocked when he can see his own visible dick print. Under his gaze it twitches slightly larger as the idea of having a thicker dick excites him. And yet, this is far from the only change as he grabs his coat and rushes out the door. 

Desperate to get home as fast as possible, he refuses to acknowledge how every item on him is slightly too tight. Never one for exercise beyond making sure he can do twenty push ups every once in a while, Paul’s stunned when his chest tugs against his increasingly sweaty top.

The sleeves of his shirt begin to pull, then hug, then strain against his arms as they rapidly put on weight. Rushing down the sidewalk, the editor assumes he’s simply been too negligent on his diet recently. Maybe he ruined his clothes in the wash? He’s just put on weight and not noticed. That makes sense. But he cannot hold onto this delusion as he looks to see muscle visibly twitching as he swings his arms.

And then it begins affecting his mind.

Shiiiitt Papi, my arms are looking killerrr

His arm tries to raise itself into a flex, Paul’s blood goes cold. Blinking quickly as this stops him dead in his tracks, the editor is accidentally bumped into by a mousy man on the phone carrying a tray of coffees. Turning to apologize, Paul promptly freezes again when he locks eyes with the embarrassed gofer still on the phone. Every muscle in his body tenses and throbs as he feels a dull static fill his mind.

He can do nothing but feel as he watches the twink walk past him with a nod. Blood rushing in his ears, Paul stares at the man’s tight ass swaying as he hurries back to work. Fuckkk I need that ass. Now. Locked onto the bouncing butt as it makes haste, Paul stumbles forward. He feels his body try to pursue him. Get his number, get him. 

Unable or unwilling to fight the desire, the need, Paul is only stopped from his chase as when he takes his first wholehearted step forward his pants tear. Looking down at his tight dress pants, he’s honestly surprised this is the first rip as they almost appear painted on. In the deep recesses of his mind some muted voice shouts that they should not be so built.

When more and greater tears lance down his thighs and grow longer with every step, he shakes out of his horny stupor. Almost drooling from the slightly tanner skin exposed from the gashes trailing up towards his pendulous cock that sways even more than that bitch’s hot ass, Paul steels himself and realizes he needs to just get home. This takes more effort than it ever should. Distracted by every man with a pulse he passes, some bestial Id within him keeps trying to rise and take over.

Shit that fucker’s fine. We have the time for a quickie. Que paso? Can’t we have some fun? That bar on sixth is open already…

Each time he bats it down, shakes it off, the next time it returns slightly louder. Needier. More dominant. Needing to physically shake his head and murmur “No.” to maintain control, under the beating late afternoon sun, his tan seems to be quite a bit darker. Obviously his rational mind will say it’s just from walking to work more often than driving these days, he’s just been out more.

But as the sunkissed skin stretches under the sleeves of his shirt, as his seemingly tea stained thighs are revealed to be even tanner through the tears in his pants, Paul knows this cannot be the case. Why am I wearing these shitty pants anyway? Fuckin hiding my peak muslos… Muslos? What does that even mean?

Long neglected Spanish begins to trickle into his mind as he arrives home and slams the door shut behind him. Usually so courteous and quiet a neighbor, with the chaos of the day weighing on him, the path of least resistance is simply too great.

Tearing his pants and boxers the rest of the way off, Paul stumbles into the bathroom looking to hop in the shower or throw on some much needed deodorant. Sniffing himself as he arrives, his plans are halted by the one two punch of his heady musk and seeing his shockingly muscular reflection.

Mierda… No one will be able to resist me.

Hungry eyes take in his bicep as he raises it into a flex. Turning to bounce his ass, he feels itchy stubble prickle onto his face like it never has as a cocky smirk forces its way onto his face. The shirt that has been suctioned to him since he stepped out of the office begins to give way to his burgeoning new bulk as he can’t help but imagine everything he can do with his growing new body. Faces flicker through his imagination of all the new eye candy he’ll be able to bed. Pre begins to pool at his feet as drool trickles down his stubbly new jaw as his thoughts are more and more displaced by the new rising voice.

Maybe I should start clubbing again? He needs to show this off. No, he needs to figure out what’s going on. To figure out his best angles. Fuck like he’s got any bad ones. His smirk grows darker as his heavier hand reaches down to fondle his excitable dripping dick. Leaning against the wall on his brawny new forearm, he starts fully masturbating.

Huffing his b.o. as he grunts and snarls. Paul imagines topping for the first time in his life. He sees a snatched waist and bubble butt bouncing on his prodigious uncut cock. One he can scarcely recognize. One he can scarcely imagine as he swears he can feel that little coffee runner’s tight ass hugging his cock as his hips rut into his meaty hand. 

Fuck take it bitch. Take Juan Carlos’ fucking horse cock. Tell all your- Tell your- Wh- What? Juan? Juan Carlos?

Not slowing his thrust for a second, the name Juan Carlos hits him like a train. Staring at his darker arms as veins trail their whole length, as darker hair prickles across his forearms, he realizes what is happening. Too little too late as he feels his heavier balls pull and his mind goes even hazier.

Stumbling back to the sink, Paul’s cock bounces in the air as he tries to slow, to stop the storm of cum about to fly into the bathroom. Catching his reflection, he sees his focussed horny expression instead shift to a cocky gleaming smirk. Juan Carlos is sex. He is sex.

And then he loses control “FFF- Mierda!” His spotless bathroom is painted with a load larger than he’s ever seen before. Rocketing across the room, he shoots string after string across the mirror, into the sink, onto his toothbrush. And then his shaky knees give way as he falls to the cold tile. 

Exhausted, barely able to lift his heavy new arm, he pushes himself against the bath before losing consciousness. He feels the last few spurts of his load dripping through the thick new curls on his thigh. No es- this isn’t possible…

When he awakes he cannot recall what his steamy dreams are about, but he knows the cum stains in his pubes and pooling on his thicker new abs cannot be from his session last night alone. In an action that would be previously unthinkable to the orderly man, he scratches his face with his similarly cum-splattered hand to find his facial hair has grown thicker. 

Pulling himself up to standing, Juan is slightly woozy as he makes his first moves in a body far larger than he’s ever had to manage. Apathetic to the wretched state of his bathroom, he pulls back on his dirty boxers and exits to his living room. 

Clean as he left it, when Juan steps in it begins to adjust to the life he is soon to live. Stomping his heavier feet with no care for the unlucky souls used to the far more cordial upstairs neighbor, Juan yanks open the fridge and yawns as the glass bottles in the door clatter against each other. 

Scratching his ass and smirking as he feels his fingers claw into the fat and muscle therein, Juan is surprised to find neatly organized prepped meals. When he does a double take, the growing sex-fiend finds it far more to his temperament. Leftovers abound, shoved in between containers of eggs left open and protein rich meals he can just throw in the oven and forget. 

Grabbing a full blender pitcher he just threw in the fridge to drink from today, Juan almost starts chugging it before he decides to toss a couple more eggs in. Gotta hit his goals. Gotta look like the fuckin king he is. Juan makes no effort to quiet the voice as it returns to his head, rumbling with the same morning weariness that plague his own morning thoughts. Though at this point there is little at all separating the two.

The few remaining differences between who he once was and Juan fade even further as he starts chugging straight from the blender like an animal. Gulping down almost half a gallon of protein slurry, the horny editor feels some of the silty sludge miss his mouth and stream down his salt-stained cheeks.

Wiping it off with his meaty bicep, he proceeds to just lick the mix off his arm. This brings his face so close to his exposed and still dripping pit, Juan smirks as he gets a whiff of his new morning musk. Surprised at how intense it is, some inkling of the neat-freak hiding within him returns. “Shit have I gone weeks without fuckinnn deodorant or what?”

He can hardly believe it when the voice rumbling out of his chest sounds just like that voice in his head. Some weak part of him knows that’s not him, that's not who he should be, he shakes his head. He’s not Juan Carlos. He- He’s? He can’t remember his name. When the realization hits him he gasps only to feel pressure rising within him.

Feeling his stomach bloat slightly from the heavy shake, the man tries to recall his name and stop himself from a humiliating burp at once. Mind divided, both attempts swiftly fail as he unleashes a burp longer and louder than he’d believed possible. Worse than the straight assholes he’d always wanted to put in their place.

Buuuuurrpp- “Shittt if only they’d see me now. Huhuh. Shit they’d probably find themselves on my dick too. Nadie… uhhh no one can, uh? whatever…”

Tired of thinking about anything that’ll rile him up, Juan forgets about forgetting his name and instead channels all his energy into getting a morning pump. It’s just the path of least resistance. Piles of manuscripts and a bookshelf full of classics he had dreamed of one day adding to clatter to the floor as wood shines to a metal and heavy tomes become heavier weights.

Guffawing as he sees the impossible and only thinks about what a sweet home gym setup he’s got, Juan saunters over to the bench and starts pumping free weights. Looking down at his chubbing dick twitching in overfull briefs as he gets a pump in, he grunts as he imagines how ripe his aura will be in here when he’s done with his morning workout. 

Throwing reggaeton on to blast away his morning delirium and keep his mind thinking about anything other than his needy dick, Juan Carlos pounds iron well into the late morning. When ten rolls around his phone starts blowing up as his boss wonders why he’s late for work without letting them know.

“Que..? Oh shittt-” For some reason the idea of being late fills him with overwhelming dread. Furrowing his heavy brows he doesn’t really understand, it’s just a job or whatever? Surely they need JC more than Juan needs them. Still, he groans and prepares to run in, that is, until he sees his reflection. More than anything he needs to relish in his pump.

Flexing in his cum and spit stained bathroom mirror, Juan Carlos delights in the sweat tricking down his veiny arms. Drooling at his package and ass bouncing in his stained briefs, JC starts groping his dick before another call from work comes in and he relents to just handle his bestial need later. “Pinche- boss man don’t know what’s coming…”

None of his clothes seem to fit right. Instinctually he reaches for a neat button up before crumbling it into a ball and throwing it to the floor. Why’d he even buy such boring threads? Shit he needs to wear something flattering, something sexy. 

Searching high and low for some skin-tight streetwear and a baggy jacket to hide his pump, Juan eventually finds something adequate. Even as he throws it on though, when he sees his reflection the clothes grow that much tighter as he turns himself on. Meaty arms strain against sleeves that should be baggy, cock so visible he might as well not be wearing pants at all, and a cocky smirk surrounded by stubble he obviously doesn’t care enough to shave.

Despite the small shred of himself shouting to rush to work, he takes his time sauntering down the street. Prowling and scanning every person in case they’re looking to fuck, it’s a miracle he doesn’t bump into a single twink en route. Instead he just allows the sun to bake him, evening out his dark tan and cooking up some even danker musk in the hoodie.

Hidden beneath his sauna of a hoodie, disparate patches of his skin darken as his skin begins to stain with tattoos. Many of which are promptly hidden as the previously inactive follicles covering his torso suddenly go into overdrive. Lured out by the atmosphere of sweat blooming beneath his heavy jacket, fertilized by his salty stench JC feels his scratchy fur coat thicken out of sight.

Perfectly highlighting his rows of abs and connecting his cum-covered pubes with his sweat-dripping pits, JC feels up his hairy chest and struggles to ignore the rising boner at the idea of all the horny bitches that’ll be all over him at the club. Twinks, jocks, and bears oh meirda he can hardly think for salivating about all the needy men that crave his cock as much as he craves giving it to them.

Reaching his arm up his shirt, exposing his hairy abs dripping with sweat, Juan Carlos is stopped at the entrance to his workplace by security. “Ayy what’s the problem guey?” His words are dripping with a thick Mexican accent that sounds natural and correct to his ears, just like it always has. 

Frowning, the guard requests to see some identification. Annoyed, JC doesn’t let it show as he instead plays up his sex appeal. Reaching into his back pocket, standing at an angle that allows the guard to see his thick ass, Juan Carlos produces a loose driver’s license and takes a look at it himself. 

Seeing the same sexy self as always, Juan sees some gringo ass name for a second before it’s replaced with his own. Juan Carlos Hernandez. Careful to ensure their hands connect as he hands over the ID, JC waits to be waved through to get to a job he doesn’t quite remember. Gotta be a model or something? Equis…

The guard returns the license with a grunt and nods him through. Juan Carlos shoots him a wink and makes sure he struts slowly so the guard can watch him go. He knows where he is if he wants a particularly brusque lay later. For now he just needs to figure out where he’s going.

Feeling his stubble fill out into a beard to match that on his license, he scratches its final touches as he sneaks into his office. JC’s mouth hangs open as he sits at his desk and tries to remember what he’s supposed to be doing. Failing to remember his log in, he struggles to understand how to log on as a guest.

Oft distracted by his reflection in the dark monitor, when he at last brute forces his way into the computer his lust takes over once more as he decides he’s been so diligent as to earn a treat. Doesn’t he deserve a little break? Given an inch his needy cock takes a mile as it instantly begins working its way to the hem of his tight shorts.

Quickly opening a browser, JC is shocked to see the computer blocks him from watching porn at work. “¿Qué carajo es esto?” Clicking his tongue, he resolves to just content himself on his own reflection. Cupping his thick pecs and removing the heavy jacket to bathe his office with his heavy musk, JC immediately begins working his cock over his shorts only to be interrupted by a pair of visitors.

Shocked beyond belief, his boss Davis stands stunned. As if he were expecting someone else, confronted with the beast of a man that is Juan Carlos, he can only gasp as the man actively masturbating shoots him a nod and a wink. Though when the horny stud sees who’s with him he gives his meat a break, remiss as he is to.

“Heyyyy chica, you ready to hit the clubs?”

Though knowing she set this into motion, Stacy is similarly surprised by the hunk before her. As if he walked straight off the page, it’s Juan Carlos himself. Though, it clearly worked too well. As she takes him in she completely forgets that she had ever written him into existence. Juan’s her GBF IRL? He always ahs been. The one who’ll fuck anything that moves. The chicano hunk that drags her to after afters and dingy gay clubs she wouldn't dream of finding herself in.

“It’s literally 11 AM babe. And you know Dave said if he catches you slacking again you’re done!”

“Ahh que sera sera you know chica~ Sides, I think Dave has bigger fish to fry than getting rid of Juan Carlos.”

When Juan Carlos rubs his hand through his hairy abs to get Dave’s attention, the boss just sighs and pinches his temples. Workload having almost doubled as his best employee has been unknowingly converted into a man who lives, breathes, and stinks sex, he does indeed have bigger concerns. “Look, Hernandez. Just try and keep it in your pants- Or at least lock the door, I mean Jesus Christ this is a workplace…”

Unable to question why their esteemed publishing house seems to have an employee whose sole purpose seems to be manwhore, for some reason he can’t focus on the idea long enough to dispute it. He’s sure this is somehow Stacy’s fault.

“Anything else, boss man? Quires un- Ah, you want a one on one later?”

Davis clears his throat, “No that uhm, won’t be necessary Juan Carlos.” Blushing he pawns this situation onto his boss’ daughter, “Stacy, if you wouldn’t mind helping Mr. Hernandez get started, I’ve got to handle some upstart influencer who’s threatening to sue us.”

“You got it Davey~”

Thoughtlessly slamming the door behind him, Stacy’s beside herself with excitement. “Juan Carlosss~ So what’s the move tonight, babe?”

Scratching his beard with his trademark smirk, Juan Carlos spins an office chair that can barely handle his weight as he recalls the litany of men he’s lusted after and tempted since he last busted a nut. “You know, I can get what I want anywhere. Why don’t you pick chica?”

Flopping onto his desk, Stacy starts shooting texts to her rolodex of fellow rich chicks and their horny twinks to figure out their nightly plans. Seeing reflection in the wide monitor as it goes to sleep, Juan Carlos flexes at himself and feels his easy dick start to rise. “Ay Chica, I’m gonna go cruise. Esta bien?”

“You got it bestie! See ya tonight!”