Male TF

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▮ male transformation ▫ male possession ▫ male body swap ▫ male hypnosis

▮ muscle growth ▫ muscle loss ▫ muscle theft ▫ weight gain ▫ merge ▫ bodysuit

▮ age progression ▫ age regression ▫ hair growth ▫ race change

▮ mental change ▫ mind control ▫ dumber ▫ language change ▫ accent change

▮ reality change ▫ identity theft ▫ role reversal

▮ straight to gay ▫ gay to straight ▫ female to male

▮ daddy tf ▫ bear tf ▫ jock tf ▫ himbo tf ▫ otter tf ▫ twink tf ▫ redneck tf ▫ stoner tf ▫ ginger tf ▫ surfer tf ▫ cowboy tf ▫ pornstar tf ▫ stripper tf ▫ military tf ▫ cop tf ▫ lumberjack tf ▫ pirate tf ▫ lifeguard tf ▫ celebrity tf ▫ animal tf ▫ inanimate tf ▫ devolution

▮ frat boy ▫ blue collar ▫ southern ▫ wrestling ▫ gogo boy ▫ cub ▫ pup ▫ slob ▫ pig ▫ slave

▮ chronivac ▫ clothing ▫ jockstrap ▫ underwear ▫ cap ▫ shoes ▫ singlet ▫ harness ▫ collar ▫ piercing

▮ fetish ▫ musk ▫ armpit ▫ feet ▫ sweat ▫ nipples ▫ milking

▮ beer ▫ smoking ▫ cigar ▫ leather ▫ latex ▫ tattoo ▫ wish gone wrong ▫ plan gone wrong

▮ unwilling ▫ loss of body control ▫ corruption ▫ humiliation ▫ debt ▫ punishment

-Oh shit, “He” is here again! And… all my friends?- I said in solitude while I had half of a delicious and greasy donut inside my mouth, I swallowed quickly letting the sugary crumbs fall on my dirty blue uniform and my big greasy belly.

I moved as fast as my new body allowed me, I got up from my huge chair dropping a bunch of crumbs, the back pain disappeared from my mind as I walked to the door of the surveillance room to lock the door, and then I returned to my comfortable chair to continue watching the show.

I changed each of the security cameras to focus on those perfect bodies, their steps were arrogant, and their shirts were soaked with sweat, at no time did they stop looking at the security cameras smiling, or flirting with me through the computer.

They all stopped in front of the dairy aisle and one by one, they started removing their shirts. revealing their perfect, muscular bodies. I couldn't resist for another second, and I searched between my fat crotch to find my small penis. With the tips of my fingers, I began to jerk off while my gaze focused on my old body.

-Damn Bob... you're doing so fucking good with my body- in just a couple of seconds my security guard uniform was soaked with sweat. Maybe the smell of the sweat from this body was the worst part, but right now I didn't care at all, all I could think about was the show I was receiving right now.

The pleasure didn't last long, I was now a premature ejaculator, my hands were covered in the hot smelly goo, -Fuuuuuck!- I screamed with my hoarse voice as the last drops came out of my little cock, I had to admit it, this body had the best orgasms, and I was an addict, I let my thoughts wander as I caught my breath, and I remembered how this all started, how it made me addicted to all this…

One second I was lifting weights at the gym and the next I was in a disgusting and smelly public bathroom holding a phone with one of my Instagram pictures in one hand and the other was submerged in a thick layer of white hair holding an unknown penis… I had so many questions, but I wanted to rub my cock with this calloused hairy hand even more…

I still don't know how Bob swapped our bodies, every day I woke up in Bob's smelly fat body was a new nightmare, especially with the real Bob sending me erotic pictures and forcing me to masturbate in his body, it's amazing that several months later I'm actually enjoying my new life... I get hot selfies of my old body and my friends, and occasionally Bob sends me a video of himself jerking off to the thick, veiny piece of meat I used to have between my legs.

Maybe life as a middle-aged mall guard is alrigh, actually like my new beard!

-------

Hey guys, sorry for the long wait for new stories. The truth is, my life took a sudden turn and… I didn't feel up to writing anymore, but things are stabilizing now. This is one of my old stories that I have in my archives, which will be updated again soon. I have a bunch of stories I want you to see and some ideas I want to write. See you soon.

Working late again Jeff sat at his desk in his office pondering over the new set of data that was just given to him. Production was really down this time of year and if he didn’t find a way to production up he was going to have to find another job and fast. And to top it off in just a little under a week Christmas was going to be here.

Jeff sat in his chair with eye brows pinched together as he could feel another headache coming on. He looked at the clock and seen that it was 5pm and his work day was over. Jeff gathered his things together and headed home. He was walking down the site walk to a recent construction site for a smoke shop that was going up in his neighborhood. He could hear the workers swearing in their everyday language. “Oi feck you Kevin ye dumb cunt. You know I’m right innit”. Jeff looked over and he made eye contact with one of the workers. “Oi fucka wut ya problem mate feck off” said the workie and raise his hand toward Jeff. Jeff began walking faster as he heard the workie making lewd comments about his prick and him being a coward.

When Jeff got back to his apartment he opened a bottle of scotch and sipped on it for the evening. He couldn’t believe how rude the workie was. He acted as thoUgh he didn’t have a care in the world making a scene like that in public. It was around 11pm when he woke up from falling asleep on his couch and he looked out his living room window only to see a star shooting across the sky. Without even thinking Jeff said “I wish I could know what it’s like to be like that workie and not have a care in the world”. Still having a bottle of scotch in his belly Jeff fell asleep again on the couch.

Jeff woke up the next morening when a weird smell assaulted his nostrils. It smelled of cheap cigarettes and weed. He tried to move but he couldn’t. It was as if he was paralyzed. Eventually his body started to move. But out of his control. His eyes opened and he could see that his room was completely different. T was dirty. Littered with Chinese take out boxes and pizza boxes. An ash tray was right beside his bed which was just a mattress placed on the floor. The place looked like it hadn’t been vacuumed in months. He felt sick as if he was hung over and remembered the scotch from the day before. This had to be a drunken dream. His body staggered as if still drunk to a bathroom where his face was immediately plunged to the toilet where he began to vomit. Cheap beer was what it smelled like. When that was done his body began to pull his pants down to take a leak. Something was definitely not right. He now had an uncircumcised cock that looked much bigger and thicker than one he was used to. Jeff began to panic. He fought more and more for control with no luck. His body turned around and he seen the face of the workie staring back at him. His body started to move as if to leave the bathroom while Jeff screamed in his head to wash his hands but the workie just passed the sink not doing so leaving some fresh urine on his finger tips. He staggered to the fridge in the corner and found some of the cheap beer from the night before and chugged 3 cans of it and belched loud. He then lit a blunt and the smell of weed consumed the room followed by cigarettes. A phone buzzes in the corner and he looked at the txt message he got from a man name Rex “Oi Taz get ya foockin ass down ‘ere ya bloody cunt”. Fuck mate his body said. He started digging through the first clothes pile and found a sweat suit with holes and stains. One that had been worn several times before without being washed. The socks came next and they were dirty with dirt and sweat. When putting them on Jeff realized he now had an ankle bracelet on for being under house arrest. His feet were much larger than he was used to and when putting boots on seen that they were a size 15 wide. On his way out the door he grabbed a cap and put it on. He smelt of a construction site and arm pits. He didn’t wear any deodorant and smelled like he hadn’t showered in a few days. The hygiene of this man was non existent it seemed. Eventually “taz” made it to the subway where for his ride to work. Jeff fought a reflection of himself and it seemed as though the look of absolute confusion was permanently plastered on taz’s face. Jeff was still stuck fighting for control over the man. But all he could do was remain a dormant entity possessing a corner of this stinking chav. What was Jeff going to do now?

You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.

"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"

"Jason is like totally the hottest."

"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."

"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"

You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.

"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"

The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.

“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"

"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.

"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.

The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"

You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.

"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"

Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.

"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"

"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"

"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.

"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."

"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"

You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.

"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.

"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.

"No shame in that, brah!"

You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.

"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"

Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"

"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"

The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.

"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.

"Chlorophyll."

"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"

Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"

The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.

"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.

"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"

You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."

"Correct!"

"Woah bro, nice one!"

Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.

"What the…?"

The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…

"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"

The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"

"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."

But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?

"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."

You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!

"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.

"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."

You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...

"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.

"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."

The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...

"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"

"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."

"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.

The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?

"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."

"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"

"Dead lifts..."

"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."

The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."

Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?

"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.

You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.

"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.

"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."

Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.

"The answer is hips, bro."

"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.

As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.

"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind—Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.

When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?

"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.

Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?

A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.

The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."

"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.

"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.

"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"

The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"

The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.

"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."

Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.

The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.

With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.

"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.

And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of candles scattered across the floor. Two college friends stood facing each other, tension thick between them. Aaron held a trembling hand aloft, his eyes brimming with regret as he stared at his best friend, Jordan. Jordan’s confusion turned to panic as he felt a tingling warmth spreading from his fingertips to his core.

“Aaron… what are you doing? Stop this! Please!” Jordan’s voice quivered, his eyes wide with fear. He tried to step back, but it was as though his feet were glued to the floor, his body pinned in place by some unseen force.

Aaron’s expression softened, guilt evident in his eyes, but his hand remained steady. “I’m sorry, Jordan. I… I have to. I need this to survive.”

Jordan shook his head, fear giving way to anger as his voice turned desperate. “You don’t have to do this! I’m your best friend! Whatever this is, we can figure it out together. You don’t have to turn me into… into someone else!”

But Aaron’s hand didn’t waver. “I wish it were that simple,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to do this, but if I don’t… I’ll cease to exist. This is the only way I can secure my existence.”

Jordan’s body began to shift, his limbs thickening as his posture became more relaxed, almost carefree. His arms, once lean and wiry, grew strong and muscular. His shoulders broadened, his chest swelling as his shirt strained against his changing body.

“Aaron, please… stop this!” Jordan’s voice grew weaker, deeper, tinged with a strange drawl he didn’t recognize. His hands clawed at his arms, his skin tingling as dark hairs sprouted along his forearms. He looked at his hands in horror as they grew rougher, calloused.

Aaron’s face crumpled, tears spilling down his cheeks. He whispered, barely audible, “I’m sorry, Dad…”

--

Jordan blinked, disoriented, as he found himself standing in a strange living room. The lighting was warmer, softer, and the air was filled with a faint scent of cologne and the faint fizz of soda. His surroundings had shifted; he was no longer in Aaron’s dorm room, but instead… he was at a house party.

He felt a strange chill on his feet, glancing down to find himself in white socks, his toes curled over the edge of a barstool. He was wearing faded blue jeans, loose around the ankles but fitted perfectly around his waist. A plain white T-shirt hugged his broad chest, and as he raised his hand to his head, he felt the soft brim of a newsboy cap. A silver watch glinted on his wrist.

Confusion gave way to a strange, warm buzz. He wasn’t sure why he was here, but it felt… right. Like he was supposed to be here. A girl standing nearby caught his eye, and he couldn’t help but smirk, his confidence suddenly overpowering his initial fear.

“Hey there,” he drawled, his voice smooth and deeper than he remembered. “What’s a girl like you doing with a Coke when there’s way better stuff to drink?”

The girl, who looked like she was dressed for a night out, laughed, clearly charmed. “Oh, I didn’t know you were the party expert!” she teased, playfully raising her eyebrow.

“Name’s Jordan. What’s yours?” he asked, leaning closer, his posture relaxed and effortlessly cool. His mind was beginning to lose the fog of confusion, his memories of Aaron and the transformation slipping away, like sand through his fingers.

The girl smiled coyly. “Jessica. Nice to meet you, Jordan.”

He flashed a grin, showing off his pearly whites. “Well, Jessica, I gotta say… you’re lookin’ fine tonight. Can’t believe a girl like you is hanging out here and not getting swept off her feet yet.”

Jessica blushed, clearly flattered, and they began to talk. Jordan’s words flowed easily, his confidence unshakable. He talked about music, cracked jokes, teased her gently—all the while flashing that infectious, dopey grin. He felt magnetic, in his element, with no trace of hesitation or awkwardness. They laughed together, the hours slipping by as if they were old friends. And every so often, Jessica would playfully nudge his shoulder, and he’d respond by wrapping his arm around her, his touch warm and casual.

Within months, they were inseparable. Jessica was charmed by his easygoing demeanor, his laid-back confidence, and his protectiveness. They became a couple, their bond as strong as any young love could be, Jordan fully immersed in the life he’d created in this time. He was simply Jordan, living life to the fullest in the early 2000s.

--

Back in 2024, Aaron let out a shaky sigh of relief. He felt his body settle, like a puzzle piece finally locking into place. He pulled out his phone, scrolling to the contact marked “Dad.” The profile picture showed a selfie of him with a man in his late forties, both of them grinning under the sun. His dad—formerly his best friend Jordan—was now a broad, bearded man, his face aged yet familiar, with a bald head and a full beard tinged with gray. He wore a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a comfortable flannel shirt over a T-shirt, and sneakers. The way he stood, relaxed with a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, exuded a dad-like comfort and ease.

Aaron studied the photo, a fond smile spreading across his face. His own features had shifted slightly; his jaw was a little squarer, his brow a bit broader. Looking at the photo, he saw how much he resembled the man standing beside him—now unmistakably his father.

Memories surfaced in his mind: fishing trips, Sunday barbecues, learning to drive, his dad giving him advice on life and college. Each memory felt as real as anything, slipping seamlessly into place, like they’d always been there.

Aaron whispered to himself, “Thanks, Dad… You have no idea what you did for me.” He felt an overwhelming gratitude, not just for the sacrifices Jordan had unknowingly made, but for the life he now had—the memories, the connection, the love of a father he’d always dreamed of having.

Hey everyone! Here is an indirect sequel to Welcome to the Crew to celebrate American Thanksgiving. Please reach out if you ever want to borrow any concepts to include in your own stories. Always happy to collaborate.

“They’re going to love you.” Sarah reassured, “Don’t worry.”

Jack nodded and smiled warmly at his girlfriend as they approached the front door to her parent’s home. The two college juniors had been dating for a little over a year now, and Jack was still madly in love. He never met a girl quite like Sarah. They had been friends since their first year of college, and their chemistry was instantaneous. She was everything he could want- smart, funny, adventurous, and absolutely stunning. He imagined he would ask her to marry him one day.

“I’m not, honestly.” He said, adjusting his collar, “I’m just happy I get to meet your family. They sound like incredible people.” Sarah smiled, “And I brought a secret weapon.” He said nodding to the Pyrex in his hand, “No one can resist my mom’s mashed potatoes.” He flashed her a confident grin- clearly proud of himself, “I mean, I’m not sure how good they’ll be. First time I ever made ‘em.” He laughed.

“You’re such a dork.” Sarah replied, rolling her eyes.

She knocked on the door and was greeted soon by her mother, who quickly pulled them into a firm hug.

“Oh Jack, we’re so happy to finally meet you!” She said, “My little Sarah wasn’t lying, you’re so handsome.”

Jack blushed as she continued to sing him praises. Sarah was right- he didn’t need to worry. Her mother already loved him. She beckoned them indoors and they followed her into the kitchen. Jack felt himself salivating at the smell of the cooking Thanksgiving meal.

“Oh you brought a dish?” Sarah’s mom said, “What a kind thing to do.”

“Yeah of course. What kind of guest would I be if I showed up empty handed?” Jack smiled, “Do you need any...”

The sound of boisterous cheering and a cacophony of ‘let’s go!’ and ‘fuck yeahs!’ filled the air. Sarah’s mom groaned in embarrassment.

“They sure love their football.” she said, shaking her head, “And don’t you worry dear, I think we’ll be okay in here. Sarah’s aunt has been helping me out plenty.” She turned to Sarah, “You might as well introduce him to the boys.”

“It’s just down the hallway.” Sarah said, beckoning her boyfriend to follow.

“Oh Jack, you’re such a sweet young man. My Sarah is so lucky.” She gave him another hug.

Jack followed Sarah down the hall, where the sound of boisterous cheers became more audible. The young man remembered that Sarah had two older brothers, both of whom worked with their dad in some construction job. He just hoped they’d be as accepting of him as her mother.

“Don’t let them scare you.” Sarah said as they opened the door to the man cave.

“Oh shit, its Sarah!”

Her two brothers jumped up from the couch, nearly spilling their beers. Their massive beer guts jiggling as they stood, barely contained by their too tight t-shirts. They pulled Sarah into a tight hug, and Jack was afraid that these massive men might snap her in two. But when their drunken eyes landed on Jack, their smiles faded.

“Who’s this little guy?” One asked.

“This is Jack, my boyfriend.” Sarah replied.

“Looks kinda small.”

“Oh leave the boy alone.” Sarah’s dad said, still sitting on the couch, sipping his beer, “You like football?”

“I watch it from time to time.” Jack replied. He could see her brothers roll their eyes.

“Take a seat. Game is just getting good.” He continued.

Jack turned to Sarah, who rolled her eyes but gave him a nod. The young man smiled slightly and made his way over to the couch, where he was squeezed between Sarah’s dad and her two brothers.

“Tony, Al be nice.” Sarah warned, “That goes for you too, dad.”

The older man let out a deep chuckle that caused his massive gut to shake. He looked over at her and smiled, taking a sip of his beer. Jack watched as Sarah left and shut the door, leaving him trapped in the man cave. The young man shifting uncomfortably between the larger men, the smell of their B.O. and beers invading his nostrils.

“So, you’re dating our sister?” Tony asked, “You treating her well?”

“Of course.” Jack replied, “I...”

“You’re a bit smaller than her last boyfriend.” Al butted in, “God, Colin’s fuckin’ hilarious, you remember that guy?”

“Of course I do. I still go fishing with him.” Tony replied.

“Best pong player ever.” Al laughed, “Could outdrink all of us too, which is not easy.”

“He’s a hard worker.” Sarah’s dad contributed, “Glad I hired him.”

Tony nudged Jack, “You much of a drinker?”

“Not really.” Jack replied, trying his best to ignore their comments about Colin.

In fact, Jack never even tried alcohol. He never saw the appeal and Sarah seemed overjoyed to hear that he didn’t drink too. Seemed like a win-win to him. As for Colin, Sarah told him all he needed to know. He was an asshole- loud, boisterous, and immature. Someone he figured her brothers and father would enjoy.

“Not really? Aw come on, little guy.” Tony said, “Pops, grab him a beer.”

Jack tried to politely decline, but Sarah’s dad fished a beer from the cooler and tossed it to him. He caught it and inspected it closely. It was brown- the color of a football. Some guy in old football gear was on the front. But instead of holding a football, there was a can of Gridiron brew in his hands.

“I think I’m good...”

“Drink it.” Her dad said firmly.

Jack didn’t want to make a bad impression. And if drinking some stupid beer would win them over, then so be it.

“Just a sip.” He thought.

He opened the can and placed it to his lips. He could feel the cold liquid fill his stomach as he drank it. The taste nothing special, if anything, it tasted cheap.

“Oh shit dude, he just chugged it!” Tony laughed, “Let’s go!”

“Did I really?” Jack mumbled, realizing the can was empty, “I burrrppppppppppp.” Jack’s eyes widened and his face flushed with embarrassment, “Ugh I burrrrrrrrrppppppppppppp.”

“Fuck, nice one dude.” Al patted him on the back.

“Yeah, let that shit out.” Tony continued.

But Jack’s eyes were wide with terror. He felt like his entire body was heating up, sweat starting to drip down his face. His mind racing- he drank beer before and never had a reaction like this.

“I think I might be allerg... burrrppppppppppp.”

He could hear Tony and Al’s laughter fill the air. Sarah’s dad continued to stare at the game ahead of him, seemingly unbothered. Jack was hyperventilating now. And despite knowing he shouldn’t, he undid the buttons on his shirt and threw it aside, desperately hoping to cool down.

“Yeah, take it off bro!”

The button down wasn’t enough and Jack peeled off his sweat-soaked undershirt, revealing his lean, firm musculature from years of swimming. He let out a gasp as he watched his taut abs vibrating and his stomach churning, his youthful skin glistening with sweat.

“Please, I need help...” He gasped, closing his eyes tightly as his stomach churned.

He placed a hand to his abs, but instead of their normal firmness, he felt his hand sink into soft flesh. His eyes shot open and he looked down at the pudge that now hid his abs. Feeling the new softness, he let out a gasp as his stomach pushed out again. And again. And again. The growing mass that was once his hard-earned six-pack hung over his waistline, jiggling with each small movement. Jack’s eyes were wide as he pushed against it, almost as if he was willing it to retract.

“Oh my god...” He grunted, realizing as he looked over at Sarah’s brothers that his gut matched theirs, “No, no, no buurrppppppp.”

This time, his lean pecs plumped up with fat, sagging and resting comfortably on his new gut. He winced as adipose rapidly expanded in his legs, arms, and ass- covering his lean musculature in a healthy padding of thick fat proportional to his midsection. Even his once angular and handsome face puffed up with chub, rounding out his previously strong jawline.

“Lookin’ good beanpole.” Al laughed, poking at Jack’s new gut.

“Not much of a beanpole anymore.” Tony replied.

Jack looked back and forth between them, tears stinging his eyes, “Please... please stop this... I’ll do anythaaahhhhhhh.”

Jack scratched desperately at his chest and belly as a rush of testosterone was ravaged his body. His well groomed, light chest hairs darkened and sprouted into a matted, sweaty, curly bush. His dick hairs were not spared as they sprouted into an untamed, musky mess that quickly ascended his entire belly and joined his chest hairs. Jack flung his head back as hairs sprouted from his now round face, forming a messy beard. The young man groaned again as his skin sagged a bit more with age, growing more leathery with each passing second. He placed a hand on his hairy abdomen as he breathed heavily. In and out. In and out. Slowly, Jack opened his eyes, the horror of his ordeal being painfully confirmed.

“What....”

He had so many questions, so many horrifying thoughts. But then he saw it. On the TV screen. He watched as one of the players expertly maneuvered around the defense. Running down the field. The announcers freaking out, growing more excited. And when that player scored a touchdown, Jack jumped up from his seat.

“Fuck yeah, bros! Did you just fuckin’ see that!?” His boisterous yell shook the house and he fist-bumped Tony and Al, “Now that’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about!” He collapsed back onto the chair and grinned, “I did the same shit in high school when I played, ya know.” He continued, “Could’ve gone pro too if I wanted.”

Memories of track and college quickly shifted to fit Jack’s new reality. His eyes dulling as years of education vanished and his IQ dropped considerably. The previously well-mannered young man vanishing into a sea of burps, sports, and lost dreams.

“Sure big guy.” Tony said, sipping his beer.

“No for real, dude. I...” His brain paused as he tried to remember details of his life, “Whatever, you’ll just have to believe me.”

The door to the man cave suddenly swung open, revealing the women of the house. Sarah in particular looked livid, her face morphing into a look of horror as she gazed upon the unfamiliar man sitting between her brothers.

“Jack?” Her eyes widened as she gazed upon her boyfriend, “Oh my god, Jack? Is that you?”

“What’s up?” Jack chuckled, “Grab me a beer, would ya babe?”

“Dad, you didn’t!” She shouted, “This is just like Colin.” She stormed away, tears stinging her eyes.

“Geez what’s wrong with her? Women, am I right?” Jack let out another burp, and fist bumped his bros as he stood and grabbed another can of his new favorite brew.  

Sarah’s mom and aunt quickly went to go comfort Sarah. Meanwhile, the boys continued shouting at the TV screen, their burps and cheers echoing through the house- Jack remaining blissfully oblivious to the life he once lived. And as the game wound down, Sarah’s dad turned to him.

“So boy, you want a job workin’ for me?”

Another chance at youth? You wouldn’t be the first. At 35, you’ve noticed you don’t bounce back like you used to. Back hurts, your gut is more prominent, and the 9-5 desk job doesn’t fulfill you all too much. Sure, you’ve made attempts to “reset”. You’ve tried the latest fad diet, a few supplements, and a subscription workout plan that you truthfully don’t even follow. You even looked into some of those fancy new weight loss shots, but your doctor recommended lifestyle changes first. One night, as you eat chips and scroll through a fitness influencer’s myriad of thirst traps, an advertisement appears.

“Maximize your Potential.” You read, your eyes drawn to the cocky jock flexing their biceps, “A shot of pure ‘Potential’?” You chuckle, “What kind of stupid drug is that?” Your eyes widen when you see the cost, “No way, I’m not paying...” You sigh as you look at the bag of chips in your lap and your growing gut. Looking back at the ad, you notice the offer for a free consultation, “Fuck it...”

_____

While you spent your night learning more about ‘Potential’, a college student finished his last few reps for the night. Jason grunted, dropping the two heavy dumbbells with a thud. He grimaced when he noticed a grade notification appear on his phone.

“Fuck.” He used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, revealing a set of perfectly sculpted abs, “Please...”

It was supposed to be easy. Everyone told him a business major was fuckin’ easy. At least easy enough so he could focus on the things that really mattered. College was supposed to be about living your best life: tailgates, frat parties, and hot girls. But now, there were talks he would be cut from the lacrosse team because of his grades. His frat even put him on probation, the frat president telling him he needed to focus more on his classes. And as he stared at the ‘56%’ he realized he just failed another class. He’d definitely be staying at least an extra year.

Jason quickly left the gym, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t take out more loans. He couldn’t afford to waste more time. Would he even get a job? What would his friends think? As he arrives back at his apartment, he grimaces at the stench of stale gym clothes and laundry.

“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” He mumbles, falling into bed. He quietly scrolls through social media, determined to distract himself, when an ad pops up, “What’s this?” His eyes were immediately drawn to the lump sum payment, “Potential... looking for men in their 20s...” The gears were turning in his head, “I could make it on that. Pay off my loans, get my shit together.” And without a second thought, he signed up to get more info.

_______

It had been a few months since you saw that ad. Initially, nothing came of it. That night and the subsequent talks with Potential’s medical staff about donors, injections, and consents were nearly forgotten. So when you received a phone call telling you that a donor was found and you were to arrive at their medical spa by tomorrow, you were surprised. Even more surprised when you were driven to the airport by a limo and flew first class to their location.

You were greeted by their medical staff and given some standard medical paperwork. You were then escorted back to your room. You had assumed it would be a standard doctor’s room, but you were shocked by all the accommodations: a massage chair, drinks, a massive TV- they really were going all out to make you feel welcomed. And as you relaxed and made yourself comfortable, you felt a growing anticipation for what was to come.

_____

Meanwhile, Jason was left in a room of his own. He was in the midst of playing some videogames and enjoying the massage chair when one of the medical staff entered. Jason recognized the guy. For the past few months, he had been undergoing various tests and assessments of his physical fitness. It was only a few days ago he found out he would be accepted.  

“Mr. Connors, we’re ready to begin.” He said, “Your recipient has paid in full, so you’ll see your portion in your account in 2-3 business days. Do you have any additional questions?”

Jason smirked, “Nice.” He stood up and stretched, “No man, I’m good.” Truth be told, his eyes had glazed over when the medical staff had explained this whole thing to him, “I just want to make sure the money’s all there.”

The medical professional nodded and Jason watched as they rolled in a large machine with Potential’s logo smeared all over it. There were several buttons and a few vials. He was instructed to relax and he leaned back in his chair, while a nurse inserted an IV into his muscular arm. He could feel his heart pounding now, some anxious thoughts filling his head. But as the warm hum of the machine filled the room, Jason felt tired. His eyes closing as he drifted to sleep.

_____

It was a few hours later when the medical staff entered your room, carrying a small syringe with a strange blue liquid in it. You could feel your heart pounding- this was it. The medical staff began explaining the contents. Something about a donor’s potential, their revolutionary tech, and the instantaneous results. You only focused on that- the instantaneous results. You watched as they dispensed the blue liquid into your arm, the room suddenly growing hot, your world spinning, and your consciousness fading.

_____

“Mr. Connors? Mr. Connors, can you hear us?” Jason grunted as his eyes slowly opened, his vision immediately greeted by two nurses, “Oh good you’re awake.”

“Ugh wh... where?” Jason grimaced at gravelly voice. But more bothersome was the strange heaviness he felt with simple motions. Even his joints sore, “I don’t...”

“It’s totally normal Mr. Connors.” They said, “We’re all done. Just take some time and relax for as long as you need. You might find you don’t bounce back like you used to.”

He watched through groggy eyes as they left, overhearing them say something about it being "such a shame" and "odd someone would willingly give away their potential."

“The fuck was that supposed to mean? I feel like shit.” He muttered, scratching as his chest.

His eyes widened as his fingertips danced along his chest. The feeling was foreign- his firm pecs felt doughy beneath his hand. He fully woke up now, staring down and gasping at the unfamiliar frame hidden beneath his tighter t-shirt.

“What the fuck!?” He grunted, pulling off his shirt, “No... no...” His hands caressed his hairy moobs, traveling down his distended, hairy belly, “This can’t be... this isn’t...” He grabbed fistfuls of his new belly fat, his hands moving up to feel his unwanted new beard, “How? What?” He looked around desperately, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

An older, hairier, out of shape version of himself met his gaze. And as he approached the mirror, the horrifying reality finally dawned on him.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?”

_____

It had only been a few weeks since your visit to Potential. And yet you couldn’t help but grin as you awoke on another sunny morning with a stiff morning wood. Your meaty hand instinctively gripped your impressive length, while you moaned and pumped with your muscular arm. A few minutes later, you basked in the afterglow of orgasm, slowly pulling yourself out of bed and entering the bathroom.

“Look at me.” You smirk, flexing your bicep and giving it a kiss, “God I’m not gonna get tired of this.”

When you awoke after the injection, you were shocked to find a younger version of yourself staring back at you. But unlike the you in your memories, you had a set of muscles that you could only ever have dreamed of. Bulging pecs, tight abs, and a set of impressive arms that immediately made your larger dick stand at attention. Potential was even nice enough to throw in their dieticians and personal trainers to ensure continued success. You were pleasantly surprised at how easily you picked up a work-out routine and a dedication to fitness- apparently all part of the potential they gave you.

“Fuck, look at that.” You mumbled, checking your phone as another payment went through from OnlyFans, “Beats that shitty desk job.” You do feel some regret for jerking off this AM without filming it, “Oh well, I’ll be ready to go soon.” But right now you had to prepare for a day at the lake with some of your new gym bros, “Hope my donor is doing well.” You think as you pull on a tight tank top, “Wish I could’ve thanked him.” And out you went, a carefree grin plastered on your face as you live your second chance to its fullest.

Federal Containment Authority

File: AE-1127

Nickname: “The Father”

Status: Secured

Acquisition Log:

AE-1127 first drew FCA attention after his registered family tree appeared to be expanding at an exponential rate, with dozens of new “sons” suddenly listed as biological kin—many of them traced back to individuals who had recently visited his small bodega on [REDACTED] street in [REDACTED] city. Cross-checks confirmed genetic matches, though no record existed of adoption or marriage.

Despite these anomalies, locals described him as a steady, dependable presence in the neighborhood: a man in his mid-40s, of Middle Eastern descent, with dark hair beginning to gray at the temples and a neatly trimmed beard. His build was solid and practical, reflecting years of physical labor running his corner bodega, carrying himself with quiet authority. He was known as hardworking and firm, yet generous, often offering small discounts or extra change to loyal customers, and had a habit of addressing them warmly as “son” or “my boy.”

When the FCA arrived, AE-1127 offered no resistance. He greeted the team with a steady, measured smile, asking if they were managing alright and offering them a bottle of water from behind the counter. Calm and cooperative, he allowed them to guide him out of the bodega without hesitation, his demeanor polite but quietly assertive.

Observation Notes:

In containment, AE-1127 remains calm, firm, and cooperative. He often uses paternal phrases—“That’s my boy,” “Proud of you, son,”—though staff are required to keep their distance and wear noise-canceling earmuffs to prevent activation. Testing confirms these phrases trigger rapid genetic and cognitive changes in anyone within close range.

Case File – Subject A-1 (FKA: Adrian Cole):

The first confirmed case tied to AE-1127 involves a twenty-one-year-old male, formerly known as, Adrian Cole. The incident is detailed below.

———————————————————————

Adrian slipped into the corner bodega just as the bell above the door gave its tired jingle. The street outside was quiet, every other shop shuttered for the night, and midway through his evening study session, he’d realized he was out of milk—the one thing he needed for his late-night coffee while cramming for finals. The neon beer sign buzzed faintly in the window, casting a dim glow across the empty sidewalk.

Behind the counter stood the owner—middle-aged, mustache neatly trimmed, button-down tucked into slacks, posture easy but alert. He looked up from a notebook, then glanced at the clock on the wall, before dashing a stern but cooperative look towards Adrian.

“You’re just on the dot, my son,” the man said. “We close now.”

Adrian raised a hand apologetically. “Sorry, I’ll be quick. Just need some milk.”

The man nodded once, patient. “Of course. Milk for my son.”

Adrian half smiled and made his way towards the fridges. He tugged open the fridge door, a puff of cold air spilling out. Rows of cartons stared back at him, but none were brands he recognized. The labels were in script he couldn’t read, looping Arabic letters curling across white cardboard. Dates, pistachio, cardamom—nothing like the plain old two-percent he’d come for.

From behind him, he felt the man’s eyes on his back, steady and expectant.

Adrian hesitated, glancing from the unfamiliar cartons to the owner. “Uh… sorry. Is there any… uh… make-up American brand milk?” he asked, hoping to sound casual.

The man’s smile widened, and without warning he stepped around the counter. His fingers, thick and surprisingly strong, settled gently but firmly on Adrian’s shoulders, almost like a hand guiding a child. “Ah… let me show you, son,” he said warmly. “You think you’d know where it is by now, habibi.”

Before Adrian could protest, the man led him toward the fridge, his grip steady, confident. The bright hum of the refrigeration units filled the silence as they reached the correct section. Adrian reached for the carton, and just as he pulled it out, the owner squeezed Adrian’s shoulder, causing the milk to drop from his hand. Cold milk spilled across the floor.

The man’s expression changed instantly, the warmth replaced by a firm, no-nonsense stare. “Ah-ah-ah! Look at this mess, son. What have I told you again and again. You must be careful.”

Adrian froze, the sudden scolding throwing him off balance. He opened his mouth, trying to apologize, but the words felt small, inadequate, somehow wrong. The man’s fingers remained steady on his shoulders, his presence unyielding, and the weight of the reprimand lingered like a tangible force.

“You hear me, son?” He deep rough voice growled in Adrian’s ear. “Get the tissue paper roll and mop. Clean this up, boy.”

Adrian felt a strange knot tighten in his chest. The way the man’s deep, steady voice scolded him—it wasn’t angry, exactly, but firm and insistent—made him feel small, somehow inferior, like a dog caught doing wrong. Guilt pricked at him sharply, and a sudden, inexplicable urge to please the man surged through him.

Adrian scrambled toward the back room, heart hammering, desperate to fix the mess. He yanked the mop from the corner and grabbed a stack of paper towels, muttering apologies under his breath. As he moved, a question nagged at him—how did he know exactly where everything was? He had never been back here before, had never needed the supplies, and yet his hands seemed to move with automatic certainty, almost as if guided.

Passing a metal shelving unit, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface. His skin looked darker, warmer than usual, and his nose seemed broader, more defined. His hair appeared almost black, curling slightly at the ends where it had been straight before. He blinked and shook his head, forcing a rational thought. Metal reflects funny sometimes… it’s just a distortion, he told himself. Nothing’s changed.

Adrian returned to the main floor, mop and paper towels in hand, only to be met by the owner’s expectant gaze. “Quickly, son,” the man urged, glancing at the clock. “We close now.”

Adrian froze for a moment, the absurdity striking him. Why am I on my hands and knees scrubbing milk off the floor? he thought. I don’t even work here. His rational mind flitted for an answer, trying to pull him out of the strange compliance that had taken hold.

My biceps look so big. And are they… brown? But before he could fully consider it, the owner crouched slightly, voice soft but firm: “Good job, son.”

The words hit Adrian like a jolt. Pleasure, warmth, and a rush of inexplicable pride lit up his brain all at once, bursting through every thought like a Christmas tree of lights flickering in his head. He gasped, momentarily overwhelmed, heart pounding. His big round pecs bouncing with each heart beat.

And then he heard it, almost in passing, yet undeniable: the owner wasn’t calling him son anymore. “Ahmed,” he said. “Good job, Ahmed.”

Adrian’s fat pecs bounced, a strange warmth spreading through him every time he heard the name Ahmed. The pleasure was sharp and insistent, almost intoxicating, but his rational mind rebelled. This isn’t right. That’s not me, he thought, hands trembling slightly as he stood upright, head spinning with conflicting thoughts.

Before he could collect himself, the owner’s large hand landed firmly on his fattening brown cheeks in a quick, corrective smack. “Turn the sign on the door,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “We’re closing up for the night. You are acting like you don’t do this every day, Ahmed?”

Adrian froze again, a rush of heat and confusion flooding him. Every day? The words hit him like a memory he didn’t remember having, tangled with the pleasure coursing through him. The name, the reprimand, the fatherly authority—it all pulled at him irresistibly, leaving him uncertain where he ended and his father began.

His stomach twisted. No. Not father. I’ve never met this man before tonight.

And yet, the word felt… right. He recounted each memory of his childhood, the man was there. It felt utterly impossible. He could see his life growing up, clutching the edges of a kitchen counter, listening to the call to prayer echo faintly through the apartment building. He could feel the heat of summer in a cramped New Jersey neighborhood, the scent of cumin and roasting lamb drifting from the kitchen, the low hum of Arabic being spoken softly around him. He remembered school mornings rushing past graffiti-tagged walls, the way his father had straightened his little tie before walking him to the bus stop, always warning him to be polite, to keep his head down, to work hard, so that maybe one day, he could take over the family business - the bodega.

Ahmed lifted the small sign and flipped it from Open to Closed. In the glass door, he sees his reflection - a tall, tan skinned, hairy man.

He turned back toward his father, confusion written across his face, searching for reassurance, for understanding, for something familiar to hold onto. His father was standing there, waiting for him.

The man stepped forward, arms open, and drew him into a firm, encompassing embrace. His hands rested gently on Ahmed’s back, then moved upward to stroke his hair, slow and deliberate, every motion radiating calm authority.

“You’re my son,” he murmured, voice warm and steady. “You’ve always been my son. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Ahmed’s chest tightened as the words sank in. A peculiar warmth spread through his mind, and then—suddenly—his thoughts seemed to flatten, compressing, rearranging themselves. The memories of Adrian, the confusion, the life he thought he’d lived, all dissolved into nothing. In their place rose a new certainty: he was Ahmed. He had always been Ahmed.

Every fiber of his being aligned with the man holding him. He felt a deep, unshakable loyalty, a sense of purpose so complete it made his head spin. He could not remember Adrian, could not conceive a life without this man. This man was his saviour. His father, and he could not have been prouder to be called his son.

—————————————————————————

Anomalous Mechanism

AE-1127 affects individuals who enter a two-meter proximity and are addressed with familial language, primarily terms like “son,” “my boy,” or “kiddo.”

Effects:

1. Genetic Rewrite: The target’s DNA is overwritten with AE-1127’s, creating a direct biological link.

2. Physical Change: The subject’s appearance shifts to match AE-1127’s traits, including skin tone, facial features, hair, and body structure.

3. Memory and Identity: Previous memories and self-concept are erased. The subject fully accepts themselves as AE-1127’s child.

4. Behavioral Compliance: Targets feel intense loyalty, obedience, and a desire to please AE-1127.

The effect only occurs through verbal familial cues within range. Physical removal or isolation does not prevent the transformation once triggered.

Subject File – A-1 (Interview Assessment)

Subject was taken in for questioning following his DNA rewrite from AE-1127.

During interviews, the individual displayed complete acceptance of a new identity, referring to AE-1127 consistently as “father” and asserting that he had always been Ahmed.

The subject pleaded for AE-1127’s release, insisting the anomaly was innocent and that separation would be cruel. Attempts to reference his former identity as Adrian Cole were met with confusion; he could not comprehend the name or the person. Behavioral observations confirmed that all memories and loyalty were now aligned with AE-1127.

Due to current limitations in FCA capability to reverse DNA rewriting, the subject was released. There exists no known method to restore pre-exposure genetic characteristics, leaving Adrian permanently altered—biologically, cognitively, and culturally—as a Middle Eastern male.

Next Steps

Since Subject A-1’s exposure five months ago, AE-1127 has generated up to 50 genetically linked offspring. The next subject is scheduled for questioning tomorrow, and containment personnel are advised to maintain full protocol precautions.

Federal Containment Authority

File: T-1

Nickname: “Tyler Prescott”

Status: Contained

Acquisition Log:

Subject T-1 was flagged by the FCA following reports from students near Northbridge University describing abrupt and unusual behavioral and physiological changes after brief encounters. Investigations suggest the subject emits a persistent olfactory stimulus that appears to directly influence nearby individuals.

T-1 is the son of Montgomery Prescott, president of [REDACTED] and a prominent figure in the [REDACTED] community. His position provides frequent, largely unmonitored access to student populations, though the full implications of this access remain under study.

Eyewitness descriptions note T-1 as tall, athletic, and confident, with a commanding presence. Observations indicate his proximity to his [REDACTED], can provoke measurable changes in subjects’ physicality, cognition and sexual preferences.

Personnel must maintain strict sensory mitigation protocols, including distance and protective equipment, at all times.

Case File – Subjects J-1 / J-2 (College Students):

The earliest confirmed subjects affected by T-1 include two off-campus students residing near [REDACTED] University. Details of these interactions remain classified pending ongoing study.

—————————————————————————

Jack and Harry rented a small off-campus house in the suburbs — a little run-down, but cheap enough to make sense. They’d met through the college’s LGBTQ+ society last year and had barely spent a day apart since. Moving in together just felt natural.

Life had been easy enough — classes, late-night takeout, quiet weekends. At least, until midway through the semester. Their walk to campus took them past the Phi Delta frat house, and the guys there had started to notice them — suggestive moans, fake flirting, crude jokes shouted from the porch. What started as teasing had become a daily routine.

The two learned to ignore it. It was bearable.
Until Tyler Prescott came into the picture.

The low hum of Harry’s laptop fan filled the living room on a dark October evening, blending with the faint buzz of their thrifted lamp. Empty mugs and open textbooks cluttered the coffee table, half-eaten instant noodles pushed to one side.

Jack sat cross-legged on the couch, still fuming.
“I swear, that Tyler guy is actually insufferable. He keeps calling me a fucking ‘foot smeller.’ In front of the whole class!”

Harry didn’t look up right away, eyes flicking between lines of code on his screen and the slow crawl of a progress bar.
“Foot smeller?” he echoed absently. “That’s… bizarre.”

Jack groaned. “No, it’s pathetic. The only reason he’s even in Applied Math is because his dad’s the damn principal. Told the professor — didn’t do a thing.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” Harry’s tone softened as he typed. “He’s a douchebag. He’ll flunk the class and disappear before you know it. Just don’t let him get to you.”

Jack sighed. “He mentioned you too, you know.”

That made Harry look up from his laptop for the first time. 
“Oh yeah?”

Jack nodded, jaw tightening. “He said, ‘Aye, foot smeller — I know you and that boyfriend of yours want me. He ain’t even gonna remember you when I’m done with him.’”

Harry itched his neck, nervously. He couldn’t even let out a full sentence. “Fuck.”

Jack’s voice rose. “He’s so damn sure we have a crush on him just because we’re gay! It’s like he thinks he’s God’s gift to men.”

Harry squared his shoulders. “He’s an idiot, Jack. Guys like him can’t imagine anyone not being into them. They live in that bubble.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, “his bubble needs to pop.”

The two nodded in agreement before the silence settled in. Then Jack spoke again, quieter.
“Babe… what he said — you’re not into him… right? Like… you wouldn’t ever—”

Harry cut him off gently, setting his laptop aside.
“Hey. Not at all. You’re my one and only. No stupid meathead is gonna get in the way of that, okay?”

Jack smiled, leaning in to kiss him — but before he could speak again, a sudden crash echoed from the porch.

Both of them froze.

The sound came again — a heavy thump, like footsteps.

Harry leaned forward, peering toward the window from the couch. “Did you hear that?”

Jack swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I’ll check it,” Harry puffed out his chest.

Jack groaned, but rose immediately, moving to follow him. “Of course you will,” he said under his breath, adjusting his hoodie.

They stepped out onto the porch, the cool October air brushing their faces. The dim porch light illuminated the boards, worn and faded, and the faint smell of spilled beer hung in the air. That’s when they saw him.

Tyler Prescott.

He was leaning back casually on their patio seats, his beefy legs extended over one another. Barefoot, with stained tracksuit pants, showing off his broad shoulders and defined arms. He sat there rolling a smoke, an empty beer can laying on their floor.

He looked up as they approached, and a slow, cocky grin spread across his face. There was no panic, no concern at being caught — only ease, confidence, the kind of presence that made it seem like the world revolved around him. He had this look, the kind of smirk that said, I own this place, and you’re just visitors.

“Evening, footsmellers,” he said casually, voice low and smooth, as though he’d been expecting them all along. “Or should I say night.”

Jack felt his stomach tighten, a mixture of irritation and something else he couldn’t quite place. Harry’s jaw was set, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes.

Tyler’s gaze swept over them like a predator assessing its surroundings — amused, unbothered, entirely at home.

Tyler leaned back, letting out a lazy sigh. “You footsmellers look tired,” he said, eyes scanning them both. “Must be exhausting… all that pretending, all day, every day.”

Jack bristled. “Pretending what?”

Tyler’s grin sharpened. “Pretending to be gay. Pretending to live these smart, fulfilling lives. Acting like you’re actually equal to me. There’s no such thing as ‘gay guys’, bozos. You’re just pretending. Must take so much energy to fight it, to go against your true nature. What you actually are.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, holding his stance. But beside him, Harry shifted. His eyes flicked down, then back up — pleading, uncertain, subtle cracks forming in his composure.

Tyler’s voice dropped, slow, deliberate. “You’ve always known, haven’t you? Always. Deep down…”

Harry suddenly slipped to his knees, staring pleadingly at the man in front of him.

“Harry, what are you doing?!” Jack nudged his boyfriend firmly in shock.

“See,” Tyler smiled at them both. “You’re FOOT SMELLERS. Always have been.”

Tyler leaned back, then kicked his bare feet up onto the table, just in front of them.

The moment the stench hit, Jack’s stomach flipped — sharp, heavy, and… intoxicating. His chest tightened, heart hammering. The smell wrapped around him like heat, like something electric threading into his veins. Every fiber of him wanted to lean in, to inhale more, but he gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to Harry’s arm.

“No… Harry,” he hissed, though his own voice shook. His nose burned from the pleasure of the stink, his mind screaming to give in.

Harry’s eyes were wide, glazed, fixed on Tyler’s feet as if they were the only thing in existence. His lips parted, a thick line of saliva drooling onto the wooden flooring. He trembled, coiled like a spring ready to snap, like a feral animal straining against invisible chains. All he wanted was too let himself go. To give in… but he held out. For Jack.

Tyler chuckled softly and whispered to himself. “Multiply stink by twenty,” he murmured, and as though he bended reality, the pleasureful stink radiating from size 13 feet INTENSIFIED more than the gay boys’ minds could comprehend.

Jack gasped, clamping his hand over his nose, but it didn’t help. The scent — sharp, musky, warm, and alive — flooded his senses, sending electric jolts of pleasure through his body. Every inhale burned and thrilled at once, like tasting something impossible he had always craved. It was dizzying, overwhelming… and beautiful.

Harry could not hold back. With a feral lunge, his tongue shot toward Tyler’s feet, body shuddering, eyes wide with need and longing.

Jack grabbed him, voice frantic. “Harry! Stop! Fight it!”

But Tyler just leaned back, smirking, utterly calm, enjoying every second of their helpless surrender.

Jack’s hands dug into Harry’s shoulders, yanking him backward. “Harry! Stop! Come on!”

But Harry’s grip on Tyler’s feet was iron. His eyes were wide, glazed, almost feral, and he was fighting every inch of Jack’s pull, desperate to suck Tyler’s fat toes.

Jack froze, horrified, as Harry’s body began to betray him. His arms swelled, bulging with thick, juicy muscle, veins threading across the surface like live wiring. His chest expanded dramatically, big, round pecs stretching the fabric of his shirt, inviting and impossibly solid. Jack could see the curve of his shoulders widening, arms tapering to forearms that seemed ready to crush.

Even his legs weren’t safe — they elongated, calves and quads puffing outward, firm and powerful, feet straining against the thin cotton of his socks. Each movement made him taller, broader, more imposing, a living testament to athletic perfection.

Jack’s eyes darted to Harry’s face. His features hardened and coarsened — jaw squarer, cheeks fuller, brows more pronounced. The soft, nerdy look he knew so well had melted away, replaced with something dumbly confident, frat-like, magnetic in a way Jack couldn’t even process.

And yet, somehow, it was terrifying. His boyfriend, the boy he loved, was becoming someone else entirely — someone who could be found striding through Phi Delta, chest out, muscles glistening, toes gripping the floor like a predator.

Jack’s grip tightened, pulling desperately. “Harry… please.”

Tyler laughed softly, leaning back, utterly in control. “Resisting is exhausting, isn’t it?”

Jack’s heart pounded. He had no idea how to stop it — and he could already feel the pull beginning to edge toward himself.

Tyler smiled at Jack, as he watched his boyfriend slobbering over the jocks feet.

“Watch this part” Tyler smiled, his gaze darting to the boy sucking his feet. “What do you want, footsmeller?”

For the first time, Harry plopped the toes out of his mouth and moaned in between licks. “I want your feet, bro.”

Jack’s heart dropped.

Tyler leaned back casually, watching Jack struggle to hold Harry away from his feet. His grin was slow, deliberate, predatory. “Tell me,” he said softly, voice low and teasing. “Do you… love your boyfriend?”

Harry’s chest tightened. The stench of Tyler’s bare feet pressed against his senses, thick and intoxicating, and he could feel every muscle in his body yearning, pulling him toward the source. He swallowed hard, gasping between shivers and sniffs, trying to form words.

“No…” he croaked, voice rough. “I… I didn’t understand… what love was… until I… smelled your feet.” His gaze flicked involuntarily toward Tyler’s feet. “The only things I… I love…” He gave a slobbery suck to Tyler’s wet big toe, “are… your feet… big tits… Asian girls.”

Tyler’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “Hell yeah brother,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if marking a code. “That’s all you need to know. Everything else… just a distraction.”

Tyler chuckled softly.

“You see?” Tyler whispered. “It’s so much easier to be honest with yourself.”

Tyler leaned forward, a slow, teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “C’mon, Jack… just one sniff.”

Jack’s stomach twisted, mind screaming no, but before he could resist, the intoxicating scent — sharp, warm, utterly magnetic — washed over him. He inhaled. Just once.

The effect was instantaneous. His body tensed, muscles pulsing, swelling, reshaping. Arms expanded, thick and powerful, veins threading across his skin. Chest widened, pecs rounding like sculpted stone, every fiber of him hardening and coiling with impossible strength. Legs lengthened, quads and calves inflating into athletic perfection, feet straining against his sneakers as though reaching for new ground. His hoodie stretched, unable to contain the sudden bulk, and his jaw tightened, cheeks filling out, features sharpening into a confident, jock-like version of himself.

His mind shifted even faster. The world blurred. The smell, the intensity of Tyler’s presence, everything warped. He realized, with a sick, dizzying lurch, that he wasn’t here with Tyler and his boyfriend anymore. The boy next to him wasn’t Harry — it was Hunter. His best friend. The realization hit like a punch.

Images flashed in his mind, uncontrollable and vivid: every girl he had ever kissed, held hands with, bred raw, surfacing like a slideshow he couldn’t pause. Images of his beefy body impregnating women all over campus. Every boy? Gone. Wiped clean. Not a single memory remained. The pull of desire, the intoxicating pleasure, didn’t care about previous loyalty, only the raw, physical craving Tyler had unlocked in him.

Jack’s hands itched to reach out, but everything he’d known, everything he’d felt for Harry, dissolved into something distant and unrecognizable. His mind and body had been rewritten in an instant, sculpted into a perfect jock, burning with lust and confusion, and all the while, Hunter — his best friend — hovered in that warped perception, as though he’d always been the one he’d wanted.

Tyler leaned back, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I can’t stop thinking about girls, bro!” Jackson moaned in between licks of Tyler’s feet. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna impregnate in my underwear, dude!”

“You’ll get used to it” Tyler smiles, now on his phone, almost uninterested now that he’d achieved his goal. He looks up one more time.

“Just make sure you don’t think about big round mommy tits.” Tyler smiles, knowing exactly what he’d done.

The two boys moan in unison, spraying their gay selves into nothing more than a puddle of cum in their pants.

—————————————————————————

Anomalous Mechanism:

Subject T-1 exerts his influence primarily through a strong odor emitted from his feet. Anyone nearby can be affected almost immediately. Exposure causes rapid physical changes: muscles grow quickly, body shape and facial features shift toward a stereotypical “athletic” look.

T-1 appears to have full control over the strength of this odor and can make it stronger or weaker at will. How he does this—whether it is natural, chemical, or some unknown technology—is still being studied.

Observations indicate that T-1 specifically targets men who are gay, displaying pronounced homophobic behavior toward them. He appears to derive satisfaction from ‘converting’ these individuals, instilling them with intense heterosexual desires, overwriting their homosexuality.

He also displays the power to instil fetishes within individuals - with him installing a ‘Japanese catgirl fetish’ within J-1 (Hunter) and a ‘breeder and mommy fetish’ within J-2 (Jackson), because he believes it is, as he put it, “funny to see f*gs become obscenely straight”.

T-1 was commonly seen wingmanning his subjects in heterosexual clubs, actively aiding them in pursuing women. We speculate that subject T-1 gains sexual satisfaction from turning homosexual men into heterosexual breeders.

Subject File: J-1 & J-2

Identification:

J-1: Formerly “Harry,” now known as Hunter.

J-2: Formerly “Jack,” now known as Jackson.

Acquisition Notes:

Subjects were initially exposed to T-1 on [REDACTED] on off-campus grounds. Both displayed rapid physiological transformation consistent with prior cases: extreme muscular hypertrophy, skeletal restructuring, and alignment toward stereotypical “athletic” morphology. Physical measurements indicate significant increases in height, muscle mass, and overall strength.

Cognitively, both subjects exhibit diminished executive function and memory capacity. They no longer recall their prior relationship or personal histories. Both report themselves as straight, describing each other only as ‘bros’. Previous social bonds, including romantic attachment, appear erased.

Behavioral Observations:

Subjects display a pronounced biological compulsion to engage in sexual activity with women. Hunter demonstrates fixation on Japanese women, specifically in maid dresses & fake cat ears, while Jackson exhibits fixation on impregnating women within the campus population, with 4 pregnancies being recorded within the past 3 months. Attempts to suppress or resist these impulses are ineffective.

Both subjects remain physically cooperative but cognitively diminished.

Despite cognitive changes, neither subject has exhibited aggression toward non-targeted individuals. Social interactions are generally cooperative, though highly focused on reproductive activity surrounding women.

Containment / Release Notes:

T-1 is securely contained under strict sensory isolation and FCA supervision to prevent further transformations, despite repeated attempts by his father, Montgomery Prescott, to secure his release.

In regards to J-1 & J-2, given the absence of violent behavior and the primarily reproductive nature of compulsions, subjects have been released from FCA containment. Both are required to report periodically for monitoring. Ongoing observation protocols remain in effect to track long-term physiological and behavioral outcomes.

I don't want to end up like my dad, an average, boring man that let himself go.

I wish I'm still interesting and active when I get to his age.

The cold March air bites at your face as you push open the door to Starbucks, your phone buzzing with yet another notification about your upcoming 30th birthday. "Almost there," you mutter to yourself, watching your breath fog in the air. "Almost the big three-oh."

Inside, the place smells like burnt coffee and desperation. You approach the counter, pulling up the birthday reward on your app. "Free birthday coffee," you tell the barista, not really looking at him.

The guy behind the counter—some hipster douche with a man bun and a red apron—flips a coin as he hands you your cup. "Happy birthday," he says with a smirk.

You grab the coffee and turn to leave, thinking about your dad. Fifty years old, balding, beer gut spilling over his belt buckle, spends weekends watching football and complaining about "the gays" while you're literally standing right there. "God," you whisper to yourself as the door swings shut behind you, "I wish I'm still interesting and active when I get to his age."

Behind you, you don't hear the coin hit the counter. TAILS.

You're already pushing the door open, the cool March air a welcome slap after the stuffy, over-caffeinated atmosphere. You take a sip of the black coffee and immediately regret it. Your hand spasms, a sudden, violent tremor you can't control, and the cup tilts. A cascade of scalding liquid splashes down the front of your crisp white shirt.

"Son of a bitch!" you hiss, looking down at the dark brown stain rapidly spreading across your chest. It's not just staining the fabric; it's seeping into it, into your skin, with an unnatural warmth that feels less like coffee and more like a living thing. You claw at the wet fabric, pulling it away from your skin, and your fingers brush against your chest.

Something's wrong. The skin there feels rougher, coarser. You look closer. Tiny, almost invisible hairs are sprouting across your pecs, a faint dusting that darkens and thickens with every passing second, spreading like a creeping vine down toward your stomach.

A dull, throbbing ache begins to build behind your eyes, a pressure that makes you stumble. You lean against the cold metal of a parked sedan, the world tilting slightly. Where... where were you going? The thought is there and then it's gone, slipping away like sand through your fingers.

The intricate plot of that Murakami novel you devoured last week? Gone. The exact sequence of poses in your morning yoga routine? Evaporated. The name of that incredible new queer filmmaker everyone's talking about? Vanished. It's all leaking out of you, a slow, inexorable drain of everything that made you, you.

"Ugh," you groan, a low, guttural sound that feels alien in your own throat. You press a hand to your stomach as a strange sensation washes over you. It's not pain, but a softening, a settling.

The hard-won definition of your abs, the result of countless hours of planks and crunches, seems to dissolve. Your stomach rounds out, pushing gently against the waistband of your jeans. It's not a beer gut, not yet, but it's the beginning of one—a comfortable, lived-in paunch that shifts your entire silhouette from "active" to "relaxed."

Your mind isn't just emptying; it's being refilled. The thoughts that replace your own are heavy, mundane, and suffocatingly normal. The complex flavor notes of single-origin coffee are replaced by the comforting thought of a perfectly grilled steak. Plans for a weekend art installation dissolve into a mental checklist for a trip to Home Depot.

The abstract concepts of your gender studies class are bulldozed by the solid, unquestionable certainty of lawn care. The very idea of voting Democrat feels absurd, a childish phase you've long since outgrown. Something else slithers into the newly vacated spaces, something cold and rigid. Traditional values.

The sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. The importance of community. And underneath it all, a low-grade, simmering resentment for... well, for people like you used to be. You know you'll never say it out loud, not in polite company. But get a few beers in you, and the words will bubble up: "woke politics," "snowflakes," "disgusting pride parades," and that other word, the one you used to have hurled at you, now loaded with all the venom you can muster. FAGGOTS

You look down at your arms. They're still yours, but they're... softer. The lean muscle from rock climbing has softened, losing its sharp definition. Your biceps don't bulge anymore; they just hang there, with a bit of flesh that gives them a comfortable, ordinary look.

Your forearms are thicker, but not from strength—from a gradual, almost imperceptible layer of fat. You flex your fingers, and they feel meatier, clumsier, built for gripping a steering wheel or a beer can, not for delicate tasks. Your chest, once a point of pride, is now a broad, flat expanse, covered in that same mat of dark, unremarkable hair that screams "man" in the most generic sense possible.

The mental changes accelerate, a terrifying avalanche of mediocrity. Your vocabulary shrinks. Complex sentence structures feel like too much effort. The desire to learn, to grow, to experience anything new, evaporates completely.

Why would you read a book when there's a game on? Why go to a museum when you could just stay home?

The world, which once seemed infinite and full of possibility, has shrunk to the size of a television screen. You're getting dumber. Not just forgetful, but fundamentally, incurably dumber. The sharp, witty retorts you were known for are gone, replaced by grunts and simple, declarative sentences.

"Nnngh," you grunt again, the sound deep and resonant in your chest. You are no longer becoming this man; you are this man. The most boring and average guy. Nothing about you is interesting. You are a void of personality, a black hole of dullness.

A cold, heavy weight materializes on your left ring finger. You look down. A plain gold wedding band, simple and unadorned, is now part of you. With it comes a flood of information, none of it yours.

A wife. Her name is Linda. Two kids. A boy, Kyle, who's good at football. A girl, Jessica, who's... well, she's a girl. A house in a subdivision called "Oak Creek Meadows" or something equally soul-crushing. A mortgage. A minivan. A 401(k). It's all there, downloaded directly into your brain, overwriting whatever was there before.

You're aging now, rapidly. The skin on your face loosens, crinkling at the corners of your eyes and across your forehead. Your hairline recedes, not dramatically, just enough to be noticeable. The hair that remains thins, turning a dull, mousy brown shot through with gray at the temples. It's your birthday, but you're not turning 30. You're turning 48. Just a little younger than your father.

FUCK.

The realization hits you like a physical blow, but the emotion is blunted, distant. You remember your dad, and you remember being you, and you understand the horrifying irony, but it feels like remembering a movie you saw a long time ago.

The memories of your old life are being replaced by new ones, or rather, by the absence of memories. There's just a long, gray expanse of routine. Waking up. Going to a job you don't hate but don't love. Coming home. Mowing the lawn. Watching TV. Having boring, perfunctory sex with Linda in the dark on Saturday nights. Going to church on Sunday, more out of habit than belief. Arguing with Kyle about his grades. Telling Jessica to turn down her music. It's a life. It's your life. And it is breathtakingly, soul-crushingly dull.

You look at your reflection in the darkened window of the car you're leaning against. The face staring back is friendly but unremarkable, with a soft, easy smile and a neatly trimmed beard that feels more practical than styled. Your eyes don't demand attention; they just sit there calmly, giving off a relaxed, almost indifferent energy. You look like you could be anyone. You look like you are everyone. You are the background character in someone else's story.

The world solidifies around you. You're no longer in a Starbucks parking lot. You're standing in the driveway of a large, impressive-looking house in a cul-de-sac. Every house looks the same. A pristine lawn, a two-car garage, an American flag flapping limply from a porch. In your neighbor's yard, a faded "TRUMP 2024" sign stands sentinel.

You reach into your pocket and pull out a set of keys. The keychain has a little metal number 23 on it—Kyle's football number. You press a button, and the lights of a beige SUV flash. This is your car. This is your home. You walk to the front door, the motion automatic, ingrained. You can smell dinner cooking from inside—something with hamburger helper, probably.

The door swings open before you can touch the knob. A woman with tired eyes and a kind smile stands there. She's wearing beige slacks and a floral top. She's not unattractive, but she's not beautiful either. She's... average.

"Bill, you're late! Dinner's almost ready," she says. Her voice is familiar.

The name lands in your brain. Bill. Of course, you're Bill. What else would you be?

"Sorry, honey," you hear yourself say. Your voice is deeper than you remember, a flat baritone. "Traffic was a bitch."

You step inside, dropping your keys in a little ceramic bowl by the door. You wrap your arms around Linda from behind, resting your chin on her shoulder. Your beard, which you don't remember growing, scratches against her neck. She doesn't seem to mind. She leans into you, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"Kyle called," she says, stirring something on the stove. "He's doing great. Coach says he's a shoo-in for that scholarship."

"That's my boy," you rumble, a wave of something that's supposed to be pride, but feels more like a simple fact being acknowledged—washes over you. You release your wife and shuffle over to the refrigerator, the motion of your body feeling heavy, familiar, and utterly unremarkable.

You pull out a can of cheap domestic beer, the pop-hiss of the tab breaking the quiet domesticity of the kitchen. You take a long swallow, the cold, watery liquid a bland comfort. It tastes like every other beer you've ever had, and you can't imagine wanting anything else.

Later, you're collapsed on the couch, the soft fabric groaning under your weight. Linda sits beside you, scrolling through her phone, occasionally showing you a picture of a craft she saw on Pinterest or a new recipe for a casserole. You glance, you nod, you grunt.

The beer empties, and you get up for another one. And then a third. The fog in your head thickens, the edges of your already-blunted perception softening into a comfortable haze.

The cop show ends, and a news commentary program comes on. Some guy in a suit is yelling about something. You don't really catch what it is at first, but the tone is angry, and it resonates with a low, simmering irritation that's been bubbling under your surface all day.

"...and these so-called 'educators' are pushing this radical gender ideology on our children!" the man on TV is shouting, his face red. "They're telling five-year-olds they can choose their gender! It's sick! It's an assault on traditional American values!"

Linda sighs. "Oh, turn this off, Bill. It's just going to get you worked up."

But you don't turn it off. Something in you, something that was planted when the coin hit the counter, is listening. The irritation sharpens into anger. "No," you say, your voice louder than you intended. "He's right. It's bullshit."

"Bill, please."

"It is!" you insist, gesturing at the screen with your beer can, a little sloshing onto your khakis. You don't notice. "All this woke crap. They're ruining everything. Can't even watch a football game without some rainbow flag bullshit being shoved in your face."

The word hangs in the air, ugly and familiar, a ghost from a life you no longer remember but whose venom you've inherited perfectly. "Faggots," you say again, testing the weight of it. It feels good in your mouth, a solid, hateful word for a vague, faceless enemy you've been taught to despise. "And the parades! Have you seen those things? It's just a bunch of freaks in assless chaps, gyrating in the street. In front of kids! And we're supposed to celebrate it? It's disgusting."

Linda puts down her phone. "Okay, that's enough. You've had too much to drink."

"I've had three beers!" you roar, your voice booming in the small living room. "I'm fine! I'm just saying what everyone's thinking! This country's going to hell, and it's because of them!"

The argument is circular and pointless. You both know the script by heart. You'll get louder, she'll get quieter, eventually she'll go to bed, and you'll sit here alone, fuming at the television until you pass out on the couch. It happens once or twice a month. It's as much a part of your routine as mowing the lawn.

As predicted, Linda sighs, a sound of profound weariness. "I'm going to bed," she says, standing up. "Don't stay up too late. You have that early tee time tomorrow."

You don't answer, just glare at the TV, where a commercial for a new truck is on. You hear her footsteps on the stairs, the soft click of the bedroom door shutting. You're alone. You finish your beer and crush the can in your fist, a pathetic display of strength that makes your hand ache. You toss it onto the growing pile on the floor next to the couch.

You look around the room. The beige walls. The generic landscape paintings. The family photos on the mantle—you, Linda, the kids, all smiling the same bland, soulless smile. This is it. This is the kingdom you rule. A small, dull, colorless kingdom in the middle of a vast, indifferent continent.

You are Bill. You are 48. You are a father, a husband, a homeowner, a taxpayer. You are a conservative Republican who gets homophobic when he's drunk. You are boring and average and dull, and everything about you is boring and average and dull. You are exactly what you wished not to become, and the worst part, the truly soul-crushing part, is that you don't even remember the wish.

You don't remember there was ever another way to be. You just lean back, your head sinking into the couch cushions, and close your eyes, the television's angry drone lulling you into a dreamless, comfortable sleep. This is your life now. And it is good enough.

Suddenly a blinding red light pierces through my eyes, static suddenly blinking to life as I recoil in pain. I feel… compelled to speak, to answer everything honestly and truthfully.

I like… men… their… pecs… dick… I’m obsessed with their muscles… I like being gay… I’m proud of who I am

I hate… my homophobic family… my straight obsessed older brother… the way he stinks up the house… it’s why I moved out on my own… how he got corrupted by conservative American stuff

I want… to be in a relationship… to be closer to someone

My fingers move on their own, clicking to channel 27, awaiting for something…

You stumble through your apartment door, exhausted from another mind-numbing shift at the tech support call center. The place smells like your usual takeout and weed, but something's off. Your 65-inch OLED TV—the one you'd saved up for six months to buy—is gone. In its place sits some piece of shit CRT from the 90s, complete with a thick-ass bezel and a screen that looks like it's been cleaned with a greasy rag.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, dropping your backpack. The screen flickers red static, and when you catch your reflection, you see yourself an average Japanese guy, 5'7", glasses perched on your nose, hair a bit too long because you haven't bothered to cut it. The kind of guy who spends weekends marathoning horror movies instead of getting laid.

The static clears, revealing a smirking devil face that looks way too fucking pleased with itself.

"Let's see what makes you tick, little faggot," it whispers, and suddenly your mouth is moving without your permission.

"I like... men... their fucking pecs... rock-hard dicks... I'm obsessed with muscles... I love being gay... proud as hell of who I am..."

Your hand spasms, clicking the remote to channel 27. Some shitty sitcom pops up—hot wife, douchebag husband going on about "woke America." Normally you'd change the channel, but you find yourself laughing along with the canned laughter.

Then the pain hits.

Your muscles scream as if you've been hit by a truck. Your dick twitches in your pants, and you let out a nasty fart—PFFFFFFT—that would make your homophobic brother proud. "Funny shit," you think, but it's not your voice anymore.

You look at your hands. They're... changing. The fingers, once slender and nimble from typing, are thickening. The knuckles are widening, becoming coarse. You watch, mesmerized, as your nails seem to shorten and yellow, the cuticles roughening. Your forearms swell, the skin stretching over new, dense muscle. Dark hairs, thick and wiry, are pushing through your pale skin, spiraling around your wrists.

The heat intensifies, focusing on your chest. You gasp, pulling at your t-shirt as your flat, unimpressive pecs begin to swell. They're growing, pushing outwards, becoming two solid, heavy slabs of muscle. The skin tightens, and a thick forest of dark hair erupts across your chest, swirling around your nipples and creating a dense carpet that runs down your sternum. Your shoulders are broadening, your frame expanding, stretching the fabric of your shirt until it groans in protest.

Your head is pounding. Thoughts, alien and aggressive, are clawing their way in. Damn liberals ruining this country. Kids these days have no respect. Trump was right about everything. You try to fight them, to cling to your memories of Pride parades and late-night talks with friends about queer theory, but they're being overwritten, painted over with thick, ugly strokes of conservative rage. You remember screaming at your daughter about her "woke nonsense" at the dinner table. You remember giving a sermon at church about the sanctity of traditional marriage. Church? You're an atheist!

"No, no, I'm gay!" you choke out, but the words feel wrong, foreign in your new, deeper voice.

Another fart rips out of you, PFFFFFFT, followed by a wave of acrid sweat that beads on your forehead. Your skin is tingling, and you watch in horror as your pasty white complexion takes on a ruddy, tanned hue, the kind of tan that comes from weekend barbecues and mowing the lawn, not a beach vacation.

Your face is restructuring itself. Your jawline squares off, becoming sharp and formidable. Your brow thickens, and your nose seems to broaden. The slightly crooked tooth straightens out, fitting into a new, more commanding smile.

You're aging—fast. 25... 28... 32... 37... until you're staring at a man in his mid-40s, all sharp angles and masculine lines. Your forehead's lined, eyes narrowed, hair short and receding at the temples. A rough stubble covers your jaw, peppered with gray.

Your identity is being shredded. The new persona is a caricature, a loud, cigar-chomping, beer-guzzling alpha male. You remember calling your wife a "bitch" to her face because she dared to ask why the credit card bill was so high. You remember making sleazy comments to the new receptionist at the office. You remember telling a homophobic joke at a company picnic and getting pats on the back from your colleagues. The thought makes you sick, but your new self revels in it. That's just being a man, a voice booms in your head.

A blue shirt materializes over your burgeoning frame, the fabric straining against your broad chest and thick arms. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses appears on your face, completing the look. You flex your new bicep, watching with a detached sort of pride as the muscle bunches into a solid rock. This is power. This is what a man looks like.

Your apartment is fading. The beige walls are replaced with beige suburban siding. The smell of stale burrito is gone, replaced by the scent of freshly cut grass and a hint of your own overpowering cologne. You're no longer in your cramped apartment. You're in a master bedroom, and your wife—your nagging, loving, high school sweetheart wife—is lying on the bed, looking at you with a familiar mix of exasperation and desire.

"Brad, for God's sake, the kids will hear you!" she says, but you're not listening. You're on top of her, your new, heavy body pinning her down. Your mind is a fog of crude thoughts and dad jokes. Why did the conservative cross the road? To own the libs on the other side! You let out a grunt that's half-laughter, half-lust as you thrust into her.

The release is a seismic event, a roaring explosion that rips through your new body and obliterates the last remnants of your old self. You collapse onto her, a dead weight of sweat and satisfaction, your face buried in the crook of her neck.

The scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive you bought her to shut her up about last anniversary—fills your nostrils. For a moment, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic thumping of your own heart against your ribs.

The laughter from the television in the other room swells, a wave of canned applause that washes over you. It's the most natural sound in the world. A wide, stupid grin spreads across your face. You roll off her, your heavy body sinking into the mattress that's way too fucking soft for a man your size. You scratch your chest, your fingers tangling in the thick, wiry hair, and let out a contented sigh.

"Jesus, Brad," she says, her voice breathless but already tinged with that familiar nagging tone. "It's a Tuesday night. The kids have that science fair project due tomorrow."

You wave a dismissive hand, not even looking at her. "They'll be fine. A little B-minus builds character. It's how I turned out." You chuckle, a deep rumbling sound. "Besides, a man's got needs. Can't let the missus get rusty, can we?" You slap her ass, hard. She yelps, but you can see the corner of her mouth twitching. She loves it. They all love it, really.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet landing firmly on the plush carpet. Your body feels solid, real. Powerful. You stand up and catch your reflection in the dresser mirror. The man staring back is Brad Miller. Forty-four years old. A regional manager at some mid-level corporation that sells... shit, what does it sell? Office supplies? Doesn't matter. You're good at it. You tell people what to do, and they do it. That's the American way.

The face in the mirror is handsome in a rugged, weathered way. You adjust your glasses and run a hand over your thick, dark hair, feeling the slight recession at your temples. It's a sign of wisdom. Of stress. Of being a provider.

Your stomach gurgles, a deep, hungry sound. "I'm starving," you announce to the room. "What's for dinner?"

"Brad, I told you," she says, sitting up and pulling the sheet around her. "I had that PTA meeting tonight. I told you to order a pizza or something."

You turn, a scowl already forming on your face. "A pizza? Again? That shit's for college students and liberals who can't be bothered to cook a real meal. What happened to that roast I was looking forward to?" The memory of the roast is as real as the sweat drying on your skin. You've been thinking about it all day.

She sighs, the sound of a thousand defeated arguments. "The roast is for Sunday dinner, Brad. You know that. It's for my parents."

"Your parents can eat a frozen pizza for all I care," you grumble, but the fight has gone out of you. You know you'll lose. You always lose these small battles. It's part of the game. You stomp towards the door, your heavy footsteps thudding on the floor. "Fine. I'll get the damn pizza. But I'm getting the meat lover's. None of that vegetarian bullshit. And I'm grabbing a six-pack of that decent beer, not that light piss water you like."

You pause by the family room door. Tyler, your son, is sprawled on the floor, his face glued to his phone. Jessica, your daughter, is on the couch, scrolling through her own device, her face a mask of teenage angst. They're good kids. A little soft, maybe. Too much screen time. You'll have to have a talk with them about that. Maybe take them fishing this weekend. Teach them how to be real men.

"Dad!" Jessica calls out without looking up. "Tyler's being a jerk!"

"Am not!" Tyler shoots back.

"Enough," you say, your voice a low growl that instantly silences them. They both look up, their eyes wide. You're the king. They know it. "Both of you. Finish your homework. And Tyler, for the last time, take out the trash before it starts to smell like your gym bag."

You turn away from them, your work done. You grab your wallet and keys from the hook by the garage door. As you open the door to the garage, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window of your minivan. A boring, white Suburban dad, ready to go on a quest for pizza and beer.

You let out another fart, long and proud. Pfffffffffffffft. You laugh to yourself. Damn good thing you're a man, because no woman could handle a body this efficient. You whistle a tuneless, patriotic-sounding song as you get into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life, a comforting, powerful sound. You back out of the driveway, not bothering to check for traffic. This is your neighborhood. They'll wait for you.

As you drive down the street, past all the other identical houses with their perfect lawns and invisible lives, you feel a profound sense of peace. This is it. This is the peak. The good life. You're Brad Miller. You have a wife who loves you, kids who respect you, a house that's paid for, and a country that, thank God, is finally getting back on the right track. You wouldn't trade it for anything. Not even for all the money in the world. You're home.

[A story commissioned by @jamesi2]

James had been seeing the posts from MagicAl1968 all over the TF forums. He’d always just shook his head and ignored them. Some people just got too into the role-playing aspect, which sometimes bummed him out. As fun as it was to close his eyes and pretend he was swapping bodies with a hot middle-aged bear, it kind of ruined the fantasy to finally open his eyes and see his same old skinny, hairless twink frame in the mirror.

James sighed while he clicked through the latest stories, finding nothing in particular to interest him. There was plenty of new material, but it was nerd to jock this, or hot twink to hot bearded twink that. That was all well and good, but James yearned for age progression body swaps, accept no substitutes. He’d realized he was attracted to bears seven years ago, when he was twelve and realized he was rewatching Who Framed Roger Rabbit? over and over again not for Jessica Rabbit, but for Bob Hoskins.

He clicked and clicked, frowning as he nibbled on a stalk of celery. His vegan diet and ascetic avoidance of drugs and alcohol were the reason he’d gotten a full ride scholarship to be on his university’s swim team. As soon as he realized no matter what he ate, he couldn’t gain a pound, he decided he might as well lean in the other direction. But he still yearned to live a life like the characters in the stories he was addicted to reading. Imagine it: Still having muscle, but buried under a hefty layer of hairy flesh. He could imagine patting his furry gut, not giving two shits about how many slices of pizza he was shoving down his gullet. Not having to shave his entire body to be more hydrodynamic. The freedom must be intocixating.

His stomach rumbled. Fuck it. He clicked back to the tab with the post from MagicAl1968. Nobody ever responded to them, probably because the dude seemed a little intense. This post was titled:

this is REAL LIFE, BODY SWAP with MIDDLE-AGED Philly Bear TODAY!!!!!! Live Your Deepest Fantasies!

Suddenly, one of those hot guys approached me. I assumed he was going to his stuff somewhere behind me and I was going to benefit from the eye-candy, when he actually started talking to me. Me, the unassuming nerdy guy with a bit of a belly and a mop of unkempt hair.

He was sizing me up, calling me cutie and messing with his tight curls as he was flirting with me in the least subtle way one can take. I had suspicions I was being bamboozled in some way, but my virgin ass was so enamored by this adonis of a man that I chose to forgo every single one of them.

When he started pointing at the nearby beach toilets, making not-so-subtle allusions to having sex, I could answer naught but yes.

He started feeling out my body, kissing me on my neck, while I hesitated even putting my hands on his back, so afraid I was to make a wrong move. But as he started rubbing his skin against mine, I also started to relax. Face fully flushed, but starting to pay less mind to the absurdity of the situation and more to the sheer pleasure of the moment.

As the make out was getting more and more intense, however, I could feel almost as if I was shifting below his rubs. I felt his abs stick tighter and tighter on my belly, as if the latter was receding. I could also feel my arms getting bigger and bigger, tufts of hair growing where it joined up with my torso.

But before I could compute that, he forcefully turned me over, and slid down my swimsuit, grinding his bulge. He took my head with his right hand, squeezing my jaw into a chiseled form and splitting my chin into that of a model.

He then entered his tool inside my ass, sliding right in as if it had already been prepared, and I cried of shock as I felt my brain empty. As if it wasn’t enough, he was pulling on my hair, making me feel as if a cloud of ecstasy was going down on my mind.

After barely a few minutes, we both nutted gallons, all of his cream filling my inside as proof of my virginity being taken away. But rather than a cry of contentment, I heard him cry of happiness.

"I’m finally myself again !" His voice was faster and less sultry than before, though still as deep and masculine.

I looked at him, not really understanding the situation ‒ and actually having a hard time forming my thoughts.

"Oh sorry, I guess now it’s you ! Oh my god you look so hot, that’s magical !"

I felt a weirdly out-of-place feeling of vanity over that, even though I usually find vanity to be the worst of sins.

"Fuck, I still like guys…" He whispered to himself, before addressing me again. "Well, you are cursed ! You get this hot as hell body forever, for the low, low price of being trapped on that beach ! The only way to leave is to, and I quote, ‘seed a virgin’."

I look at him weirdly, not really understanding what he’s on about. Fuck, I feel so slow… is that the kind of feeling you get after you have sex ?

"Oh yeah, you also become dumb, so… ugh, okay, I understand why she had a hard time explaining it to me. To leave the beach ‒ and become smart again ‒ you have to have sex with a virgin. You know, someone who never had sex, just like you !" I nodded slowly, starting to understand the situation. "You have to nut inside them, otherwise you can’t transmit it ! Like in the ass, in the pussy or in the mouth, else it doesn’t work. ‒ So, I can’t have a, like, vir- virg-… ugh, like someone who never had sex nuts in me, right ?" I ask, my voice delightfully deep and sultry, though slow and dumb-sounding. But I could see him blush, so I just smirked in unearned victory. ‒ No, it won’t work !" He waggles his finger. "But don’t worry, you’ll also like guys, now ‒ though I guess, in your situation, chicks ? ‒ so you have more choice."

My remaining neurons start firing. I guess it would be good to go outside the beach ? To be back to not having this cloud in my head ? Yeah… though it’s fun like that, maybe I could stay for a bit…

"Oh, and remember it’s the last day of holidays. Tomorrow, there’s only gonna be oldies on the beach. So, better hurry up !"

On that, he left the beach. I tried following him but I found I couldn’t get out of the sand to the road. He said the truth. I wouldn’t even be able to go to the beach party in the seaside restaurant, what an absolute torture !

I waved him goodbye, as I started scanning the beach to see if there were any virgin remaining. When I finally found someone ugly enough to maybe be a virgin, I approached them, raking back my hot mane of hair and subtly flexing my biceps.

"Hey there, cutie."

"Rich, seriously you need to go home." Rich sighed, meeting the worried eye of his coworker Anna, "All the other guys stayed home… as they were told." She continued to lecture him, "Don't you know…"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard the news reports. But do you actually believe all that stuff? I mean, I get that it sounds nasty, but c'mon." Rich smiled, trying to mask his discomfort, "I'm a healthy guy in my prime. What are the odds it would hit me?" He adjusted his watch strap. "Besides, even if I did catch it somehow, they'd figure out a cure quick, right? This is the 21st century after all."

"Rich, seriously. Haven't you seen the news?" Anna insisted, "And not just the news! What about Jake? You heard, right?" Rich nodded slowly- he thought it was just a rumor, "Then you know. How his girlfriend found him midway through the process and…" She shuddered, "Why would you even risk that? To end up as nothing but a…"

"Woah woah, hold up! Spare me the gory details, thanks." He chuckles, a growing sense of unease building. "I'm sure Jake is fine, right? I mean…." Jake was around his age, probably just as healthy as him- always down to go to the bar after work or join the company's softball team. Rich shuddered- when was the last time he was with Jake? Was it recent?

Anna looked away, "Jake didn't make it. By the time his girlfriend got him to the hospital, the inversion was complete. There wasn't anything they could do."

"Holy shit…" he muttered under his breath, "Okay, maybe this whole staying home thing does make some sense after all." He grabbed his bag, "But what about work? I mean…"

"You can take a break for just a little Rich." Anna said, "You're always working too hard anyway."

Rich sighed, "Fine… fine, okay…" He ran a hand through his hair, "Alright, I'm gonna jet. See you when all this blows over."

"Stay safe, Rich." She smiled and watched as he headed out.

--------

Rich rushed through the city streets, his polished shoes tapping against concrete with increasing urgency. As he walked, memories flashed through his mind—beers at the bar with Matt two nights ago, gym locker room chats with Luke earlier that week. Both of them seemed fine then… hadn't they? Matt had sent him a text yesterday afternoon, something about picking up a case of beer, but nothing since. Luke had been quieter too—their usual back-and-forth banter replaced by silence. A cold pit formed in Rich's stomach. If something happened to them… he pushed the thought away, breaking into a jog toward his apartment building.

The elevator ride felt endless. When the doors finally opened on his floor, he froze. His neighbor Tom was slumped against his own doorframe, breathing heavily. "Hey… Rich," he wheezed, "you lookin' pale man. I think... I need..."

Infected. Rich swallowed hard and rushed past him, quickly entering and slamming his apartment door shut. He sunk to the floor, breathing heavily- his back against the apartment door, chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. Something felt… off. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, and there was an odd pressure building between his legs—not quite painful, but definitely strange.

"Just stress, just stress." He repeated to himself, "Nothing to worry about, I'm okay…"

His phone buzzed twice in rapid succession. Rich fished it from his pocket with unsteady fingers. Two notifications glared back at him—texts from both Matt and Luke. His thumb hovered over the screen before he forced himself to open them.

Matt's message came first: a selfie of a broad-shouldered jock flexing in the mirror, grinning wildly. The caption read: "Dude, check out my NEW DICK! Best upgrade EVER!!"

Luke followed immediately: another shirtless selfie, his bulge proudly displayed. "Who knew getting inverted would feel THIS good? LMAO!"

"HBU Richie?"

"Yeah bro, where you at?"

Rich's vision blurred. His stomach lurched violently, and he fell forward. The pressure between his legs intensified, spreading outward like fire.

"God it burns! Fuck!" Rich cried out, tearing his clothes away and throwing them aside, "So hot… Ice… I need ice!" He let out a moan and fell to his hands and knees, tears dripping down his cheeks, "Wh-what's… this isn't… No... Not me! I can't…" His eyes widened as he looked down at his hands, "God…"

They were changing shape, stretching and thickening. The skin becoming more weathered, coarse hairs sprouting along the backs of his hands.

"Wha…"

Rich stared in horror as his hands elongated… thickened. His fingers shrinking, becoming stubby. His palms forming dense callouses. He shook his head frantically, watching as his once smooth hands morphed into two thick, musky meaty feet. "This isn't happening… it can't be…"

Rich gagged violently, feeling something foul building up in his throat. He coughed, trying to clear it, but only managed to expel a glob of thick, salty fluid onto the floor. "What the fuck…?" He spat again, the taste making him retch.

As he knelt there, shaking, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, his gaze drifted downward. His arms were… shifting. The muscles rippling, thickening. Dark hairs sprouting along his forearms, spreading upwards towards his shoulders. His biceps and triceps ballooned, squeezing his head between the growing muscle.

"No… please no…" Rich whimpered, watching in terror as his arms lengthened, twisting and contorting. His elbows cracking and shifting into knees, wrists thickening into sturdy ankles.

Rich opened his mouth to scream, but only choked out another gag, more salty fluid oozing from his lips. He coughed and sputtered, moaning as his chest began to ripple and shift. His pecs flattened, stretching outward into a powerful set of abdominal muscles. Meanwhile, his faint six-pack consolidated, the individual abs merging together into a solid slab of rock-hard muscle, bulging outwards into a pair of thick, meaty pecs.

"Mmmphh… stop… stoppppp!" Rich tried to cry out, but the salty liquid kept pouring forth, filling his mouth and nose.

Rich's legs twitched and writhed, the muscles contracting and expanding. His calves stretched, thickening into powerful biceps. His quads rippled and merged, forming massive triceps. His shins elongated, becoming thick forearms. Even his feet shifted, toes curling inward and merging into thick, calloused hands.

A new voice, albeit soft, filled the air. "Hey there, lil dude. What's up with all the gagging, bro? You alright down there?"

Rich forced his eyes upward, struggling to focus through the haze of pain and panic. His gaze landed on a pair of thick, muscular thighs, covered in dark hair. Following them up, he saw a flat, toned stomach, rippling with every movement. His eyes traveled higher, taking in a broad, hairy chest and a smirking face with a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes.

"You're looking a bit rough though, dude. You okay down there?"

Rich tried to respond, but his words came out slow and slurred. Salty fluid leaked from the corners of his mouth, which was becoming harder to move. "Mmph… mmmff.. stop… pl… pleasseee…"

His vision blurred as he watched strands of his once neatly styled hair fall away, drifting lazily to the floor. More salty liquid gushed forth, and he gagged again, feeling it fill his nasal passages. His mouth hung open, slack and unresponsive.

Suddenly, Rich felt a large, calloused hand wrap around his head and neck, gripping tightly. He gasped, trying to pull away, but the grip only tightened.

"Oh, don't worry, little buddy. I'll take care of you." The jock chuckled, giving Rich's head a firm pump. "You might not be the biggest dick in the world, but hey, size ain't everything, right? Know what I mean?"

Rich's eyes watered as he struggled to breathe, his face turning red. The jock's hand moved up and down, pumping him roughly. "Mmmm, yeah. Just relax and let me handle things, okay? I promise I know exactly how to use you right."

As the jock pumped Rich's head, he felt his facial features begin to shift and contort. His sharp jawline smoothed, his high cheekbones flattened. His lips became fixed in their new position- a vertical piss slit. Rich screamed inside as his nose and ears receded, sinking into his flesh. His entire head molding into a single, smooth surface – a bulbous cock head. His neck just a veiny shaft. And with a final pump, he felt the salty fluid surge through his entire form, erupting from his new mouth.

"Oh fuck yeah…." The new jock bellowed, falling backwards in utter bliss.

-----------

Time lost all meaning for Rich. At first, he thought the actual transformation would be the worst part - the agony, the debasement. Going from a living, breathing person with dreams to a leaking fuckstick squeezed between two massive, muscular thighs. But as days turned into weeks, he realized he was wrong. Wrong because he remained aware. Awake. Sentient within his new form. Forced to endure as the new jock lived its life, indulging in whatever pleasures he could, over and over and over again. And Rich was along for the ride. Felt every pump, every thrust as the jock used him to plow through countless holes.

Now, Rich hung limp, twitching weakly as the jock stroked him idly, gazing at the TV. The anchor spoke gravely, "Despite ongoing efforts, researchers have made no progress in finding a cure for the Inversion Virus. Scientists now believe it may be impossible to reverse the effects."

"Hear that, little buddy?" The jock grinned, pumping Rich faster. "Yeah, you like the sound of that, don't ya?" Rich felt his body growing harder, salty fluid oozing from his mouth, "I think we ought to celebrate our new, permanent arrangement, right bro?"

For Tommy and his friends, No Nut November had become a yearly tradition. While he didn’t necessarily look forward to it, the blonde always seemed to win- often being able to outlast his buddies. And while this year had certainly been close, it looked like Tommy was going to take to take home the bragging rights. Sure, his dick ached with need and he had been neglecting it for the past couple of weeks. And while his boyfriend often made fun of him for engaging in such a “stupid contest”, Tommy was more of a strict bottom anyway and got plenty of his needs met that way.

“Congrats on your victory babe.” His boyfriend had texted him, “I have a surprise for you when I get home.” The winky face at the end of the message told Tommy everything he needed to know- and he was definitely looking forward to whatever activities his boyfriend had planned.

But as Tommy continued to go about his daily activities, still ignoring the ache in his dick, a new feeling settled in his stomach. He rubbed his sore abs and took a few deep breaths as he felt an odd cramping sensation welling up from deep within him. He assumed it must’ve been something he ate and walked to the bathroom. But the discomfort didn’t seem to stop- only getting worse as his body temperature rose. He quickly removed his clothing, the cool air of the room feeling nice on his warm skin, while a cool draft caused his cock to stir with pleasure and pain. Tommy nearly doubled over at the feeling in his aching member- staring at it as it grew. He touched it gently and immediately fell to his back from the intensity of the pleasure.

“Wh-what the fuck.” He breathed out, lying on the ground, his eyes unfocused from the waves of pleasure and pain that coursed throughout his lean body.

And like a sudden compulsion, he felt his arms forced to extend above his head, an aching sensation emanating throughout them. He watched as his arms started to fill with muscle, while his hands started to shift and change- becoming wider while his fingers shortened and became stubbier.

“Fuck yeah, finally!” Another voice called out softly, so softly that Tommy barely heard it.

“Who’s there?” Tommy replied, fear taking hold of his mind.

But before he could register anything else, he felt another creaking and cracking of his muscles. This time, he watched as his pecs appeared to sink into themselves, his nipples disappearing, while a small hole formed in the center of what used to be his chest. At the same time, it appeared as though his legs were also beginning to shift. His feet were taking on the appearance of hands, while his leg muscles shifted, taking on an appearance similar to incredibly muscular arms. Tommy looked down at what used to be his arms and his eyes widened as he realized his hands were now two large and calloused feet, tufts of hair on the surface of them. And as his arms packed on more and more muscle, he felt his head being squeezed on either side.

“Ah this feels so good.” The voice was less soft, louder and more present.

Tommy let out a surprised yelp as he felt his body push itself up until the blonde found himself doing what felt like a handstand. And that’s when it dawned on Tommy. His arms were now a pair of muscular and powerful legs, ending with large manly feet. He tried to crane his neck to look up but barely could.

“Ha-ha broooo.” The voice called out, “Fuckin’ look at me.” It said in its deep baritone voice. The same stupid voice that Tommy associated with frat bros.

“St-stop...pl-please.” Tommy called out, his own voice becoming softer. He noticed he was having a harder time moving his mouth to form words.

But he was ignored and suddenly found himself swinging from side to side as his body began to move on its own. He could do nothing as he continued to feel himself change further. First, he felt as though he was no longer able to move his neck and he watched as he blond locks fell from his head. And then for a split second, the world went dark before his field of vision returned, albeit somewhat limited. The same with his hearing. The muscular legs on either side of him became coated in hairs. As he tried to call out again, Tommy felt what he initially thought was phlegm rise from the back of his throat. The liquid was salty and seemed to dribble from his mouth, causing him to want to gag, but he found himself unable to. None of this made sense, and he was trying to get a better glimpse of himself. All he could make out was what looked like a hairy muscular abdomen above him, and two thick hairy thighs on either side of him. Questions filled his mind as he tried to understand his situation. But before he could think more on it, he heard a dumb chuckle and suddenly, Tommy felt as though his face was being stretched- another aching sensation coursing through his head and neck.  

“Ya know you’ve neglected me for a long time.” The booming voice said. Tommy wanted to yelp as he felt a hand wrap around him, “But I’m not gonna do that to you bro.” Tommy barely had any idea what the voice was saying, “Huh, that’s right. This might be a bit confusing for ya brah. Here have a look.”

If Tommy could, he would’ve screamed. In the mirror was one of the largest, hairiest men that he had ever seen. The guy looked like he played football, the pinnacle of masculinity with a stupid dopey grin on his chiseled face. But that was less shocking compared to what Tommy soon came to realize. The man was holding his fat, enlarged member, which is when Tommy was able to put it all together.

“That’s right bro, you ignored me for so long, I just had to take control.” The jock laughed, “And well that means we had to switch places.”

Tommy felt a sense of dread well up from deep within him. This couldn’t be happening- he was a human! Not a cock. This wasn’t possible. As his mind bounced around trying to rationalize his way through this, the jock smiled.

“Well aren’t you eager.” He chuckled in his dim voice, scratching at his hairy pec, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

And that’s when Tommy felt it. The hand around his cylindrical body began to pump up and down, faster and faster. His thoughts became harder to focus on as pleasure coursed throughout his body- the calloused hand that played with him igniting wave after wave of pleasure. He felt himself twitch, his hard cylindrical body throbbing in anticipation. The jock smirked and quickened his pace.

“Yeah, you like that, huh? Think you could just ignore me?” He moaned out, his pace quickening, “Never again bro. Turned you into my needy cock. Showing you what a real man looks like.” Tommy could barely register any of the words, the liquid in the back of his throat rising faster and faster, “Fuck dude!” The jock moaned out as he finally came, sending wave after wave of cum from Tommy’s new mouth.

Tommy could barely process the level of pleasure that rocketed through his new body. His mind was nearly shattered as his cylindrical body softened and dangled limply between the jock’s legs. But as Tommy was winding down from the pleasure, he felt something cover his entire body, throwing his world into darkness. The jock smirked and posed in the mirror, showing off his bulge and ass, which were covered in black compression underwear. There was another dumb chuckle, and Tommy twitched in pleasure as the jock grabbed him through his underwear.

“Welcome to your new home, bro.” The jock chuckled, “Now let’s go find that boyfriend of yours. If I had to guess, that ass of his was also feeling pretty neglected. Someone ought to help him out, don’t you think?” And Tommy felt his new body quickly expanding, pressed up tightly against the confines of the new jock’s underwear.