Bigger, Stronger, Better

Hi! I was bored and i wrote a tf story. It's my first time and im open to comments and improvements. I would really like adding some images, but im not sure if its legal or at least "safe" to take any image from the internet due to copyright or if i should just not care, maybe the stickers from Tumblr will suffice. If the story is too long, sorry and please do tell.

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Marcus found the rent notice already taped to the door when he got home from the warehouse. That wrinkled paper under the flickering lightbulb from the old porch had his parents’ names printed neatly on, and under that, the landlord’s: Harrington. And the Harringtons’ oldest son, Tyler, was waiting on the front steps as if he owned the entire block, which he did.

That’s interesting… I’ll do my best. Did he tell you where he bought it? Where is he right now?

“He’s on his way. I told him I called you too.”

Perfect. While we wait you could take a shower, try taking it off.

You ran to the shower, opened the faucet to maximum pressure and rubbed your armpits as much as you could. You put on so many layers of it hoping the sweating would stop, that every time you scrubbed, the sponge ended up covered in the paste from that bar, you threw the now useless sponge and washed your whole body. You dried yourself up and came out with a large towel tucked from your hips. At that moment, your boyfriend arrived.

“Babe, did you read the instructions of the deodorant?”

“Yeah, it said antiperspirant, so I’ve been using it for my pits. But it isn’t working” 

The smell was far more pungent now, when he raised his arm, not only you could smell the rancid stench coming from it, but you could see the redness and the wounded skin from the intense scrubbing. 

“Babe… you didn’t read them. It was supposed to go on your balls…”

“Eh? Why?”

“It’s infused with testosterone… when lightly applied on your balls, it makes both them and your cock a lil' bigger, ya know… you always talk about how you wished it was bigger. But you put a lot, and in your pits… I don’t know what to do.”

Let’s not panic, shall we? I think we should wait, and if it worsens, we’ll have to…improvise, I guess.

The three of us sat on your sofa, I kept searching for information on the antiperspirant’s package, while your boyfriend went to grab some beers for us. You kept sweating profusely and now the soap smell on you was completely drowned from the one from your pits.

“Here you have”

Thanks!

Another wave of smell came from you. The “stink zone” on the pits and an itchiness was sprawling across it. Your whole body emanated the rotting smell, you couldn’t stop scratching your pits, the smell making your boyfriend and me dozy.

 *wWOAh* Black thick hair started growing like weeds from them, slowly infecting your whole body and covering it with a pubic hair-looking fuzz: your chest, down to your stomach, legs, mini-dick, feet, and up your neck and reaching your face.

“Dear… c-can I…?” He pointed to your dripping pit with his face “I’s just…”

“Yeah, go on, hun… heh” He threw himself at it, I felt kinda jealous…

“It’s… *ssniff, gah* d-delicious..*lick*”

Well, if it’s only this, increased body hair and stench, i should get go-

“NO!” You growled. “I need someone sucking on my toes.”

Got it! I dropped to my knees on the floor and lowered my face to your reeking toes *slurp* *slurp* *ssllllluurp*

You breath accelerated. Slumped on the sofa you could see your twink body covered in hair, your boyfriend licking obscenely your right pit, me sucking your left foot, and this just made you sooo horny. *gahhh* You brought your hand over the towel you had on and began rubbing your little 1 inch, hard dick.

“Y-yes… keep licking you two…” Your voice deepened significantly. Your hard cock grew, and you felt it under your hand. “More…” While sucking on your toes I could see under the towel how it lengthened slowly… incredible… Your quail egg-sized balls also were kinda visible now, bloating a bit with liquid that… wiggled? i tried taking a better look at it when *gah!* a droplet of pre shot straight to my eye. I cleaned it, still sucking your toes like an infinite lollipop of sweat, and then again directed my sight to your crotch. Your dick slowly approached the hem of the towel like a snake coming out of a cave. 3 inches… 3’5… 4 … 5 inches… Not only it dripped precum from the tip, but the whole shaft sweated like a pig, like you.

*URGK* I gagged. Your foot forced itself suddenly in my throat as it unexpectedly grew, almost dislocating my jaw… they looked inhumane. 

“You good… down… there?” You asked

Yes, yes… master… You didn’t seem to notice the changes.

“Good… continue…THAT’S what I deserve to be called…” You wrapped you arm around your boyfriend’s head, locking him in your pit. Your biceps seemed to fill up around him, squishing his cranium and forcing him to rely on musk and sweat to breathe. You now caressed his cock faster,  6… 6.5…7… 8 inches. Your balls followed, “ripening” to the size of oranges, and wiggling… the yellow sour and salty cock sweat stained the towel.

“I’m… yes… *gah* almost there” You mumbled. Your ballooning biceps kept suffocating your boyfriend, your legs pushed me further from you as you slumped more on the sofa… Your torso began stretching taller, to match the hams you had as legs now. 9… 10…12 inches. Each muscle fiver twitched, on your pecs, your abs, even your butt started growing, your back widened and your traps surged over your shoulders.

“huhhuh” You suck cock, bitch.” You grabbed the man on your armpit, finally giving him a second of air and forced his mouth on your hard leaking cock. 15… 17… 21 inches. Your balls were now the size of pomelos, your body was thrice as big as you were an hour ago, it kept growing and expanding in every direction when you came.

The wiggle on your tight balls weren’t veins… They were the AAA battery sized sperm, trying to wiggle their way out of your compressing balls. Each one of them made your cock bulge as they went through your urethra and finally bursted in your boyfriend’s mouth. You came so much, a couple of them escaped out of his nostrils and wiggled desperately on the floor, like dying fish.

I stopped sucking as you rose from the sofa, and walked slowly to the bathroom… You hunched, the ceiling was too low for you now, the doorway even more. Your boyfriend hung like a bloodsucker from your cock, his stomach bloated from the cum, but he didn’t want to stop gulping.

“Me… so… big.. huh huh… me soooo big” Your underdeveloped brain could only now say those words, and give the order to start flexing to your body. From then on, everyday would be fuck, flex and fuck.

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Tristan Vale was twenty-four, the kind of young white man who had never had to wait for anything. Trust-fund polish, private-school vowels, a tailored suit that cost more than most people’s rent. He worked on the junior analyst floor of a glass-and-steel bank in the City, and when the new hire started—Marcus, late twenties, Black, quiet, competent—Tristan made sure the man felt the difference in their stations, seeing him as nothing more than a diversity hire.

Little comments. Delayed emails. A certain way of looking through him in meetings. Nothing that would stick in an HR report, but enough.

That afternoon Tristan stepped into the executive-floor bathroom, still smug from a remark he had made about “diversity hires who needed to learn the culture.” He was washing his hands when the door opened behind him.

Marcus walked in.

He didn’t go to a stall or a urinal. He stopped a few feet behind Tristan and looked at him in the mirror with an expression that was almost amused.

“There you are,” Marcus said, voice calm, conversational. “Been looking for you.”

Tristan frowned, water still running. “Excuse me?”

Marcus tilted his head. “You know how it is. Sometimes a man forgets where he left his own ass. But I knew you’d turn up eventually.”

Tristan shut the water off harder than necessary. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Marcus stepped closer, still speaking in that easy, almost affectionate tone. “You’re my black butt, Tristan. Always have been. The big, soft, wobbly cheeks I sit on every day. You just got confused for a while. Started thinking you were a real person. Cute, but it’s time to come home.”

Tristan laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “You’re out of your mind. I’m reporting this the second I—”

“Feel that?” Marcus poked Tristan’s forehead like flicking a switch.

Something warm and heavy settled low in Tristan’s body. His tailored trousers suddenly felt tighter across the seat. His white butt, inflating, growing fuller. He looked down and watched the fabric stretch as his backside began to swell—rounding, thickening, the skin beneath darkening from pale to deep brown in slow, irreversible waves.

“Stop,” Tristan said, voice rising. He grabbed the edge of the sink. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

Marcus only smiled. “You’re already halfway there. Look at you. Those big woobly cheeks filling out. Soft and heavy, just how I like them. You’ve been walking around pretending you were some privileged little banker, but the truth is simpler. You’re the part of me that I rest on at work. The part that jiggles when I move. My black butt.” He looked down in satisfaction, watching his white coworker inflate into a pair of black jiggling ass cheeks.

The words sank in deeper than they should have. At this point, Marcus has turned around, pulling his underwear down. Tristan couldn’t help but feel like he was falling into the black man’s arse.

Tristan’s thoughts started to blur at the edges. His legs shortened, thighs thickening and merging into the growing mass of his backside. His upper body felt distant, lighter, less important. The expensive shirt and jacket hung strangely as his torso began to shrink and smooth into the upper curve of two enormous, dark, plush cheeks. His cock and balls drew upward and vanished. His arms pulled in. His neck shortened. The last of his pale face becoming merged with the brown butt cheeks. His entire physical being as two fat round swelling globes.

Marcus reached back and gave one heavy cheek a firm, proprietary squeeze.

“There we go,” he murmured. “Good and thick. Soft enough to bounce. Exactly what I needed.”

What remained of Tristan’s mind flickered once—panic, rage, the old superior sneer—then folded under the steady weight of Marcus’s voice. He was not a banker. He had never been a banker. He was simply the large, dark, wobbly pair of black buttocks that belonged to Marcus. Fully aware. Fully concious.

The cheeks flexed once, instinctively, settling into place as Marcus adjusted his belt and checked himself in the mirror.

Marcus gave his own (now complete) ass a satisfied pat, turned, and walked out of the bathroom with a comfortable, rolling stride. The two big woobly black cheeks moved with him, soft and heavy and perfectly at home.

Tristan Vale no longer existed.

Only the butt remained.

And that butt would be there for Marcus’ rugby practice this evening…

Marcus’ pool party on Saturday…

And Marcus’ reunion with his boyfriend on Sunday…

Do you have an issue with that Tristan?

“I am a big black butt… 😵‍💫”

Peter Parker swung hard through the midtown skyline, web-lines snapping taut, when the new villain appeared in a ripple of distorted air. RealityChanger wore a coat of shifting mirrors and spoke with a voice that seemed to come from every direction at once.

“Why would Spiderman be a somebody,” the villain said, almost casually. “When he could be a nobody…” and snapped his fingers.

The world folded.

—————————————————————————-

Pedro Perez woke up on a narrow bed. The smell of his abuela’s homemade chilaquiles drifted under the bedroom door. He was sweating into sheets he hadn’t changed in a month, and his head felt full of cotton. Something had happened—he was sure of it—but the memory slipped away the moment he tried to hold it. A dream, maybe. One of those that dissolved as soon as your eyes opened.

His usual stack of comic books sat on the shelf. One issue lay open on the bed from the night before.

Spider-Man vs. Reality Changer.

Pedro frowned and flicked through it. He remembered this one being controversial. The entire comic was in Spanish. Panel after panel showed Reality Changer humiliating Spider-Man—turning him into an obedient dog, stretching the suit until he was too fat to swing, rewriting him into a buff meathead lackey for Flash Thompson, even devolving him into a glorified caveman. Peter Parker looked weak and pathetic in every sequence.

Near the middle the pages were stuck together. Pedro carefully pried them apart; the paper cracked softly. It was the spread where Reality Changer inflated Spider-Man’s ass until the hero earned the new name Booty-Man.

The final page showed the villain growing bored, stripping Peter of his powers, wiping his memory, rewriting his entire identity, and dumping him in Mexico.

Trash, Pedro thought. Spider-Man would never let that happen.

It’s almost ten, he realized with a jolt. This is why I should never take naps after the busboy shift. Memories of his job came flooding through the cotton thoughts.

Practicing his basic English with rich American tourists

His coworkers making fun of his big butt on a delivery job.

“Ay, Pedro has some big cheeks, wey. He’s starting to look like a girl.”

With urgency, he grabbed the cheap spandex Spider-Man suit he’d bought off Amazon, and pulled it over his brown body. The material clung too tight in some places and sagged in others, especially across the heavy curve of his ass.

He set the camera up on his rickety desk, aimed it at the bed, opened the site, and went live.

SpidermanFan2005 IS LIVE

Viewer numbers climbed in real time: 48… 120… 350… 900. Comments flooded the chat almost immediately.

illegal spiderman looking thick af
damn that spandex can’t hold all that ass
border hopper in the suit lmao
shake it for us wetback spidey
pedro the poor man’s spider-man
show us the goods illegals
fat latino ass in cheap spandex hit different

Pedro blinked at the screen. Some distant part of him knew this was wrong—that he had been someone else only minutes ago. The rest of him simply answered the chat.

He shifted on the bed, letting the exaggerated curve of his ass push out toward the camera. The cheap spandex stretched glossy and tight. More comments poured in, dirtier, hungrier.

He followed the new instincts without deciding to.

“You like… the illegal Spider-Man?” he asked, voice low and accented. “Pedro give show, sí?”

He kept going—grinding, bouncing, peeling the spandex down just far enough to let the upper curves of his thick Latino ass spill free, then tugging it back up when the chat begged. Every movement felt natural, practiced.

By the time the first tips started rolling in, Pedro Perez—cheap-suit cosplayer, TikTok camboy, self-branded illegal Spider-Man—was fully in character and fully hard, ready to give the chat whatever they asked for next.

Erik Lindqvist stepped off the plane at JFK carrying the quiet arrogance of someone who believed he had already understood the city from articles and documentaries. Eighteen years old, pale as winter milk, blond hair neatly cut, five-foot-seven of careful European posture. His hands were small, almost delicate, the fingers still shaped by years of neat handwriting and polite restraint. New York looked to him like a place that had given up on itself. Too loud, too busy, too willing to let the wrong kind of people fill its streets. He kept his backpack zipped tight and his opinions tighter.

He was cutting across a side street near Midtown when he heard a bang. A store alarm shrieked. Heavy footsteps pounded the pavement like hammers. A massive man in a dark hoodie tore around the corner at full speed, plastic bag swinging from one fist. Police sirens howled behind him. The man collided with Erik hard enough to nearly lift him off his feet.

Enormous hands clamped onto Erik’s narrow shoulders, fingers thick enough to wrap almost all the way around. For one raw second their faces were inches apart.

“Sorry, brotha,” the man rumbled, voice deep, as he darted for the closest ally.

Erik stood frozen, the two words still vibrating in his chest like a struck bell. An officer found him moments later, still rooted to the same square of dirty sidewalk.

“You saw the suspect?” the officer asked. “We need you to come in for a statement.”

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The interrogation room was a small box room that smelled of old coffee and paper books.

The officer led Erik into the room gestured for Erik to sit in the soft chair. Erik’s small precise hands folded neatly on the scarred table while a detective opened a notepad with deliberate calm.

“We’ll take it slow. How tall was the suspect?”

Erik pictured the man again. “Around six-three. Maybe six-four.”

The detective’s eyes lifted. “Uh-huh, so tall.” He glances at the boy in front of him. “Just like the Swedish. So you’d be familiar with that.”

Erik laughed, looking down at the police officer. Even though, Erik could admit the police officer was also tall… for an American. But the officer was no match for his Swedish genetics.

“What was the suspect’s build?”

“Huge. Lots of muscles. Heavy through the chest, the arms, the neck. Very broad.”

“I guess you two have something in common then.” The officer laughs in disbelief. “You’re bigger than most of the guys at this precinct.”

Erik sheepishly scratched his head, his clothes straining in the process and his big bicep limiting his movement. The officer stared at Erik’s round chest. Clothes must of shrank in the wash, Erik thought to himself. His big hand dropped back to the table with a dull, large thud that made the room ring.

“How did he dress?”

Erik spoke of the dark hoodie stretched tight across a massive back, the jeans riding low under his fat black ass, the scuffed heavy sneakers, the man’s durag. As the description left him he became aware of the soft, broken-in weight of a hoodie already straining across his own huge shoulders, the way the fabric pulled and stretched. The waistband of his pants sat low. His fat white ass only and the metal chair only separated by a thin layer of underwear. The shoes on his feet felt massive and heavy. The sneakers were no longer anything European.

“What did he sound like?”

Erik opened his mouth and the voice that rolled out was already a deep, rolling baritone, pure AAVE, heavy with the street.

“He talk just like this, man. Heavy as hell. Real street. Same rhythm n’ shit. Like he done been out here his hol’ life.”

The detective leaned back slowly. “A strange accent for a Swedish man.”

“Brotha was Swedish?” Erik was lost in confusion. It felt like his head was spinning.

“That’s what the reports say.” The officer tapped his pen on his notebook. “Did he look like a Swede?”

“I- uh, what’s happening, bruh?” Erik’s thick lips spoke.

“What did he look like?” The officer pushed.

Erik felt a bulging sensation throb in his baggy jeans as his black cock fattened and his balls pumped with fertile seed.

“He looked like me, homie.” Erik’s eyes shot up, catching what his own mouth just said.

The detective closed the notepad with a soft, decisive snap.

“Thank you for answering the questions. Jamal Brooks, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent-”

Two officers entered. Steel cuffs closed around wrists as thick as most men’s ankles. The man who no longer carried any other name stood without resistance, already thinking only of the bag and the chase. The white Swedish boy was drowning inside him, trying to make himself run. To swear it’s not him. But a deeper instinct knows this feels right.

They walked him out toward the transport van headed for Brooklyn MDC.

The officer on his left spoke casually over his shoulder.

“Don’t put him in the same cell as the Mangione boy. File says he’s got a thing for white boys—blows his load the second he sees one.”

The words hit like a switch being thrown.

Erik Jamal tried to push them away, some last scrap of defiance flaring for half a second, but the hunger flooded in too fast and too strong. Big pale asses. Soft, heavy white cheeks. The need was instant, absolute, existed for longer than he could remember. His thick black cock jumped hard in his jeans, already leaking.

His eyes wandered helplessly to the officer walking ahead. The uniform pants stretched tight across a full, round white ass that swayed with every step. Jamal noticing it had been jiggling in front of him this whole time.

And that Mangione boy they mentioned. His Swedish self had no idea. Never heard of the name before. But his new American self… how couldn’t he have known. He had jerked off to Luigi Magione many nights in his one bedroom apartment in the Bronx, tissues flooded his bed, with cum that was dedicated to the white boy. One single thought of Luigi Mangione… his pale, soft, wobbly white boy ass.

“No!” He could feel it coming. “Don’t think about… Luigi’s big white boy butt.”

He came on the spot.

Thick pulses emptied into his jeans in hot, shameful spurts imagining it was buried within Luigi Mangione’s wobbly white boy cheeks.

Jamal’s heavy cock still twitching against the soaked fabric. The orgasm felt humiliating but also, so right. He’d done it a thousand times before. To a thousand different white boys.

The officer glanced back and smirked.

“See? Told ya he wouldn’t last a minute in there.”

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Kai and Leo were both sat on the sofa enjoying some down time, they had been together for 6 years now and were both comfortable doing their own thing in each others company. Kai was adjusting his glasses and reading his book, when Leo's phone buzzed and he eagerly texted back.

"Who is it?" Kai said barely looking up from his phone.

"Just Steven. He is bugging me about Mum and Dad's anniversary present and I told him I'd pay him back once I get paid Thursday but he doesn't seem to remember."

Lukas hasn't been the same since he got his ears pierced. He's been acting really douchey to me. he still plays dnd and all that nerdy shit but he's different. I fucking hate his guts, I've hated him since mom decided to marry his ugly ass dad. Mom always goes on and on about how nice he is and how I should follow his lead. How she wants me to be more like him.

Fuck that.

I'm not gonna be some nerd ass loser that pretends to fight dragons in a basement all day.

At least that's what I thought before he got his ears pierced. Ever since he's had this edge that I can't place, he has more friends outside of his nerdy herd, girls are talking to him more- but I know his faggy ass is just thinking about the guys.

The other night he brought over this little twink that kinda looked like him but shorter, skinnier like he used to be. I guess that stereotype of gay guys dating themselves is truer than I thought.

They were fucking hella hard, I could hear the bedframe slam against my wall- the rhythmic vibrations keeping me from sleep. Lukas' deep voice crawled through the walls into my unwilling ears, sweet, kind, praising the twink's body. And for some fucking reason I couldnt stop touching myself like always I jacked myself off to the sound of his thick cock raming the twink.

Something I had gotten accustom to ever since we moved in together.

He makes me feel small. Sure I'm 6'2" but 5'6", compared to his 6'6" I look like a kid! Not to mention how jacked he is. I don't get it. How can someone game all day, study 24/7, and have time to go to the gym 5 days a week. He's ruined my life. Ever since mom and I have moved in with him and his dad, every girl I take home loses interest in me. It's gotten so bad I haven't fucked anyone besides my hand in ages. Now people know that I'm the guy with the hot step brother so people try to use me as a stepping stone to get to him.

It's like sooo hard to think when he's around and I think he knows it. Like all I want is for him to fuck me raw but whatevs.

He treats me like shit and I love it. God the first time that he fucked me it was euphoria. I love being put in my place. He loves to call me a fag between thrusts, his thick cock pummeling me like a sewing needle.

Creaaakk

He commands the room like a dictator, his giant feet telling me he's coming before he even steps foot in the hallway. His eyes trail down my thin body, his tongue tracing the inside of his lips as he stares at me hungrily.

"Hey cunt, ready for this dick? The other fags werent doing it for me, think I wanna see your face covered in my cum."